GENTLE CONSPIRATORS
Before Giselle went home to her own house she called on the Abbe Bardin,
whom a rather surly servant was not disposed to disturb, as he was just
eating his breakfast. The Abbe Bardin was Jacqueline's confessor, and he
held the same relation to a number of other young girls who were among
her particular friends. He was thoroughly acquainted with all that
concerned their delicate and generally childish little souls. He kept
them in the right way, had often a share in their marriages, and in
general kept an eye upon them all their lives. Even when they escaped
from him, as had happened in the case of Jacqueline, he did not give them
up. He commended them to God, and looked forward to the time of their
repentance with the patience of a father. The Abbe Bardin had never been
willing to exercise any function but that of catechist; he had grown old
in the humble rank of third assistant in a great parish, when, with a
little ambition, he might have been its rector. "Suffer little children
to come unto me," had been his motto. These words of his Divine Master
seemed more often than any others on his lips-lips so expressive of
loving kindness, though sometimes a shrewd smile would pass over them and
seem to say: "I know, I can divine." But when this smile, the result of
long experience, did not light up his features, the good Abbe Bardin
looked like an elderly child; he was short, his walk was a trot, his face
was round and ruddy, his eyes, which were short-sighted, were large,
wide-open, and blue, and his heavy crop of white hair, which curled and
crinkled above his forehead, made him look like a sixty-year-old angel,
crowned with a silvery aureole.
Rubbing his hands affably, he came into the little parlor where Madame de
Talbrun was waiting for him. There was probably no ecclesiastic in all
Paris who had a salon so full of worked cushions, each of which was a
keepsake--a souvenir of some first communion. The Abbe did not know his
visitor, but the name Talbrun seemed to him connected with an honorable
and well-meaning family. The lady was probably a mother who had come to
put her child into his hands for religious instruction. He received
visits from dozens of such mothers, some of whom were a little tiresome,
from a wish to teach him what he knew better than they, and at one time
he had set apart Wednesday as his day for receiving such visits, that he
might not be too greatly disturbed, as seemed likely to happen to him
that day. Not that he cared very much whether he ate his cutlet hot or
cold, but his housekeeper cared a great deal. A man may be a very
experienced director, and yet be subject to direction in other ways.
The youth of Giselle took him by surprise.
"Monsieur l'Abbe," she said, without any preamble, while he begged her to
sit down, "I have come to speak to you of a person in whom you take an
interest, Jacqueline de Nailles."
He passed the back of his hand over his brow and said, with a sigh: "Poor
little thing!"
"She is even more to be pitied than you think. You have not seen her,
I believe, since last week."
"Yes--she came. She has kept up, thank God, some of her religious
duties."
"For all that, she has played a leading part in a recent scandal."
The Abbe sprang up from his chair.
"A duel has taken place because of her, and her name is in all men's
mouths--whispered, of course--but the quarrel took place at the Club.
You know what it is to be talked of at the Club."
"The poison of asps," growled the Abbe; "oh! those clubs--think of all
the evil reports concocted in them, of which women are the victims!"
"In the present case the evil report was pure calumny. It was taken up
by some one whom you also know--Frederic d'Argy."
"I have had profound respect these many years for his excellent and pious
mother."
"I thought so. In that case, Monsieur l'Abbe, you would not object to
going to Madame d'Argy's house and asking how her son is."
"No, of course not; but--it is my duty to disapprove--"
"You will tell her that when a young man has compromised a young girl by
defending her reputation in a manner too public, there is but one thing
he can do afterward-marry her."
"Wait one moment," said the Abbe, who was greatly surprised; "it is
certain that a good marriage would be the best thing for Jacqueline.
I have been thinking of it. But I do not think I could so suddenly--so
soon after--"
"Today at four o'clock, Monsieur l'Abbe. Time presses. You can add that
such a marriage is the only way to stop a second duel, which will
otherwise take place."
"Is it possible?"
"And it is also the only way to bring Frederic to decide on sending in
his resignation. Don't forget that--it is important."
"But how do you know--"
The poor Abbe stammered out his words, and counted on his fingers the
arguments he was desired to make use of.
"And you will solemnly assure them that Jacqueline is innocent."
"Oh! as to that, there are wolves in sheeps' clothing, as the Bible tells
us; but believe me, when such poor young things are in question, it is
more often the sheep which has put on the appearance of a wolf--to seem
in the fashion," added the Abbe, "just to seem in the fashion. Fashion
will authorize any kind of counterfeiting."
