ward. Mère Marchette lay apparently sleeping, but as he approached her
bedside the old eyes opened with a piercing and eager question. The
young man shook his head, smiling tenderly.
"Not quite yet, Mère Marchette," he said; "there are still some minutes
to wait."
He sat down beside the bed and laid his fingers on her wrist. The pulse
was so faint that he could scarcely feel it, but it was steady. For some
minutes he remained quiet, with his eyes fixed on the poor old face
before him. There came into his mind the thought of what this woman's
life had been: her childhood and youth in the hut of a Norman peasant;
of what her own home might have been when she became a wife and mother;
of the desolation which had come upon her in the death of all her family
save only Pierre; of the strange fate that had brought her to Paris; of
the terrible wrench which her old heart must have felt when her grandson
was taken from her; and of the pathetic patience with which she had
borne privation, loneliness, and suffering.
He knew only the outlines of her history, since Mère Marchette had
spoken little of herself. What her feelings might have been he could
only imagine: the old woman could not have told her mental experiences;
she had never even analyzed them. Unless he had been a peasant and a
mother himself, Lommel could not have divined Mère Marchette's emotions;
he could only reflect what he should have felt in her place. He said to
himself at last that, after all, the circumstances which made Mère
Marchette's lot so pathetic must also have deadened her sensibilities
and so have softened her suffering.
He sighed and looked at his watch. His assistant had gone to the railway
station to meet Pierre, and the time he had fixed for their return was
already past by five minutes. He felt again of his patient's pulse, with
a terrible dread lest after all the young soldier should arrive too
late. The artery throbbed more feebly, but still steadily; and at his
touch the sick woman opened her eyes with the old questioning look.
"Patience, Mère Marchette," he said, nodding encouragingly; "all goes
well."
She did not speak, but she gave him a look so eloquent with gratitude
that words were not needed. Then she lay quiet again and the silent
watch went on. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen; the young doctor
became extremely uneasy. At last in the distance he heard a clock strike
one. At the sound Mère Marchette opened her eyes with a quick, startled
glance.
"Pierre!" she cried, in a voice of intense love and terror.
"Victor has gone to the station to meet him; patience yet a little."
The old woman regarded him with a look of terrible pathos.
"God could not let me die without seeing Pierre," she murmured.
At that moment, through the still afternoon, was heard the sound of
a carriage. Mère Marchette's eyes shone with a wild and fevered
expression.
"You must be calm," Lommel said. "I will bring him to you."
He administered the little stimulant she could take, and passed quickly
out into the corridor.
V.
Dr. Lommel closed the door of the ward behind him and started down the
corridor, but at the first step he stopped suddenly with a terrible
sinking of the heart. Victor was coming toward him, but alone, and with
a white face.
"Victor," Jean cried, in a voice intense but low, "what has happened?
Where is Pierre?"
"There has been an accident," Victor returned. "A bridge broke under his
train."
"But you do not know--" began Lommel.
"Yes," the other interrupted; "M. de Brue, who was on the train and
escaped with a broken arm, was in the same compartment with Pierre. He
rode through on the engine that came in for help. Pierre had told him I
was to meet him, and so when M. de Brue saw me he stopped to say that
the soldier was struck on the chest and killed instantly."
Dr. Lommel stood regarding his companion with terror and compassion in
his look.
"_O mon Dieu!_" he said; "poor Mère Marchette!"
"It will kill her," Victor responded.
"That is nothing," was the doctor's reply. "It is not death, but the
agony she will suffer."
At that moment the nurse came out of the ward and hurried down the
corridor to join them.
"M. le Docteur," she said, "I beg your pardon, but the excitement of
Mère Marchette is so great that I venture to suggest that her grandson
hurry."
She glanced around as she spoke, and saw that he was not there. An
exclamation rose to her lips; the doctor checked her by a glance.
"Go back to Mère Marchette," said he, "and say that I am cautioning
Pierre-- Stay, I will go myself. Wait here, Victor."
He went back into the ward and passed down between the cots, from which
eyes that the indifference of illness scarcely left human, watched him
with faint curiosity. Mère Marchette was sitting up in bed, trembling
with eagerness and excitement. All the reserve which she had maintained
for weeks had been swept aside. The moment for which she had kept
herself alive had come at last, and there was no longer any need to save
her energy. Her eyes shone, a feverish glow was on her cheek, even her
withered lips had taken on for the moment a wan and ghostly red. It
seemed to the doctor, as he looked at her, as if all the vitality which
remained in her feeble frame was being expended in a last quick fire.
"Ah," he said, "I have been warning Pierre to be calm, when it is you to
whom I should speak. Come, it will take only a moment, but I must give
you treatment before I can let you see him."
