JEAN opened dreamy eyes to look at Margot, who sat by his bedside
reducing with swift competent hands a pile of his clothes that she was
mending. His body felt blissfully light and at ease, and for the first
time since his illness his mind was alive.
He felt the singular clarity and depth of mind claimed by the mystic
after a long period of fasting and prayer. All his senses were at their
keenest and seemed to work without obstruction. None of the incoherence
and clumsiness of reality were present to him; life seemed an easy and
an exquisite thing radiant with love and beauty.
He gazed at Margot’s face and noted one by one its gracious curves, the
little lift of the lips, the line of her chin, the soft brown hair that
shadowed her low forehead; it seemed as if her face was new to him, and
he was looking at it for the first time. It was thinner than usual, and
there were dark purple shadows under her eyes. She worked quickly and
as if absorbed; but no movement of Jean’s escaped her; she seemed to
see without lifting her eyelids that he was awake, and when she raised
them at length to greet him, Jean felt as if he had been taken into a
strong place full of sunshine.
He gave a little sigh of pleasure.
“You’ve been very good to me, Margot,” he said. “And how pretty
everything in the room is. I don’t believe there’s such a neat or
charming place in Paris!”
The soft colour came into Margot’s cheeks; she had to perfection the
Frenchwoman’s talent for the management of things. Material was always
docile to her, and she had kept Jean’s room like a shrine. His praise
was as unaccustomed as it was sweet, for Jean had been too absorbed in
his own life before to realise how many of its conveniences he owed to
someone else.
To-day he seemed to be seeing the past in fresh colours. What a stupid
world he had lived in! Everyone had tried to get the better of everyone
else, people had thought so much of money; he had himself--not of the
money perhaps--but of what it could buy. Stupid things like admiration,
fine clothes, and inconceivably uninteresting social successes! He had
not thought of music, of beauty, or of the hard Spartan magnificent
triumphs of the spirit. He had worked hard for the spirit, fought
for the spirit, and then somehow or other, he did not yet know how,
other things had kept coming in. He had been pushed away from his
goal--music had forsaken him. He had played accompaniments, and worst
of all, stupidest of all, had been his feeling for Liane--he shivered
as he thought of it. How cruel she had been, and how indifferent
to that vague foolish passion of his poured out at her feet so
unnecessarily--for it was not the kind of thing Liane wanted. It was
wasted; she had not cared for his soul. It seemed to him now the most
idle and incredible folly, and he forgot the force of his passion as
completely as one forgets last year’s toothache. He felt as if he had
reached a new system of values, one in which it would be no longer
difficult to do without, because by doing so he would come into an
inheritance of things more precious, clear solitude for work, freedom
from the strain of the uncongenial, and entire repudiation of the whole
material world. In fact, it was the Higher Life again, only this time
Jean called it art and not religion. He was a little more human over it
too, because he allowed it to include the friendship of Margot.
He could not remember his illness very distinctly, but he knew that her
voice had sounded like music, and her touch had been cool and soft, and
that somehow, just when things had been at their worst, she had made
them better.
He did not know why it was, but he felt vaguely better and safer if she
were in the room; even the keen kindly eyes of the doctor did not give
him the sense of support that he found in Margot’s. He felt that there
was in her something indestructibly strong, and that it was there for
his use.
Jean put out his hand towards her and she let her sewing fall into her
lap while she covered it.
“It is nearly time for you to have your broth, Jean,” she said.
“No, it can’t be,” said Jean. “I want to talk to you, Margot. Where do
you get the money to buy broth and chicken and jelly?”
“I make the jellies,” said Margot, “and the broth and chicken are not
expensive at this time of year.”
“Where’s your mother?” Jean persisted.
“She’s staying with Papa’s friends for a little change. She’ll be back
in a day or two!”
“Then you’ve done everything?” said Jean with a little sigh. “Do you
know, Margot, when I came here I meant to help you, but it seems to
me that I only gave you more trouble--it has always been you who have
helped me. How do you manage, too, about your singing, _chérie_? I
never hear you!”
“Would you like me to sing for you now?” asked Margot, anxious to
change the subject. “I could, you know; I know that last little song of
Schubert’s by heart.”
“Yes, do,” said Jean eagerly.
Margot drew a deep breath and winced.
“At least I thought I did,” she murmured. She had not realized how
difficult it is to sing when you are hungry. For the last three days
she had had very little to eat.
