A WONDERFUL thing had happened to Jean. Gabrielle had smiled at him.
Her eyes, serene and secret, had for one swift moment met his with
sudden tenderness.
It made Jean, on his way home to Rue Lalo, almost too happy to breathe.
The May night swept his blood with hurrying magic, and in his heart a
tiny thread of golden melody was born.
It was the hour when Paris awoke; rich, expensive, passionate Paris,
and launched itself into swift, tireless motors, racing to and fro
through the transient pleasure of the night. The Champs Élysées
stretched before him like a coil of swiftly flashing jewels. Fire
and speed, and the gay faculty of easy living, flamed its message
home to the world. It was to this great stream that Madame Torialli
belonged--belonged, that is, by birth, by position, by success; but
Jean no longer believed that she shared its life; the gay world was
such a small affair. The music in his brain sang a different story to
him. Gabrielle was a child at heart, she was like the soft unfolding of
the spring.
It was easy to think of her on a night full of stars. He knew that
Paris could not count for her any more than for him. It was a mere
glittering screen between them and their joy.
Jean flew up his steep, dark stairs in the Rue Lalo, and found Margot
tidying up his things. The most fatal mistake a woman can make, in the
eyes of a young man, is to be present when he is thinking of somebody
else. Margot had made it and she saw by Jean’s eyes that she had made
it, and she did not feel as if she could ever see anything else.
Jean recognized that Margot was unhappy, and this angered him--he was
by nature sympathetic--but there are moments in life when even to the
sympathetic the sorrows of others bear a grotesque insignificance. Jean
hoped that Margot would not tell him why she was unhappy. It seemed to
him frankly incredible that anyone need be unhappy who lived in the
same world as Gabrielle’s smile.
And Margot had come there to tell him--still she, too, for the moment
saw the wisdom of putting it off.
They fell back on her music. Jean threw himself on the music-stool and
suggested that Margot should sing first this and then that. Never had
Jean given her such a comprehensive and variable singing lesson or paid
less attention to what she sang. At last the music came to an abrupt
end; there was no more music Margot could sing, and it appeared that
there was nothing more for either of them to say. Jean lit a cigarette
and sat there, shaking his foot to and fro in an agony of suppressed
impatience. He could not very well turn Margot out of his room, and yet
her very presence made the music that was within him less--the melody
seemed dwindling like a tiny stream choked by a fall of sand.
And then Margot spoke.
“Jean,” she said very simply, “you’ve been for six months at the
Toriallis’ now; do you like it there?”
It was an unfortunate choice of subjects--the last thing that Jean
wished to discuss with Margot or with anyone else was the Toriallis;
one of them he wished to forget, the other was too sacred for him to
dare to remember. He dropped his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, I like it there well enough,” he said. “It has drawbacks--one
cannot have the flower without the root--music...” He stopped,
the words choked him. To speak of music was to hear the sound of
Gabrielle’s voice.
“Music?” echoed Margot, and really a candid judge might have thought
Margot’s voice as satisfactory as Madame Torialli’s. However, a young
lover is not a candid judge; Margot’s little echo irritated Jean.
“What do you mean, Margot?” he asked impatiently, although he did not
really want to know what Margot meant.
“I somehow thought,” she answered, “that you hadn’t had much
lately--not real music, I mean. Everything at the Boulevard Malesherbes
seems so--so mixed up with other things. They are of the great world,
aren’t they--the Toriallis--she goes out so much--and they entertain a
great deal. I wondered if you ever got enough time and freedom for your
real work?”
“It’s very good of you,” said Jean, “to bother about me....”
“Oh, Jean!” said Margot.
Jean bit his lips--he knew he mustn’t talk like this to Margot--he made
a great effort, an effort so great that it showed.
“Honestly, I get time enough,” he said. “And you? Flaubert is all
right, isn’t he? Your voice has improved greatly.”
Margot rose to go--and Jean thought that he had succeeded in hiding his
relief; still he felt a little ashamed of being relieved.
“One thing I do want you to remember, Margot,” he said, helping her
on with her jacket. “Nobody’s voice will ever mean what yours does to
me, and if I ever can--we _are_ friends, aren’t we? Here are your
gloves--and you’ll come again sometimes on Sunday evening, won’t you?
Are you sure you can get home alone all right?”
Margot nodded--she was quite sure she could get home alone all right;
the difficulty would be if she were not alone. The door closed after
her.