As he spoke he put his forefinger up to her forehead with a gesture he
always used in hypnotizing her. Mère Marchette struggled a moment as if
she could not yield to anything which delayed her reunion with Pierre;
then she sank into a hypnotic sleep. The doctor leaned forward and spoke
with an emphasis which he had never before used with his patient.
"When you awake," he said, "you will see Pierre; the person I shall
bring to you is your grandson. Remember," he repeated, "it is Pierre who
will come in with me."
He breathed on her eyelids in the usual method of awaking her.
"Now," he said, "I will bring him, Mère Marchette."
He went back to where Victor and the nurse were awaiting him.
"Victor," he said quickly, "you know the experiment M. Charcot tried
yesterday when he made a hypnotized patient believe one person was
another; I have told Mère Marchette that you are Pierre. You must take
his place; come quickly."
The young man drew back.
"I cannot," he protested.
"You must," Lommel returned, almost fiercely. "Come."
VI.
It was with terrible inward misgiving that Jean and Victor entered the
ward; but as soon as the eyes of Mère Marchette fell upon the latter
they knew that the experiment was a success. Such a look of yearning
love illumined the withered old features, such an unspeakable joy shone
in the sunken eyes, such quivering eagerness was expressed by the
outstretched hands, that the young men found their way to the bedside
blinded by tears. An inarticulate cry, that was half moan and half sob,
burst from the lips of Mère Marchette as Victor fell on his knees by the
bedside. Carried out of himself by genuine feeling, the young man had no
need to simulate the emotions necessary for the part he was playing.
Seizing the wrinkled hand which lay before him on the bed he covered it
with tears and kisses; then, with a cry of piercing sweetness, Mère
Marchette flung herself forward into his arms.
"O Pierre, Pierre!" she sobbed. "Oh, the good God, the good God!"
She clasped her arms about his neck, she strained him to her breast, the
feebleness of her dying embrace transformed to strength by the divine
fervor of maternal love. She mingled her kisses with a soft and hardly
articulate babble of endearing words; the terms which she had used over
his cradle she mingled with the pet names of his childhood and the
loving speech which belonged to maturer years. She held him away from
her that she might look at him, and her eyes were holden so that she saw
in his face the changes that her fancy had pictured in thinking of the
real Pierre.
"Ah," she said, "how brown thou hast grown; and thou art such a man now!
Ah, thou rogue," she went on, laughing softly, "I knew thou hadst grown
a beard--and not a word of it in thy letters. But I knew."
She put her thin fingers under his chin and with a sudden gravity lifted
his face.
"Look in my eyes," she said; "why dost thou turn away? Hast thou not
been a good boy; hast thou not loved the good God?"
Poor Victor, overwhelmed with the dreadful consciousness of deceit,
found it almost impossible, in face of this touching and pious
affection, to meet the old woman's glance. He struggled to force himself
to look into her eyes unwaveringly. Dr. Lommel laid his hand upon his
companion's shoulder.
"Yes, Mère Marchette," said he, "Pierre is a good lad; that I will
answer for."
The old woman raised her eyes toward heaven, and her lips moved. She was
evidently praying. She had received extreme unction just before noon,
but this moment in which she commended her grandson to God was to her no
less solemn than that of her own last communion. Then she put out her
hand to Dr. Lommel with her smile of wonderful sweetness and an air of
noble simplicity.
"You have been so kind to old Mère Marchette," were her words; "the good
God will reward you."
He looked at the old dying peasant woman and tried to speak, but his
sobs choked him. He bent and kissed her hand and laid it back gently in
that of Victor. Her little strength was evidently failing fast. With a
last effort she made a movement to drag herself nearer to Victor. He
understood her wish and supported her in his arms.
"Promise me," she murmured, her voice wasted almost to a whisper, "that
thou wilt be good."
"I promise," he answered.
And the words were no less sincere because she mistook the speaker. A
smile of heavenly rapture came over her face; she tried to speak and
failed. But Victor understood her wish and kissed her. As their lips
parted she sighed quiveringly.
"She is dead," said Dr. Lommel.
VII.
Victor laid the body gently back upon the bed and rose to his feet. He
seized his friend by the shoulders; the tears were streaming down his
cheeks.
"O _mon Dieu_, Jean!" he cried, "to deceive such trust. I feel as if I
had been violating a sacrament."
"I know," the other answered; "but ah, how happy she was!"
Interlude Fifth.
"SUCH SWEET SORROW."
"SUCH SWEET SORROW."
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
_Romeo and Juliet_, ii. 2.
