Jeanne left alone, watched them as they disappeared with the light and
easy movements of lovers.
Serge, bending toward Micheline, was speaking tenderly. A rush of bitter
feeling caused Jeanne’s heart to swell. She was alone, she, while he
whom she loved-her whole being revolted. Unhappy one! Why did she think
of this man? Had she the right to do so now? She no longer belonged to
herself. Another, who was as kind to her as Serge was ungrateful, was
her husband. She thought thus in sincerity of heart. She wished to
love Cayrol. Alas, poor Jeanne! She would load him with attentions and
caresses! And Serge would be jealous, for he could never have forgotten
her so soon.
Her thoughts again turned to him whom she wished to forget. She made
an effort, but in vain. Serge was uppermost; he possessed her. She was
afraid. Would she never be able to break off the remembrance? Would his
name be ever on her lips, his face ever before her eyes?
Thank heaven! she was about to leave. Travelling, and the sight of
strange places other than those where she had lived near Serge, would
draw her attention from the persecution she suffered. Her husband was
about to take her away, to defend her. It was his duty, and she would
help him with energy. With all the strength of her will she summoned
Cayrol. She clung violently to him as a drowning person catches at a
straw, with the vigor of despair.
There was between Jeanne and Cayrol a sympathetic communication.
Mentally called by his wife, the husband appeared.
“Ah! at last!” said she.
Cayrol, surprised at this welcome, smiled. Jeanne, without noticing,
added:
“Well, Monsieur; are we leaving soon?”
The banker’s surprise increased. But as this surprise was decidedly an
agreeable one he did not protest.
“In a moment, Jeanne, dear,” he said.
“Why this delay?” asked the young wife, nervously.
“You will understand. There are more than twenty carriages before the
front door. Our coachman is driving round, and we will go out by the
conservatory door without being seen.”
“Very well; we will wait.”
This delay displeased Jeanne. In the ardor of her resolution, in the
first warmth of her struggle, she wished at once to put space between
her and Serge. Unfortunately, Cayrol had thwarted this effort of proud
revolt. She was vexed with him. He, without knowing the motives which
actuated his wife, guessed that something had displeased her. He wished
to change the current of her thoughts.
“You were marvellously beautiful to-night,” he said, approaching her
gallantly. “You were much admired, and I was proud of you. If you had
heard my friends! It was a concert of congratulations: What a fortunate
fellow that Cayrol is! He is rich; he has a charming wife! You see,
Jeanne, thanks to you, in the eyes of all, my happiness is complete.”
Jeanne frowned, and without answering, shook her head haughtily. Cayrol
continued, without noticing this forecast of a storm:
“They envy me; and I can understand it! I would not change places with
anybody. There, our friend Prince Panine is very happy; he has married
a woman whom he loves and who adores him. Well, he is not happier than I
am!”
Jeanne rose abruptly, and gave her husband a terrible look.
“Monsieur!” she cried with rage.
“I beg your pardon,” said Cayrol, humbly; “I appear ridiculous to you,
but my happiness is stronger than I am, and I cannot hide my joy. You
will see that I can be grateful. I will spend my life in trying to
please you. I have a surprise for you to begin with.”
“What kind of surprise?” asked Jeanne, with indifference.
Cayrol rubbed his hands with a mysterious air. He was enjoying
beforehand the pleasant surprise he had in store for his wife.
“You think we are going to Paris to spend our honeymoon like ordinary
folk?”
Jeanne started. Cayrol seemed unfortunate in his choice of words.
“Well, not at all,” continued the banker. “Tomorrow I leave my offices.
My customers may say what they like; I will leave my business, and we
are off.”
Jeanne showed signs of pleasure. A flash of joy lit up her face. To go
away, that was rest for her!
“And where shall we go?”
“That is the surprise! You know that the Prince and his wife intend
travelling!”
“Yes; but they refused to say where they were going;” interrupted
Jeanne, with a troubled expression.
“Not to me. They are going to Switzerland. Well, we shall join them
there.”
Jeanne arose like a startled deer when it hears the sound of a gun.
“Join them there!” she exclaimed.
“Yes; to continue the journey together. A party of four; two
newly-married couples. It will be charming. I spoke to Serge on the
subject. He objected at first, but the Princess came to my assistance.