"Well, you will say all that, will you not, to Madame d'Argy? It will be
very good of you if you will. She will make no difficulties about money.
All she wants is a quietly disposed daughter-in-law who will be willing
to pass nine months of the year at Lizerolles, and Jacqueline is quite
cured of her Paris fever."
"A fever too often mortal," murmured the Abbe; "oh, for the simplicity of
nature! A priest whose lot is cast in the country is fortunate, Madame,
but we can not choose our vocation. We may do good anywhere, especially
in cities. Are you sure, however, that Jacqueline--"
"She loves Monsieur d'Argy."
"Well, if that is so, we are all right. The great misfortune with many
of these poor girls is that they have never learned to love anything;
they know nothing but agitations, excitements, curiosities, and fancies.
All that sort of thing runs through their heads."
"You are speaking of a Jacqueline before the duel. I can assure you that
ever since yesterday, if not before, she has loved Monsieur d'Argy, who
on his part for a long time--a very long time--has been in love with
her."
Giselle spoke eagerly, as if she forced herself to say the words that
cost her pain. Her cheeks were flushed under her veil. The Abbe, who
was keen-sighted, observed these signs.
"But," continued Giselle, "if he is forced to forget her he may try to
expend elsewhere the affection he feels for her; he may trouble the peace
of others, while deceiving himself. He might make in the world one of
those attachments--Do not fail to represent all these dangers to Madame
d'Argy when you plead the cause of Jacqueline."
"Humph! You are evidently much attached, Madame, to Mademoiselle de
Nailles."
"Very much, indeed," she answered, bravely, "very much attached to her,
and still more to him; therefore you understand that this marriage must--
absolutely must take place."
She had risen and was folding her cloak round her, looking straight into
the Abbe's eyes. Small as she was, their height was almost the same; she
wanted him to understand thoroughly why this marriage must take place.
He bowed. Up to that time he had not been quite sure that he had not to
do with one of those wolves dressed in fleece whose appearance is as
misleading as that of sheep disguised as wolves: now his opinion was
settled.
"Mon Dieu! Madame," he said, "your reasons seem to me excellent--a duel
to be prevented, a son to be kept by the side of his sick mother, two
young people who love each other to be married, the saving, possibly, of
two souls--"
"Say three souls, Monsieur l'Abbe!"
He did not ask whose was the third, nor even why she had insisted that
this delicate commission must be executed that same day. He only bowed
when she said again: "At four o'clock: Madame d'Argy will be prepared to
see you. Thank you, Monsieur l'Abbe." And then, as she descended the
staircase, he bestowed upon her silently his most earnest benediction,
before returning to the cold cutlet that was on his breakfast table.
Giselle did not breakfast much better than he. In truth, M. de Talbrun
being absent, she sat looking at her son, who was eating with a good
appetite, while she drank only a cup of tea; after which, she dressed
herself, with more than usual care, hiding by rice-powder the trace of
recent tears on her complexion, and arranging her fair hair in the way
that was most becoming to her, under a charming little bonnet covered
with gold net-work which corresponded with the embroidery on an entirely
new costume.
When she went into the dining-room Enguerrand, who was there with his
nurse finishing his dessert, cried out: "Oh! mamma, how pretty you are!"
which went to her heart. She kissed him two or three times--one kiss
after another.
"I try to be pretty for your sake, my darling."
"Will you take me with you?"
"No, but I will come back for you, and take you out."
She walked a few steps, and then turned to give him such a kiss as
astonished him, for he said:
"Is it really going to be long?"
"What?"
"Before you come back? You kiss me as if you were going for a long time,
far away."
"I kissed you to give myself courage."
Enguerrand, who, when he had a hard lesson to learn, always did the same
thing, appeared to understand her.
"You are going to do some thing you don't like."
"Yes, but I have to do it, because you see it is my duty."
"Do grown people have duties?"
"Even more than children."
"But it isn't your duty to write a copy--your writing is so pretty.
Oh! that's what I hate most. And you always say it is my duty to write
my copy. I'll go and do it while you do your duty. So that will seem as
if we were both together doing something we don't like--won't it, mamma?"
She kissed him again, even more passionately.
"We shall be always together, we two, my love!"
This word love struck the little ear of Enguerrand as having a new
accent, a new meaning, and, boy-like, he tried to turn this excess of
tenderness to advantage.
"Since you love me so much, will you take me to see the puppet-show?"
"Anywhere you like--when I come back. Goodby."