"Experience, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hands."
E.B. Browning.
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Max Deshoulieres did not smile any more after he went away from Madame
Lemaire, but he never forgot her little speech. It seemed to set all
sorts of unknown strings vibrating, the words kept echoing back from his
heart; things that had nothing to do with his life, as he fancied,
floated up before him: children's faces like angels', the touch of tiny
hands, sweet womanly voices, wistful grey eyes, all these strange
uncalled-for visions haunted him; he could not have driven them away if
he had wished it. If he had been an idle man, with time to spend in
dreaming, he might have understood their meaning sooner; as it was, he
wondered a little, and then flung himself heart and soul into a battle
with some grim disease in a squalid room where there was the dirt
without the picturesqueness of Charville. Almost unconsciously this
man's life had been one noble self-sacrifice. He seemed to use his
great strength of will in setting aside all selfish aims. He worked
with a single-mindedness out of which had grown a strange simplicity and
tenderness. Therese, with all her hopefulness, had not his strong
faith. If he had been more accustomed to make pictures, in which he
formed a central figure, Madame Lemaire's words might not have stirred
him as they did. A hand had swept the strings, would the tones it set
vibrating grow and swell into grand, beautiful chords of sweet harmony,
or die away in a sad, sorrowful wail?
That little fact of seeing Therese alone among all those people, vexed
him with the Roulleaus. He went there the next morning. Therese saw
him on the stairs, and fled back, foolish child, to her room, with a
cold fear in her heart of what he might be come to propose. She had
remarked his displeasure of the day before, and who knew what might grow
out of it? Madame Roulleau used to invent little speeches of M.
Deshoulieres, which poor Therese had no reason for disbelieving; she
felt them hard,--cruel. Her heart resented this trampling out of the
bright things of life which they told her he was trying to force upon
her. She liked sunshine, flowers, love,--liked them, and wanted them
for herself with an impatience that would not so much as endure the
thought of life without them. One feels a compassion for such natures,
knowing how hard the lessons of time must prove to them, and yet it may
be that their very buoyancy helps them to float over the stormy waves.
It was so with Therese at present. She felt more confident of Fabien's
love now than she had done when he was near her and talking about it;
she never doubted that he would return; she could turn her dingy little
room in Rue St Servan into a veritable palace with her bright thoughts
of the future. There was a little precious likeness of Fabien which she
would take out and talk to whenever Madame Roulleau was more than
usually tyrannical. With so much sunshine before her, she could bear
any thing so long as that terrible guardian would leave her alone.
Downstairs the terrible guardian was expressing his opinion to Madame
Roulleau; for little Roulleau kept out of the way on these occasions,
and madame preferred it, since she was always afraid that his cowardice
might betray them. M. Deshoulieres was very grave, very determined: he
had left all these minor things to be arranged by Madame Roulleau, he
said; but she must quite understand that mademoiselle must have every
thing that was right and _convenable_. As he spoke he looked round, and
wondered if she were happy there. His own tastes were very plain, but
he was not sure whether a young girl would not require something
brighter than this barren abode; and madame, who watched him like a cat,
read his looks without difficulty, and was very judicious in her
answers. She did not say too much, but she implied that mademoiselle
preferred the freedom and unconventionality of their family life to
permitting changes to be made on her account. "She has had enough of
luxury, monsieur," she said. Therese upstairs, shivering and trembling
over that convent fancy, did not know how these two were concerned with
the web and woof of her life: madame, with her covetous hands turning
and twisting it to suit her purpose; Max, with his great tender heart
and his quick abrupt ways, wanting to protect the little solitary
figure, whose solitariness and helplessness among the crowd the day
before had touched him with pity. "Poor child!" he said softly in his
heart. He was not quite sure of the value of madame's professions. He
made up his mind to question Therese herself at the first opportunity.
When he went away it was with the understanding that Therese should take
no more solitary walks. Madame would have gladly escaped the
concession, but it was not possible; and her busy thoughts went off at
once to the question of how the affair could be managed, at least cost;
or how it might be balanced by extracting further work from the girl.
She went up to her with a gloomy depressed face which terrified Therese
when she opened the door.
"Is there any news? What has he said?" she asked, quickly.
"This all comes from your imprudence in loitering at the market
yesterday, mademoiselle. M. Deshoulieres is highly displeased,--
requests that we will provide an attendant for you. An attendant!"
repeated madame, with a little hoot of scorn. "When my husband toils
and toils, and I pinch and pinch; and then we are reproached because you
do not walk about as if you were the daughter of M. le Prefet! I saw
beforehand that it would not do. You must seek another domicile,
mademoiselle."
"You will send me away!" said poor Therese, turning pale. "But where
can I go?"
Madame threw out her hands.
"That is for M. Deshoulieres to decide. There is always the convent.