“I’m so sorry, Jean,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t without you. You
see, then, how necessary you are! You do help me!”
“But you haven’t told me how you are getting on at the theatre?” Jean
persisted. “Tell me, Margot!” There was the first note of definite
suspicion in his voice.
Margot almost welcomed the postman’s rap. She sprang up and came back
with a letter.
“It’s from one of your fine friends,” she said, laughing. “I can feel
the thick paper--and a great crest--and I think, Monsieur Jean, it is
from a lady! I shall be very discreet and go away without so much as
a question. When I come back you will tell me if her hair is black or
gold--that will be for a reward.”
“Don’t be gone long, Margot,” said Jean. “I miss you so when you’re
away.”
He took the letter out of her hand lazily; it was the D’Ucelles crest;
he wondered vaguely what it was. It was not Romain’s writing. After all
it had seemed simpler to Romain to leave the matter to his wife--if he
could have sent money he would have written himself. But it seemed a
shabby thing to write without, and Marie would not let him send a sou.
Jean wondered if perhaps his uncle had heard of his illness and sent
him a cheque. What a pleasure and surprise that would be for Margot
when she came back; it would pay for all the extra expense she had
been put to, and if he were careful he might take her for a day in the
country.
These November days were warm and mild, with a sweet fresh sunshine in
them. He would like to see Margot in the country; she had been born
there, and he knew that she loved it. He remembered how the first time
he had heard her sing, her voice had seemed to him like the breath of
the woods. He would not open the letter till she had gone. He felt very
lazy still about doing things; it was so much more easy to think and
plan.
When Margot had given him his broth and watched him take it to the last
drop, she left him.
“But now I’m sure it’s from a lady with fair hair,” she said laughing.
“Or else you would have opened it! You know well enough that I detest
fair hair!”
Margot did not often make little jokes but her heart had never felt so
light before. She wished that Jean could be for ever convalescent and
grateful, seeking her with the clinging eyes of a child, and that she
might always be hungry and happy, and tired, for his sake; but perhaps
not quite so hungry! They would be sure to offer her something to eat,
though, at her father’s friends, and that would last very well till
to-morrow; and there was plenty of the best bedstead left for Jean.
When Margot had gone, Jean opened his letter.
“MY DEAR JEAN” (his aunt had written), “This is indeed sad news which
your uncle tells me! We do not quite know what to say about it; he has
asked me to write in his place, as he is bothered with some affairs.
Of course, it was my natural instinct to go to you at once, but I hear
from your Uncle Romain that it is quite impossible for me to do so.
You will understand this, I know, for though you have unfortunately
been led into a connection which is quite beneath you, you would
hardly wish your aunt to enter into the house of such a person.
“My poor boy, I fear you have fallen into the little trap your uncle
warned you about some time ago, and that your illness has put you
under the very obligation we were so anxious to save you from! It is
not very agreeable for us, as you may fancy, to hear all over Paris
that our nephew is being kept at the expense of a young person of the
theatre, who has had--so I hear--to pawn the furniture to support him
during his illness! But do not fancy that I write to reproach you. I
feel that in spite of your rather ungrateful disregard of our little
plans for you in the past, as if on this very account perhaps, you
might more readily listen to a new suggestion.
“Do, my dear Jean, _while there is yet time_, leave the house of this
disreputable little person and return to your Aunt Anne for awhile.
The country air will do you all the good in the world, and you might
interest yourself usefully in looking after your little estate. Let
me hear directly you are well enough to do this; and I will send your
uncle’s valet to meet you at the railway station with money for your
ticket, as I fear, from the reports your uncle has received, that you
must be very short of money.
“Your Uncle Romain joins me in sending his sympathetic condolences
with you in your illness. With every good wish for your speedy
recovery and your future well-being,
“Believe me, dear Jean,
“Your affectionate aunt,
“MARIE AGNES D’UCELLES.”
It was perhaps unfortunate for Madame D’Ucelles’ purpose that Romain
had not been present to read this letter; if he had it would certainly
have not been sent. Marie had forgotten his advice, that one should
never be disagreeable until after one had lost one’s cause.
Jean read the letter three times over before he could persuade himself
that it was real. His mind and body alike rebelled against this new
brutality of pain. He could not feel as if it were meant for him, or as
if it were about Margot. His tender, faithful Margot, whose heart was
as pure as a spring flower, defying in its fragile bloom even the dust
of Paris. It might indeed be broken, but it could not be stained.
