My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults--while mine is breaking
--Byron.
She turned on her side and woke, at least she opened her eyes in a wide
stare, but could see nothing. All was black, opaque darkness around her.
She raised herself on her elbow, her back ached, her head ached, every
joint was stiffened. What could it mean? Had she fallen out of bed, she
wondered? She tried to move but could not. She called "Anna! Papa!" but
her voice sent back a mocking echo from the black stillness, no maid, no
parent, hearkened to her cry. She looked all around. A colorless
emptiness surrounded her. She stretched out her feeble hand, but nothing
answered to her eager search. Was she alone in a creation from which the
sun had been cancelled? Where was her memory? What had she done last?
She tried to think. She had been painting--oh yes! but it grew so dark
she had to give it up. She must have fallen asleep after it, she began
to think consolingly, but no! she had gone into her own little room and
put on her daintiest apparel; she remembered pinning the bunch of
camellias in her bonnet. But even this was no clue, she forgot after
that. Was she in the open air or indoors? She could feel no breath or
breeze, nor was there anything within reach to reassure her. She was too
puzzled just now to feel much frightened. She only wanted to think.
Instinctively she raised her hand to her head, and then--memory came
back with one full swoop as she felt the heavy golden band on her
finger. A painful rehearsal of all she had done passed before her eyes,
and when she remembered the fatal flash of lightning and the darkness
that followed, she fell shrieking back on the hard floor. She knew now
that she was alone in the dark dingy little house, that had terrified
her so much at first. She raised herself again, tremblingly, and
supported her reclining form on her hand, her arm resting on the cold
boards. "But I am not alone," she said reassuringly; "Bijou is here,"
then raising her voice a little, she called "Bijou! Bijou!" but the
silent chamber only sent back a dismal echo of her own voice. Then
louder still she cried "Bijou! Bijou! Bijou!" her voice gathering
courage as the maddening truth forced itself on her bewildered brain.
Still no answer. She grew terrified at having broken the awful
stillness. She strained her eyes to peer through the cruel darkness that
enveloped her. No use--it was only looking through one blackness into
another. She covered her weeping face with her little trembling hands,
moaning and wailing as she rocked herself to and fro on the hard floor.
Poor girl! She was only one of the million victims of that folly which
rules universal girl-hood to-day. She had not been taught the lesson of
life as every girl should know it. Like others of her age, all over the
wide world, here in our own flourishing city as well, she had been given
the elements of a valuable knowledge to play with, and fool with, and
yawn over to her heart's content. This was all.
According to popular ideas, there are so many other things to be
instilled into young girl's heads of primary importance, that education
takes its own course, and enthusiastic mothers stay up half the night
curling the flaxen hair, or paring the promising eyelashes of their
pretty babies, but what becomes of the little heart that is growing wild
for want of a tender solicitous hand to cultivate its helpless soil?
What is the use? A handful of caramels goes a far longer way towards
calming a fit of juvenile temper than a word of effective remonstrance,
that will only spoil the pretty face, on mama's reception day too, or
just before some liliputian tea-party. True it is that it is far more
universal a practice than in former years to send one's children to
school. But where does the advantage come in? The embryo woman is packed
off to the most stylish boarding-school, she must be allowed a thousand
deviations from the rules, on account of weak nerves or some equally
imaginary disorder. She picks up in her hours of good humor a smattering
of French and German, music or elocution, painting and fancy-work, but
these painful superficialities only ruin the girl, who, had she been
left without those oppressive appendages, would be an honest whole-
hearted woman. Instead of this, our drawing-rooms are crowded with
affected, insipid girls, who, being girls, are fair enough to view, but
whose minds and hearts are prudently closed to inspection. These are the
perfections of lollipop misses who left home for boarding-school, five,
six or eight years ago, and come back conceited ninnies, who imagine
every good-looking man must be appropriated, whether he will or not, as
their slavish adorer.
These are no untrue assertions. Ask anyone of sound, natural judgment,
how many sensible, edifying, worthy women are found at once in a
ball-room or concert-room, or any other rendezvous of fashionable
society. The answer, if not convincing, would at least be surprising.