[_A drawing-room. Fanny Motley, who has been making a long call upon her
bosom friend, Alice Langley, has at last risen to go._]
_Alice._ Oh, don't go yet. I haven't told you half the things I wanted
to.
_Fanny._ Oh, I must go. I've got to go home to dress for Mrs. Fresco's
dinner. _Do_ you suppose Jack will be there?
_A._ He told me he was going.
_F._ Oh, I do _hope_ he won't fail. I do _so_ want to joke him about his
sleigh-ride with Ella. Do you suppose she wore her hat with the orange
plumes? It's awfully unbecoming to her. It makes her look just salmon
color.
_A._ She always had perfectly hideous taste. Do you remember that dowdy
gown of green plush and mauve tulle she wore to Kate West's german? It
was a perfect dream of horror.
_F._ Yes; didn't she look _per_-fectly hideous? Well (_moving toward the
door_), come and see me just as soon as you can.
_A._ I'll come in to-morrow before sewing-circle, if I can, to hear
about the dinner. Don't be too hard on Jack. You know he's _aw_-fully
thin-skinned.
_F._ Oh, I won't be hard on him.
_A._ (_pausing as they reach the door_) Is that the boa you had
Christmas?
_F._ Yes; isn't it lovely? But I told mamma I knew she got it because
she knew I'd got to have one, and she'd got to give me something.
_A._ How mean of you!
_F._ Oh, she didn't mind. She's used to it. Be sure and come in
to-morrow.
_A._ Yes, I will. Oh, did I tell you that Tom Jones has invited Sophia
Weston to go to the opera Saturday night?
_F._ You don't mean it. Has he, really?
_A._ Yes; Ethel Mott told me this morning.
_F._ _Do_ you suppose he is in earnest, after all?
_A._ Oh, there's no telling about him. Frank says they bet about it at
the club.
_F._ About him and Sophia?
_A._ Yes; whether he'll propose before Lent.
_F._ How _per_-fectly horrid! Men are the _worst_ creatures. I declare,
I think those dreadful clubs ought to be suppressed.
_A._ So do I. They do say the most outrageous things. I don't see how
they can sit and listen to them.
_F._ I don't, either.
_A._ And they talk over all the scandals.
_F._ Yes, it is simply diabolical. How perfectly sweet it is to have a
brother who will tell you all about it.
_A._ Isn't it? It is almost as good as going myself.
_F._ Will never tells me a single thing (_moving on into the hall_).
Well, be sure you come, and come as early as you can. Good-bye. (_Kisses
her._)
_A._ Good-bye. That boa is just as becoming as it can be.
_F._ Do you think so? Clara Martin's makes her look as if she hadn't any
neck at all.
_A._ Oh, you can wear anything.
_F._ Thank you, dear. But then you can afford to say so, because you can
wear anything yourself. Would you ask Jack about the orange feathers?
_A._ Oh, he wouldn't know. Men never know what girls have on,--except
Clarence Key, and he's a perfect man-milliner. Did I tell you what he
said to Kate West at the Westons' tea? I'd have scratched his eyes out.
_F._ No; what in the world did he say?
_A._ You won't repeat it? Because I told Kate I wouldn't tell. She was
so furious she had to tell somebody.
_F._ I'll never tell. What was it?
_A._ You know that tailor-made gown she wears? The one made of gray
corduroy? Well, Clarence Key asked her if she got it so her husband
could have it made into riding trousers, after she was done with it.
Did you ever _hear_ such impertinence?
_F._ He didn't really!
_A._ He really did!
_F._ Why, Alice! I should think she'd have killed him. I would.
_A._ So would I.
_F._ (_putting her hand on the handle of the door_) Well, good-bye. Give
my love to Blanche when you write.
_A._ Yes, I will.
_F._ I shall see you to-morrow?
_A._ Yes. Good-bye.
[_Fanny opens the door, and a blast of cold wind rushes in._]
_F._ Ugh! How awfully cold it is. I wish I had taken the carriage.
_A._ I went over to Ethel Mott's this morning, and I thought I should
freeze to _death_.
_F._ I hope I sha'n't get pneumonia or anything. I want to go to the
Claytons' ball.
_A._ Oh, do tell me; what are you going to wear?
_F._ (_returning and closing the door_) There, that is one thing I
wanted to ask you about. I want you to go in white, and I'll wear that
black lace I had made in New York last winter. I've never worn it here
at all, and that's the most stylish gown I ever had in my whole life.
_A._ Wouldn't that be striking? We could go in together. I'll have a new
white tulle, and wear my pearls. I'll make Aunt Alicia lend me hers,
too.