His aunt’s words made him blush hotly and fiercely for her. He was not
given to judging harshly of women; but he was ashamed of his aunt, it
would have astonished Madame D’Ucelles as much as it would have enraged
her, if she had known that Jean thought her a very bad woman. Then he
felt a fresh pang. Was it true that Margot had had to pawn her things?
He rose slowly to his feet and staggered to the door. His little room
seemed very large and strange to him, and the passage outside seemed
to stretch into eternity, but his suspense and excitement gave him
strength. He opened the door of the living-room and staggered back
against the wall. It was quite empty. There was no table, no handsome
dresser covered with shining pots and pans, no armchair for Madame
Selba, nothing there at all, except a box on which there lay two eggs
and a half-mixed pudding for Jean’s dinner. The shelves in the little
larder were quite bare. He went on into the room beyond; his eyes could
hardly see, for they were covered by a mist of tears; there was only
a mattress and some bed-clothes under Margot’s little stoup of holy
water, and she had fitted up another box for a dressing-table. The
mirror was gone, and she had nothing but a hand glass to help her make
her careful toilet in the morning.
Margot had gathered into her room all the futile little treasures
for which the pawnbroker had no desire, and these touched Jean most
of all. There they were, all set out in order to comfort Margot’s
heart--embroidered table-cloths, antimacassars, carved picture-frames,
and Jean’s photograph in a white and gilt frame Margot had made
herself, embroidered with blue forget-me-nots.
Poor Jean covered his face with his hands and crept back to his room.
He flung himself on his bed and cried like a child. What could he do
in the face of this cruel and appalling tenderness that had stripped
itself bare to the verge of starvation for him, that had kept nothing
back, and had paid the utmost price with smiling, mendacious eyes?
For a time he did not see what he could do, he felt no anger at all,
for Margot’s love had gone too deep for mere resentment. It had touched
the core of Jean’s nature, and the core of his nature was sound and
ready to respond.
Nor did he feel even anger with his aunt now; on the contrary, he felt
a vague gratitude to her, for she had showed him what to do. If his
aunt could think evil of Margot, there was perhaps left after all a way
of serving her. Jean no longer thought of paying back an obligation;
his pride had been not so much broken as absorbed in a deeper feeling;
but if he could serve her!
He had only the shelter of his name to give her, but that she should
have! He had never dreamed of Margot as his wife before. His strangely
lucid and passionate nature caused him to divide all the relations of
his life with a definiteness that never confused the issue.
Margot was to be his friend and pupil; he was not to make love to her
even if he wanted to; it would not be fair. Now it appeared she was
shaken out of this pigeon-hole into another, one wholly unoccupied so
far. She was to be his wife. He flushed with the magnanimity of his
scheme. After all he could be very happy with her; they would make an
arrangement about Madame Selba (he passed as quickly as possible over
this part of his plan); then he would take Margot back to Ucelles.
There they would live very simply and quietly for art, and art only.
As for happiness--what, after all, was happiness? The pursuit of a
rapid inconstant image which only waited to be reached to vanish as
you grasped it, or turned into the horrible familiarity of the thing
possessed? Surely it was best to try simply for contentment, and to
look for that in work, obligation, and pleasant human ties, without
excitement, perhaps. But Jean felt to-day as if he would never care for
excitement again, and then there would always be that happy, grateful
light in Margot’s eyes! All men like to be worshipped, especially
when they are not feeling very strong and there is nothing else to
do. Normally, perhaps, they may seek for a more active rôle; but Jean
was not feeling very normal at the moment; his temperature had risen
several degrees, and he felt all the sober exultation of sacrifice
before the sacrifice is made.
He was very anxious for Margot to come back.
When she came he could hardly wait for her to light the candles behind
him before he seized her hands and told her to sit down, he had
something particular to say to her, and he must say it at once, and she
mustn’t get his supper till then.
Margot gave him a quick look, then she drew her chair near the bed and
laid her hand on his pulse.
“No, Margot, don’t. I’m not the least excited,” Jean said impatiently.
Margot withdrew her hand; she had felt his pulse flying under her
fingers.
“I have been thinking things over, Margot, since I have been lying
here,” Jean began, fixing her with his brilliant feverish eyes.
“I have come to a great decision. I am going to make a change in my
life. I cannot be satisfied to earn money as I am earning it now, out
of the mere shell of what, to me, is indestructible life. I must get
nearer to the heart of things; why--you’re laughing at me, Margot--but
I know you understand--these people who live in Paris cheat and talk
and play with sacred fire; I cannot belong to them, I must belong to
myself--” Jean paused for a moment; he tossed restlessly on his pillow.