And when he saw that his wife and I were agreed, he commenced to laugh,
and said: ‘You wish it? I consent. Don’t say anything more!’ It is
all very well to talk of love’s solitude; in about a fortnight, passed
tete-a-tete, Serge will be glad to have us. We will go to Italy to see
the lakes; and there, in a boat, all four, of us will have such pleasant
times.”
Cayrol might have gone on talking for an hour, but Jeanne was not
listening. She was thinking. Thus all the efforts which she had
decided to make to escape from him whom she loved would be useless. An
invincible fatality ever brought her toward him whom she was seeking
to avoid. And it was her husband who was aiding this inevitable
and execrable meeting. A bitter smile played on her lips. There was
something mournfully comic in this stubbornness of Cayrol’s, in throwing
her in the way of Serge.
Cayrol, embarrassed by Jeanne’s silence, waited a moment.
“What is the matter?” he asked. “You are just like the Prince when I
spoke to him on the subject.”
Jeanne turned away abruptly. Cayrol’s comparison was too direct. His
blunders were becoming wearisome.
The banker, quite discomfited on seeing the effect of his words,
continued:
“You object to this journey? If so, I am willing to give it up.”
The young wife was touched by this humble servility.
“Well, yes,” she said, softly, “I should be grateful to you.”
“I had hoped to please you,” said Cayrol. “It is for me to beg pardon
for having succeeded so badly. Let us remain in Paris. It does not
matter to me what place we are in! Being near to you is all I desire.”
He approached her, and, with beaming eyes, added:
“You are so beautiful, Jeanne; and I have loved you so long a time!”
She moved away, full of a vague dread. Cayrol, very excitedly, put her
cloak round her shoulders, and looking toward the door, added:
“The carriage is there, we can go now.”
Jeanne, much troubled, did not rise.
“Wait another minute,” said she.
Cayrol smiled constrainedly:
“A little while ago you were hurrying me off.”
It was true. But a sudden change had come over Jeanne. Her energy had
given way. She felt very weary. The idea of going away with Cayrol,
and of being alone with him in the carriage frightened her. She looked
vaguely at her husband, and saw, in a sort of mist, this great fat man,
with a protruding shirt-front, rolls of red flesh on his neck above his
collar, long fat ears which only needed gold ear-rings, and his great
hairy hands, on the finger of one of which shone the new wedding-ring.
Then, in a rapid vision, she beheld the refined profile, the beautiful
blue eyes, and the long, fair mustache of Serge. A profound sadness came
over the young woman, and tears rushed to her eyes.
“What is the matter with you? You are crying!” exclaimed Cayrol,
anxiously.
“It is nothing; my nerves are shaken. I am thinking of this chateau
which bears my name. Here I spent my youth, and here my father died. A
thousand ties bind me to this dwelling, and I cannot leave it without
being overcome.”
“Another home awaits you, luxuriantly adorned,” murmured Cayrol, “and
worthy of receiving you. It is there you will live henceforth with me,
happy through me, and belonging to me.”
Then, ardently supplicating her, he added:
“Let us go, Jeanne!”
He tried to take her in his arms, but the young wife disengaged herself.
“Leave me alone!” she said, moving away.
Cayrol looked at her in amazement.
“What is it? You are trembling and frightened!”
He tried to jest:
“Am I so very terrible, then? Or is it the idea of leaving here that
troubles you so much? If so, why did you not tell me sooner? I can
understand things. Let us remain here for a few days, or as long as
you like. I have arranged my affairs so as to be at liberty. Our little
paradise can wait for us.”
He spoke pleasantly, but with an undercurrent of anxiety.
Jeanne came slowly to him, and calmly taking his hand, said:
“You are very good.”
“I am not making any efforts to be so,” retorted Cayrol, smiling. “What
do I ask? That you may be happy and satisfied.”
“Well, do you wish to please me?” asked the young wife.
“Yes!” exclaimed Cayrol, warmly, “tell me how.”
“Madame Desvarennes will be very lonely tomorrow when her daughter will
be gone. She will need consoling--”
“Ah, ah,” said Cayrol, thinking that he understood, “and you would
like--”
“I would like to remain some time with her. You could come every day and
see us. I would be very grateful to you, and would love you very much!”
“But--but--but--!” exclaimed Cayrol, much confounded, “you cannot mean
what you say, Jeanne! What, my dear? You wish me to return alone to
Paris to-night? What would my servants say? You would expose me to
ridicule!”