You will be safe enough behind the _grille_," she added, with a mocking
laugh.
Therese was very ignorant, and had no idea what unlimited powers M.
Deshoulieres' guardianship might not convey. The tears gathered in her
eyes, she almost flung herself at madame's feet.
"No, no, no, madame," she implored, "do not send me away. I am not good
enough for that life. I cannot give up Fabien. Do not send me away!"
It was her whole heart crying out, but madame looked and listened
coldly.
"My children must not be sacrificed," she said, folding her hands
inexorably.
There was a little silence. Madame glanced at Therese from under her
eyelids; the girl had recovered herself, and was standing motionless,
her eyes on the ground, and a red flush on her cheek. Either her pride
had come to her aid, or she was making a desperate resolution. Madame
thought it was time to waver.
"If, indeed--" she said, slowly. "But no."
"If what, madame?"
"You have had a grand education, without doubt, mademoiselle?"
"I used to learn a great deal. I do not know that it was any good,"
said Therese, wearily.
"I am in treaty with an admirable instructress for Octavie and Adolphe.
It would be an infinite loss to them: still--"
"Do you mean that I could teach them?" said Therese, brightening up and
looking delighted.
"It is almost wrong of me," madame declared, sighing. "I do not know
what my husband will say to my weakness."
Therese cried out, gratefully, that she should never repent it. Her
buoyant spirit reasserted itself; she drew a long breath of relief as
she thought of Monsieur Deshoulieres and the convent on one side, Fabien
and happiness on the other, with Madame Roulleau, in her linen jacket,
standing as arbitrix between them. If there had been a dozen Octavies
and Adolphes she must have embraced her, as she did. Such joy did not
mollify madame.
"Who is to promenade with you?" she asked, crossly. "It must not be a
fine lady, to ruin us in wages."
"I have thought of some one," Therese cried out with eagerness. "Let it
be old Nannon; she is very poor, and will be glad to get a little."
"That old creature!" exclaimed madame, who was secretly pleased, but
felt it necessary to make a favour of every concession.
Perhaps Therese also was actuated by the spirit of contradiction towards
the unconscious offender, M. Deshoulieres. "I should like her better
than any one else," she said.
Madame went away well satisfied with her own tactics. By a little
skilful management she could make these two play against each other.
Therese was already thoroughly prejudiced against her guardian, and
should he be displeased by the choice of Nannon, he would learn that it
arose from the girl's own wilfulness. It was far more likely that,
having once spoken on the subject, he would not trouble himself about it
again. Madame Roulleau was a clever woman, but she knew nothing of
those new sounds which were beginning to make themselves heard in his
heart.
Before she left the room she told Therese to go to old Nannon's, and
desire her to come to Rue St Servan. M. Deshoulieres was gone to
Epernon, and safe out of the way. Therese, who all the morning had been
looking longingly at the soft sunshine and the cool delicate clouds
which sailed lazily across her great expanse of sky, was glad to get out
into the brightness. It was one of those exquisite days of broken light
in which quaint old Charville seemed full of pictures and of memories; a
capricious sky, a sweet tender glow upon the stones, here and there a
keen shaft of sun-ray, here and there a deep grave shadow--contrasts,
but not contradictions. Later in the day there was to be a mass in the
Cathedral for the children who were just confirmed; the little
white-veiled figures were flitting about in all directions. Therese
stood and watched two who came along a narrow, dark street, and under a
grey archway; two black-robed sisters in great white flapping caps,
stretching out on either side like wings, held their hands. "_Soyez
tranquille, mon enfant_," one of them was saying, in her calm, hushed
voice, as they passed Therese; it sounded almost like a benediction, as
they all went quietly along under the Cathedral and the praying statues.
Tears rushed into the girl's eyes; she put out her hands with a sort of
vague beseeching for some such kindly words, but no one saw or
understood the gesture. The figures went away into the light, Therese
remained sadly on the broad steps looking after them. With these solemn
walls rising heavenwards; with these serene, mute statues--angels and
their harps, saints with folded hands, crowned kings and queens,
prophets, apostles, martyrs--standing in majestic unbroken calm, it
seemed as if, after all, peace might be the happiness of life. Was it
to be found in such an existence as these quiet women had chosen? Would
it not be better for her to yield and do as they had done? She shivered
at the thought. A little white butterfly fluttered down on the hand of
one of the crowned figures, and rose again, as if the touch chilled it.
"It is like me," Therese thought bitterly; "I am not good enough for
that cold, saintly life." Poor child! There were all kinds of new
thoughts wrestling within her; perhaps, among them, breathed the faint
distant echo of an eternal truth. Neither in the cloister nor in the
world will peace or happiness, or whatever we may call the highest
earthly bliss, come to those who seek them selfishly. From behind some
sad figure, in companionship where we least expect them, they may step
forth smiling. But they are divine gifts; and He who gives has not made
them the end of our endeavour, the goal of our race.