“But a man needs more than that,” he went on at last. “He must have
something to look forward to--something human and touching and
loving--a man must have a home!”
Margot drew her breath a little quicker, but she saw she wasn’t to
interrupt this list of a man’s needs. Jean was evidently feverish
to-night; she must look into this directly he stopped talking.
“Margot, come nearer to me. Give me both your hands,” he said, his
eyes filled with tears; they were tears half of weakness and half of
pleasure; he was pleased at what he was going to do for Margot. She
gave him both her hands.
“Have you thought, can you guess, who is to make my home for me? No!
Don’t take away your hands, Margot--” He drew them to his lips and she
felt his kisses burn them. “They have worked for me and nursed me,
these dear hands,” he went on, breathless with sudden passion. “Will
you let them stay with me always? Oh, your dear little, wonderful
woman’s hands, Margot; they are so small they make me cry; they are
so strong that I could worship them. Now, do you see what I meant? We
should be very poor, I know, but I could manage, Margot--and we should
live in the country, and we would sing and play all day long in the
blessed golden silence of Ucelles--say you will, say quickly you will
be my wife, Margot. Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Your wife, Jean?” said Margot; all the colour left her face, her heart
leapt over against her side like a terrified bird; then it felt very
heavy.
“Dear Margot! don’t look so frightened, you are not afraid of me, are
you?”
“No! I’m not afraid of you!” gasped Margot. It seemed to her as if a
thousand thoughts were beating at the bar of her mind and could not
get through. Why did Jean ask this of her? Would it be good for him?
Did he really need a quiet, simple life? Could she make him happy that
way? But all these questions suddenly seemed to resolve into one. What
had made him ask her that question? Her heart rebelled against this
stern catechism. Ah, why could she not take her joy when it came to
her? It had come at last--for a moment she let the taste of it fill her
whole consciousness, but she did not let Jean see that she had done
so; she kept her eyes down and no one knew what Margot looked like
when she held her heart’s desire. Then she lifted them and looked into
Jean’s eyes as Jean had never seen her look before; it was the terrible
implacable look of a human being seeking for truth. She looked into
Jean’s eyes, and he felt her passing beyond all his careful plans,
beyond his excited momentary feelings, his tender regard for her, and
his ineffectual gratitude, into his very soul.
“Don’t look at me like that, Margot,” he said quickly. Then he tried to
baffle her inflexible honesty. “Don’t you love me, Margot?”
He almost smiled as he asked it; he was so sure of her great love.
“Not in that way, Jean,” said Margot firmly and with absolute finality.
And as she spoke she drew back a little, and took away her trembling,
fluttering hands. Jean stared at her; it seemed to him as if solid
earth had failed, as if something that was his by an inalienable right
had been taken away.
He felt not angry so much as incredulous and blank. How could she
possibly not love him? And how very lonely it made him feel!
Margot stooped down to pick up his letter that had fallen to the floor.
“Ah!” said Margot quickly. Her question answered itself; not even the
pain in Jean’s eyes which was stabbing her to the heart could turn her
from her purpose now.
Someone had written things to Jean, things which had urged him to do
what she must never let him do, that was all. She prayed that God would
make Jean turn away his eyes from her so that she should not be tempted
beyond her strength to lean forward and take him in her arms. Jean
threw himself back exhausted upon his pillows and closed his eyes.
“Very well then, Margot,” he said coldly. “That settles it, of course,
I must go away.”
Margot crouched down in her chair like a creature caught in a trap.
“But, Jean, why?” she said. In spite of herself something primitive and
bare escaped in her voice; it contradicted her words and reached Jean’s
tired senses with unmistakable emphasis.
He was too tired now, though; he no longer wanted to hear anything that
she had to say; all the colour had faded out of his dream. He would not
open his eyes and look at Margot again.
“Jean, you’ll come back to me? Yes! Yes! do go away for a change
directly you are strong enough,” Margot went on, taking her hat-pins
in and out of her hat. “Nothing matters that you’ve said, nothing that
you feel could make any difference to us really! We must go on! we must
help each other all we can. Jean, I may ask this of you, mayn’t I?”
“You may ask anything that you like of me, Margot,” said Jean; “and
there’s nothing that I would refuse you.”
And then Margot knew quite well how little he had loved her.