Poor Cayrol made a piteous face. Jeanne looked at him as she had never
looked before. It made his blood boil.
“Would you be so very ridiculous for having been delicate and tender?”
“I don’t see what tenderness has to do with it,” cried Cayrol; “on the
contrary! But I love you. You don’t seem to think it!”
“Prove it,” replied Jeanne, more provokingly.
This time Cayrol lost all patience.
“Is it in leaving you that I shall prove it? Really, Jeanne, I am
disposed to be kind and to humor your whims, but on condition that they
are reasonable. You seem to be making fun of me! If I give way on such
important points on the day of our marriage, whither will you lead me?
No; no! You are my wife. The wife must follow her husband; the law says
so!”
“Is it by law only that you wish to keep me? Have you forgotten what I
told you when you made me an offer of marriage? It is my hand only which
I give you.”
“And I answered you, that it would be my aim to gain your heart. Well,
but give me the means. Come, dear,” said the banker in a resolute tone,
“you take me for a child. I am not so simple as that! I know what this
resistance means; charming modesty so long as it is not everlasting.”
Jeanne turned away without answering. Her face had changed its
expression; it was hard and determined.
“Really,” continued Cayrol, “you would make a saint lose patience. Come,
answer me, what does this attitude mean?”
The young wife remained silent. She felt she could not argue any longer,
and seeing no way out of her trouble, felt quite discouraged. Still she
would not yield. She shuddered at the very idea of belonging to this
man; she had never thought of the issue of this brutal and vulgar
adventure. Now that she realized it, she felt terribly disgusted.
Cayrol anxiously watched the increasing anguish depicted on his wife’s
face. He had a presentiment that she was hiding something from him, and
the thought nearly choked him. And, with this suspicion, his ingenuity
came to his aid. He approached Jeanne, and said, affectionately:
“Come, dear child, we are misleading one another; I in speaking too
harshly, you in refusing to understand me. Forget that I am your
husband; see in me only a friend and open your heart; your resistance
hides a mystery. You have had some grief or have been deceived.”
Jeanne, softened, said, in a low tone:
“Don’t speak to me like that; leave me.”
“No,” resumed Cayrol, quietly, “we are beginning life; there must be no
misunderstanding. Be frank, and you will find me indulgent. Come, young
girls are often romantic. They picture an ideal; they fall in love with
some one who does not return their love, which is sometimes even unknown
to him who is their hero. Then, suddenly, they have to return to a
reality. They find themselves face to face with a husband who is not
the expected Romeo, but who is a good man, devoted, loving, and ready to
heal the wounds he has not made. They are afraid of this husband; they
mistrust him, and will not follow him. It is wrong, because it is
near him, in honorable and right existence, that they find peace and
forgetfulness.”
Cayrol’s heart was torn by anxiety, and with trembling voice he tried to
read the effect of his words on Jeanne’s features. She had turned away.
Cayrol bent toward her and said:
“You don’t answer me.”
And as she still remained silent, he took her hand and forced her to
look at him. He saw that her face was covered with tears. He shuddered,
and then flew into a terrible passion.
“You are crying! It is true then? You have loved?”
Jeanne rose with a bound; she saw her imprudence. She understood the
trap he had laid; her cheeks burned. Drying her tears, she turned toward
Cayrol, and cried:
“Who has said so?”
“You cannot deceive me,” replied the banker, violently. “I saw it in
your looks. Now, I want to know the man’s name!”
Jeanne looked him straight in the face.
“Never!” she said.
“Ah, that is an avowal!” exclaimed Cayrol.
“You have deceived me unworthily by your pretended kindness,”
interrupted Jeanne, proudly, “I will not say anything more.”
Cayrol flew at her--the churl reappeared. He muttered a fearful oath,
and seizing her by the arm, shouted:
“Take care! Don’t play with me. Speak, I insist, or--” and he shook her
brutally.
Jeanne, indignant, screamed and tore herself away from him.
“Leave me,” she said, “you fill me with horror!”
The husband, beside himself, pale as death and trembling convulsively,
could not utter a word, and was about to rush upon her when the door
opened, and Madame Desvarennes appeared, holding in her hand the letters
which she had written for Cayrol to take back to Paris. Jeanne uttered a
cry of joy, and with a bound threw herself into the arms of her who had
been a mother to her.