_F._ That will be _too_ lovely.
_A._ And you'll wear diamonds?
_F._ Oh, no. I wore jet in New York. Not a single thing but black about
me; not even my fan-sticks.
_A._ How _per_-fectly enchanting!
_F._ Will you do it?
_A._ Of course I will. I'll buy the stuff to-morrow.
_F._ We'll talk about it when you come to-morrow. (_Opening the door._)
I must go this very moment, or I shall _never_ get to Mrs. Fresco's.
_A._ What are you going to wear to-night?
_F._ That cardinal I showed you the other day.
_A._ Isn't that rather gorgeous?
_F._ Oh, it's going to be a big dinner, you know; and there's lots of
black lace on it.
_A._ It must be awfully becoming.
_F._ It is. If Jack knows anything, he ought to see a difference between
that and orange plumes.
_A._ Ethel Mott told me-- Oh, do come in a moment. I'm simply freezing
to death, and I must tell you this.
_F._ (_once more coming in and closing the door_) Well, do be quick. I
ought to have been home long ago.
_A._ Oh, you've lots of time.
_F._ But it takes so long to do my hair.
_A._ How are you going to wear it?
_F._ The same old way. I wish somebody'd invent some new
style,--something real nice and becoming. I asked Uncle Calvin the other
night if he hadn't seen some pretty styles in China, and I wish you
could have _seen_ the pictures he brought out!
_A._ What were they like?
_F._ Like? They weren't like anything. Why, I just _gasped_ over them!
Ships, and butterflies, and all sorts of things; all made out of hair,
right on your own head.
_A._ Not really?
_F._ Yes, just as I tell you. I never _saw_ anything so frightful.
_A._ It must have been perfectly ghastly!
_F._ Well, good-bye. Come early. Oh! what were you going to tell me?
_A._ To tell you?
_F._ Yes,--that Ethel Mott said.
_A._ Oh, she said that Kate West has been corresponding all winter with
that West Point cadet she met at Newport last summer.
_F._ No!
_A._ Yes!
_F._ Why, Alice Langley, do you mean it?
_A._ Ethel said she knew it.
_F._ I don't believe it.
_A._ That's what I said.
_F._ But she's as good as engaged to George Maynard.
_A._ I know it.
_F._ I think it's perfectly awful.
_A._ So do I.
_F._ Do you suppose he knows it?
_A._ Oh, no. He's so gone on Kate, he thinks she'd never look at anybody
but him.
_F._ I never heard anything so perfectly amazing in my life.
_A._ And sometimes, Ethel says, they write each other two letters a
week.
_F._ Two letters?
_A._ Two letters.
_F._ In one week?
_A._ That's what Ethel says.
_F._ I wonder she doesn't expect the ground to open and swallow her. I
never heard of such deceit. Why, she's going to lead the german with
George at the Wentworths' next week.
_A._ I know it.
_F._ Well, I've always said Kate West couldn't be trusted out of your
sight. (_She turns, and opens the door._) I do believe that every time I
open that door it is colder. I know I shall die before I get home,--or
freeze my ears.
_A._ Think how dreadful it would be to freeze your ears. I knew a girl
at boarding-school that froze her ears skating one vacation, and they
hung down like rags. We used to tell her they were like a spaniel's,
and call her Fido. She'd get _perfectly_ furious.
_F._ I don't wonder.
_A._ It was awfully good fun to see how she tried to pretend she didn't
care; and then, when she couldn't stand it another minute, she'd catch
up the very first thing she could lay her hands on, and throw it.
_F._ (_descending the steps_) I would if I'd been she. Could she wear
ear-rings?
_A._ Oh, not for the longest time,--as much as a year, any way. When we
wanted to be especially pleasant, we told her that frozen ears always
came off after a time.
_F._ How horrid!
_A._ But it was such fun!
_F._ Good-bye. Be sure and come to-morrow.
_A._ Yes.
_F._ And come early.
_A._ Yes; I'll come right after luncheon.
_F._ Don't you think your gown ought to be made just like my black one?
_A._ Yes; that would be more effective.
_F._ And then we can wear our hair just alike.
_A._ It's a pity you couldn't have some black flowers.
_F._ Yes. I don't see why the florists don't get up some. Phew! It's as
cold as Greenland. Do go in. You'll get your death cold.
_A._ Good-bye. Don't tell what I told you.
_F._ No; not to a soul. How did Ethel Mott find out about the letters?
_A._ She wouldn't tell.
_F._ Do you suppose she really knew, or only guessed?
_A._ She said she really and truly knew.
_F._ Isn't it amazing?
_A._ It is _per_-fectly incomprehensible.