And yet, every year, numbers of these golden-haired, blue eyed girls
leave the altar on the arm of some well-to-do young fellow, his, until
death, and no one in the admiring throng of spectators doubts that the
sequel of this bright day's doings will be one of endless felicity. But
they are deceived. It is the wife's lack of sympathy in the hour of
distress, her incapacity to solace the troubled mind and heart of the
man who has loved her, that drives the young husband from his home, to
seek distraction in the bottomless wine-cup. It is a repulsive picture,
but a true one, and those who have not seen it yet for themselves will
meet the stern reality some day, perhaps, before very long.
These deviatory details may enable the readers to understand more fully,
and to condemn less readily the actions of Josephine de Maistre. She had
placed unbounded confidence in the man who had come to her with his
well-learned tales of love. She was young, susceptible and
inexperienced, and had not thought that night should close in upon her
bright, beautiful, cloudless day. But it was different now. The
impulsive, generous, confiding nature was slowly being moulded by the
hand of a bitter experience, into a skeptical mistrust of humanity,
dreadful to see in a woman. All the careless years of her girlhood
passed in mockery before her eyes to-night, until her poor heart was
nigh bursting with pent-up sorrow and grief. She dropped her cold clammy
hands into her lap and sat upright in the darkness. How long had she
been here? Was it an hour, a day, or a week? How long must she remain
here now? She felt in her breast for her pocket-book, and a look of
undying scorn stole into her eyes when she found it was gone. She was
penniless, alone, helpless; would this darkness ever dissipate. If she
could only die, or go mad, or sleep again, she thought, as she threw
herself passionately on the floor moaning and sobbing most piteously.
Suddenly she sprang up again, maddened by pain, suspense and fear.
Holding out her trembling arms in the darkness, she screamed
despairingly, appealingly, "Bijou, my lover, my traitor, where are you?
Come back and free me from this awful terror, rescue me, or kill me,
anything--oh anything but this frightful solitude."
Still no sound answered her despairing accents as she dashed herself
recklessly back on the floor, weeping and sobbing afresh. Then there was
a moment or two of heavy silence, for it is in silence the heart breaks.
After that the girl sat up again, with her feet tucked under her skirts.
She brushed back her matted hair from her swollen face and clasping her
hands over her knees, she filled the small dark room with a sharp
ringing laugh. It was something horrible to hear--a voice once so soft
and plaintive, now grating out shrill accents in a hard mocking tone.
"Ha, ha, ha," she sneered, "the brave monsieur Bijou, how he played with
_la folle Fifine_. Was he not too sure perhaps? Fifine can love, but oh!
more delicious, Fifine can hate! yes hate!! hate!!!" she repeated with a
malicious pleasure, emphasizing the word, "and she can curse _le beau
Bijou_."
"Oh!" she cried joining her hands in an iron grip, "may sickness and
poverty and misfortune waylay him! may he love one who will break his
heart! may this life be to him a temporary hell, to prepare for the
eternal one in the next! Ha, ha, that is good Fifine, _pourtant, le beau
Bijou_ would be vexed to hear that, he would be shocked. We'll tell a
secret to this brave young man. The world is big, Bijou, and Fifine is
only a small weak child, but she loves to hate, and she loves revenge.
She will walk till her feet are blistered, and her body worn and tired,
but she will find Bijou, she owes him a little debt and she must pay it.
She gives the devil his due, ha, ha, ha," and the wild unearthly laugh
resounded once more through the dismal darkened chamber. In this
horrible strain she continued chattering to herself and menacing Bijou,
until suddenly she stopped short and bent over in a listening attitude.
A sound had caught her ear. Something had broken the frightful silence
besides her rambling maniacal chatter. Some other animate thing was
within her hearing. She was breathless for many moments as she glared,
eyes and mouth open, in the direction from which the sound had
proceeded. She listened devouringly and could now distinctly hear a slow
regular breathing, somewhere near, but which way she could not tell. Her
flesh crept with a new fear. She dreaded being alone, and yet she
preferred solitude to the knowledge that some one was coming to her in
the darkness. She crawled on her knees a few paces forward, but as the
sound decreased she crept silently back in the opposite direction. Still
she could not hear more distinctly.