Jean returned to the piano--but the joy was gone now--the mysterious
Ariadne thread of Gabrielle’s smile had broken--instead he could see
only the little cloud in Margot’s eyes--he could hear the break in her
voice when she said, “Oh, Jean!” She used to say that so differently
when he was ill and she was nursing him.
He flung over the music-stool and rushed downstairs--they were long
stairs and he caught Margot up before she had reached the bottom. He
seized her hands and turned her round so that he could see her face.
Margot was crying.
He made an exclamation of regret and self-reproach and dragged her
upstairs again without a word. Margot expostulated faintly--but she
followed.
“Now,” he said, drawing her into his one armchair and seating himself
beside her. “What is it--I know I’ve been a beast--but it can’t be
helped now--I won’t be any more. Tell me, Margot.”
“If I tell you you’ll be so angry, Jean,” whispered Margot.
“Well, I’m angry now,” said Jean; “I’m angry with myself--I can’t be
angrier--what have you done?”
“It isn’t me,” said Margot, wiping away her tears. “It’s just Paris, I
suppose--it’s just everything--but I can’t help it, Jean. I don’t like
the Toriallis.”
Jean frowned; he drew a little further away from her. “Suppose we leave
them out?” he suggested.
“I would if I could,” said Margot; “but you see, Jean--she does do the
accounts with Flaubert.”
“Do the accounts with Flaubert! Do you mean Madame?” Jean rose to his
feet. “You’re mad, my dear,” he said brusquely. “Madame has nothing
whatever to do with the business--what accounts do you mean?”
“They all say so,” said Margot; “and after all, it’s the Toriallis’
business, they must come in somewhere!”
Jean swore at the business.
“They don’t,” he added, and as Margot seemed to fancy that swearing had
not yet cleared up the situation. “But what’s wrong with your account?”
he added. “Flaubert promised me to charge you merely a nominal sum.”
“It’s four hundred francs for a dozen lessons, Jean,” said Margot.
Jean started as if he had been stung.
“You’ve read the figures wrong!” he asserted.
She showed him the figures, but she kept her hand over the rest of
Monsieur Flaubert’s letter.
“There’s some mistake,” Jean urged.
“No--” said Margot. Then she said timidly: “It’s not the kind of thing
a girl can make a mistake about, Jean. I wish it was.”
Jean looked at her quickly.
“You remember Monsieur Picot?” Margot went on in a very low voice.
“Monsieur Flaubert offers to teach me--in that way, Jean--instead of
the money, I mean! If I can’t pay--and of course I can’t pay four
hundred francs down--but don’t look like that, Jean!”
Jean, however, continued to look like that--his one overwhelming
desire was to have the thick, pink neck of Monsieur Louis Flaubert
between his fingers. He no longer resented Margot’s trouble; for the
moment it was his own, he had forgotten Gabrielle--all he remembered
was his little comrade facing Paris, with her intrepid eyes--it made
it no less wonderful that she faced it in great part for the sake of
Madame Selba, with the brandy bottle behind her; and to see that little
figure menaced and outraged by Monsieur Flaubert was more than Jean
felt called upon to bear. In the explosion that followed Margot became
conscious of three things--and the first was wholly good, because
it showed her how much Jean still cared for her; and the second was
magnificent, because it proved Jean to be what she knew he was--a
knight and hero; but the third was not quite so consolatory, because it
occurred to Margot that in Jean’s eyes the Toriallis had no fault at
all--apparently they were to be avenged too. It was obvious that Jean
considered that Flaubert had deceived them. Particularly Madame, of
course--this _lâcheté_ on the part of Louis would be incredible to her!
“Yes--I also think,” murmured Margot, “that this would be incredible to
Madame.”
“But of course!” said Jean; “all evil would be incredible to her!”
Margot said nothing--she wondered if Jean knew how old Madame Torialli
was.
Jean was very kind and very protective; on the way home he explained to
Margot that if there were to be any serious difficulty about the four
hundred francs he would get his uncle’s assistance; it was an affair
of honour and concerned his whole family--the D’Ucelles would protect
Margot. “It is I who have driven you into this mud,” Jean asserted.
“Rely on me to rescue you from it!”
Margot should have felt very much relieved. The whole affair was taken
out of her hands, Jean was not in the least angry with her; he had
been wonderfully angry with Flaubert--and he informed her that he was
going to speak, with reservations, of course, to Madame. Perhaps Margot
was very much relieved--that at any rate was the impression which Jean
carried away with him.