E. Well, good-bye. I hope you'll have good luck at the Whist Club
to-night.
_A._ Oh, do come back till I tell you what Mr. Fremont said about the
Whist Club.
[_Fanny returns to the foot of the steps, and Alice goes half way down
to meet her._]
_A._ He said he wasn't going to the Whist Club any more, and I asked him
why not, and he said he was tired of taking girls down to feed, when
they'd been talking so all the evening that he couldn't play.
_F._ Why, I never heard anything so insulting!
_A._ I told Mr. Van Bruch, and he said the trouble was that Mr. Fremont
wanted all the time to feed himself.
_F._ Good. Do you know Colonel Graham says that he went to the Vaughns'
to play whist, and they held a conversazione instead. Wasn't that
clever?
_A._ Yes; awfully.
_F._ Good-bye. I'll tell Jane to lay out my black dress, so it will be
all ready when you come.
_A._ I'll try and get time to go down town in the morning, to see what I
can get to make my gown of. It's an awful shame you had to hurry away
so; I had lots of things to say.
_F._ Well, I really had to go, you know. You can't keep a dinner party
waiting, of course.
_A._ Oh, of course not. Good-bye. I'm awfully glad you came.
_F._ Good-bye. I've had a lovely time.
[_She at last really goes, and Alice, after lingering a second to regret
the things she has not said, retires and closes the door of the now
pretty well aired house._]
Tale the Sixth.
BARUM WEST'S EXTRAVAGANZA.
BARUM WEST'S EXTRAVAGANZA.
Barum West threw down his pen, and looked about his attic with a gloomy
face. The light from his one window, a dormer facing the east, was too
faint to permit his writing any longer, even had he been in the mood;
and how far he was from desiring to go on with his work was shown by his
seizing the sheets which were the result of his afternoon's labor, and
angrily tearing them into bits.
The room was not unlike the traditional abode of that melancholy
thing, a poor-devil author. The roof sloped from the middle of the
ceiling almost to the floor, the niche of the dormer-window where his
writing-table stood being the only part of the eastern side of the
chamber where one could stand upright. In the corner on the opposite
side stood an old-fashioned, high-posted bedstead; a bureau, over which
hung a tarnished mirror of antique frame, was placed opposite the tall
stove, in which was carefully cherished a frugal coal fire; a black
trunk was pushed under the eaves, while some pine shelves held the young
man's unimposing library. Both carpet and wall-paper were dingy and
faded, and in the darkening winter twilight the attic was gloomy enough
to depress the spirits of one in a frame of mind far more cheerful than
that in which West found himself.
Most authors are too unhappily familiar with the fact that a financial
crisis is apt to be so desperately unproductive of marketable ideas that
even the excitement of a definite order is likely, at such a time, to
beget in the brain rather a confused sense of impotence than a creative
inspiration. One must be well seasoned in the vicissitudes of a literary
career to be able to do his best under the combined pressure of sore
need and the necessity of seizing at once an unusual opportunity. West
was still young in his profession, as well as in years, and the wild
exhilaration of receiving a conditional commission had given place to an
awful feeling of despairing helplessness. A friend who had considerable
confidence in him, and, what was more to the purpose, some acquaintance
and influence in theatrical circles, had persuaded a manager to promise
to consider an extravaganza from the pen of the would-be playwright, and
Barum felt as if his whole future depended upon his success.
He had started upon his task with the utmost hope and confidence. He
had for a couple of years been studying stage work, writing plays that
nobody would touch, and serving that dreary apprenticeship which comes
before literary success, but which is, unhappily, not always followed by
it. He had pinned above his writing-table a sentence from "Earl's Dene,"
which had afforded him a sombre support often enough: "The only road to
the skies, Mademoiselle, is up the garret stairs. Mozart climbed them,
Moretti climbed them, ... everybody who has ever done anything has had
to climb them; and you, Mademoiselle, are one whose duty for the present
is to starve." It may have been because he secretly felt that he had
starved long enough, or from the buoyant hope pathetically natural to
youth, that West was convinced that his time had come; but at least of
that fact he had no doubt.
When, however, he sat down to write, he found his brain teeming, in
place of valuable ideas, with the single notion that this time he must
succeed; instead of a plot, his mind spun visions of coming greatness;
and in place of elaborating witticisms, his thoughts turned alternately
to dismal memories and to yet more gloomy forebodings. To-day ended a
week of futile endeavor, and the unlucky writer was forced to confess to
himself that, so far from being further on in his work than he was seven
days earlier, he had stuck where he set out, and acquired the fatal
hindrance of a self-distrust which benumbed all his powers.