She therefore made a great stride towards another point, and now she
could hear very plainly the regular breaths coming and going as of one
in deep sleep. This suspense was worse than any. She laid herself out on
the floor, rested her elbows on the boards and buried her chin in her
palms. Wild thoughts of hatred and revenge chased one another through
her unsteady mind, but still she could discern nothing but this tranquil
respiration. She was weakening now. It must have been three hours from
the time she awoke first, and yet there was no sign of light or life,
nothing but this strange breathing, wherever it was. She was growing
drowsy and threw herself back on the floor, with one fair white arm
thrown over her head. She had advanced considerably to the left of the
room, though the impenetrable darkness did not allow her to know it. Her
breast heaved in great irregular sighs, and her long lashes drooped
wearily over her tired eyes. Another moment and sleep would have come in
its precious mercy to solace the poor afflicted soul, the wild staring
eyes had been subdued into drowsiness, and the angel of balm was coaxing
the tired limbs into repose, when a loud sigh broke upon the sleep-
inducing silence, and disturbed the unfortunate Fifine. She opened her
eyes suddenly again and waited for a repetition. This time she heard
several queer sounds, like scratching and eating. Overcome at last by
suspense, she started up, but in doing so, she knocked her head
violently against some object that stood close by her. In her madness
she never heeded the pain, but stretched out her hands for something to
lean against, when fortunately she laid one of them on a stumpy
candlestick, in the saucer of which she found a couple of greasy
matches. A cry of joy escaped her as she struck a light, as quickly as
her nervous fingers and glad excitement allowed her. At least now the
horrible spell of darkness and uncertainty was broken. The candle hardly
took at first, but as she watched it eagerly, with both hands around the
timid spark, it spluttered and flared up into a tall lanky flame that
made her surroundings look visible, if not bright.
It was the same little room to which Bijou had brought her for her
wedding, she did not know how long ago. Now that she looked at it in a
calm, keen scrutiny, she noticed that these stray pieces of homely,
furniture had been thrown around, merely to give the place the
appearance of being inhabited. No one had lived there for a long time,
anyone could see. Great tangled cobwebs hung all over the wall and
celling, and one corner of the miserable apartment was a perfect pool,
from rain that had dropped through the defective roof. When Fifine had
taken in these surroundings in her quick, searching glance, she tried to
discern the source of the noises she had heard. This was an easy matter.
Very near to where she stood, was a long dingy door that closed with a
latch, and from behind this Fifine heard the sounds still issuing.
Prepared for the worst, she got down on her knees and holding the candle
a little way above her head, she raised the latch and pushed the door
violently in. The next instant a great shaggy dog was bounding around
her, lashing his paws on the floor and attempting to lick her hands and
face. She smiled a little first when she remembered her fear, but her
next feeling was one of joy, at the new and strange companionship, which
might yet prove of service to her. Laying the candle down upon the
floor, she drew the animal towards her and began to examine him. He was
a large, well-built, glossy-haired fellow, with earnest eyes and a long,
loose tongue, that hung a great way out of his mouth. Around his shaggy
neck was a silver collar, on which was engraved "Sailor," and the two
large initials, "N.B.," and after further scrutiny, she deciphered on
the margin of the band, "I. Kennedy, Engraver, St. Paul St, Montreal."
She threw her arms wildly about the animal and hugged him
affectionately. At least she had a clue. In her new joy she quite
forgone very precaution she had planned before, but now she was brought
back from her ecstasy by remarking that her candle was almost burnt out.
She had no other, and she must be content to sit there and await day
break, or escape while there was yet a spark of light. She seized this
last hope, for taking the dog by the collar, she dragged him towards the
door of exit, and as she tried to undo the fastenings, she talked wildly
to herself and to him. The door was fastened on the outside, proof
positive, that she had been knowingly and heartlessly bound within those
wretched walls. This excited all her latent hatred again, and with the
mad strength of defiance and revenge, she tried to tear the fastenings
apart with her naked fingers. She toiled bravely and fast. The light of
the candle was leaping up and down, threatening to expire. Only once or
twice did she pause to fling back the dishevelled hair that blinded her
eyes, but at last she was rewarded, for with one supreme effort she
succeeded in dragging in the door, and opening for herself a passage
into the outside world.
"Not, bad Fifine," she laughed, as the night air swept in on her
feverish head, "we'll get _le beau Bijou_ yet. He'll say Fifine is mad,
but we'll see--Fifine is not mad--she hates him though, and she will
kill him, ha! ha!"
She walked about chattering wildly, holding Sailor by his collar, and
saying senseless things to him every now and then. At last, when she had
gone a long way without being able to discern a path, she sank down to
rest near a clump of trees. Twining her arms round Sailor's shaggy neck,
she laid her head on his warm body and soon fell into a heavy dreamless
slumber.