The girl dashed away her tears, and came slowly down from the steps; she
would have gone into the Cathedral, but the doors of the north portal
were not open, and she went mechanically along the streets towards
Nannon's. The air was soft and healing, every thing gentle, dewy, and
full of sweet beauty. Rain had fallen in the night, the broad fans of
the horse-chestnut leaves still sheltered little depths out of which
gleamed patches of wet, and diamond beads glistened on the grass, which
feathered out here and there from a crevice in some old cracked wall.
Presently Therese, who was not much thinking about her errand, caught
the sound of a voice which recalled it. There was an old arched stone
doorway lying in grey shade. Worn steps led up to it, and through the
open space you could see a little sunny court, a stone fountain catching
warm yellow tints, vines clambering round the edge, an old woman in a
blue stuff gown and white cap leaning against it and chattering merrily.
There must have been other invisible figures to whom Nannon was holding
forth, for every now and then there came a little chorus of shrill
laughter. The vine-leaves rustled, their shadows danced in the
sunlight; Therese stood at the doorway and looked at it all for a moment
before she called,--
"Nannon!"
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the old woman, starting, "it is Mademoiselle
Veuillot!"
Therese's name still excited interest in Charville; two or three heads
peered out from the framework of the doorway.
"She looks thinner already, poor thing!" said one girl presently, in a
compassionate whisper.
"No wonder, Suzette, if Madame Roulleau provides her food."
"But what becomes of all that money?"
"Who knows! Monsieur le Docteur is a good man, without doubt, but such
a sum is a sore temptation when one has but to help one's self."
"That is not possible," said an old man, speaking in a thin cracked
voice, and striking his stick on the ground. "The law provides that no
med--"
"Bah, bah, Pere Andre, the law may provide, but we all know that the
rich snap their fingers at the law. Henri, little wicked one, be quiet.
Well, Nannon, what did mademoiselle want?"
"Nannon is to be mademoiselle's _bonne_!" cried the young girl, who had
been the first to extract the information.
"Nannon! mademoiselle's _bonne_!"
The old woman laughed as heartily as the others, her brown, grotesque
face wrinkling into innumerable lines. "It is true, nevertheless, my
children," she said. "See what comes when least one expects it! M.
Deshoulieres says she is not to walk about alone; figure to yourself her
choosing me! If it had been Suzette now--but no, look to yourself,
Suzette; after this you will be having me for a rival with Pierre and
Jacques."
The girl laughed, pouted, and twisted a wet vine-branch round little
Henri's head. "Is it all settled, Mere Nannon?"
"There is Madame Roulleau to be seen."
"And she is a woman!" said old Andre, casting out his hands, and
speaking in his poor thin voice. All the group seemed to agree in
snubbing old Andre.
"What of that? She will not eat me," said Nannon, holding up her apron
to shade her from the sun.
"That is true," assented Henri's mother. "But you will need to look out
for the _sous_."
"She will hold them tight; but some must creep out of her fingers,"
Nannon said, nodding cheerfully; "and if M. Deshoulieres drives that
unfortunate boy out of his place, I shall say that the saints have sent
us all a recompense. That is what they do sometimes, as I will say for
them, and when one does not altogether expect it at their hands. And
mademoiselle asked for Jean-Marie."
Therese waited quickly away from the little sunshiny vine-covered court
set in the framework of its grim old pointed doorway, and went back to
the Cathedral, going round this time to the south portal, by which she
knew she could find entrance. It lay in the full blaze of sunlight:
flying buttresses, open pillars, and enormous gargoyles threw sharp
shadows on the warm stone. One of the doors was open: inside lay, as it
seemed, a vast chasm of darkness, but out of the midst of it the
opposite transept window gleamed like a gorgeous bed of jewels. A great
bell tolled solemnly; up the broad steps swept a long procession of the
white-veiled children, and sisters in their serge dresses. Therese
followed them; she found a chair, and tried not to notice the stir and
bustle about her. People crowded in until the great Cathedral was
almost filled. The service was held outside the choir; the little white
multitude stood in the centre: on one side were other children in red
dresses and rose-wreaths; all round were throngs of loving or curious
spectators--warm lights flashed through the magnificent glass.
Presently from high overhead dropped the first sweet notes of the organ,
and the young fresh voices swelled up to meet it.
Some of the women were crying. There was something about the service
which was inexpressibly touching; the vast sombre ancient church, the
childish voices. Therese, who had been strangely excited before, almost
sobbed as she knelt. Even there her desolation and solitude seemed to
wrap her round; she had not so much as any one to pray for, she thought,
except Fabien. Her prayer went up, eager and piteous, that Fabien might
come and she might be happy.