A CHIVALROUS SOUL
Madame D'Argy sat knitting by the window in Fred's chamber, with that
resigned but saddened air that mothers wear when they are occupied in
repairing the consequences of some rash folly. Fred had seen her in his
boyhood knitting in the same way with the same, look on her face, when he
had been thrown from his pony, or had fallen from his velocipede. He
himself looked ill at ease and worried, as he lay on a sofa with his arm
in a sling. He was yawning and counting the hours. From time to time
his mother glanced at him. Her look was curious, and anxious, and
loving, all at the same time. He pretended to be asleep. He did not
like to see her watching him. His handsome masculine face, tanned that
pale brown which tropical climates give to fair complexions, looked odd
as it rose above a light-blue cape, a very feminine garment which, as it
had no sleeves, had been tied round his neck to keep him from being cold.
He felt himself, with some impatience, at the mercy of the most tender,
but the most sharp-eyed of nurses, a prisoner to her devotion, and made
conscious of her power every moment. Her attentions worried him; he knew
that they all meant "It is your own fault, my poor boy, that you are in
this state, and that your mother is so unhappy." He felt it. He knew as
well as if she had spoken that she was asking him to return to reason, to
marry, without more delay, their little neighbor in Normandy,
Mademoiselle d'Argeville, a niece of M. Martel, whom he persisted in not
thinking of as a wife, always calling her a "cider apple," in allusion to
her red cheeks.
A servant came in, and said to Madame d'Argy that Madame de Talbrun was
in the salon.
"I am coming," she said, rolling up her knitting.
But Fred suddenly woke up:
"Why not ask her to come here?"
"Very good," said his mother, with hesitation. She was distracted
between her various anxieties; exasperated against the fatal influence of
Jacqueline, alarmed by the increasing intimacy with Giselle, desirous
that all such complications should be put an end to by his marriage, but
terribly afraid that her "cider apple" would not be sufficient to
accomplish it.
"Beg Madame de Talbrun to come in here," she said, repeating the order
after her son; but she settled herself in her chair with an air more
patient, more resigned than ever, and her lips were firmly closed.
Giselle entered in her charming new gown, and Fred's first words, like
those of Enguerrand, were: "How pretty you are! It is charity," he
added, smiling, "to present such a spectacle to the eyes of a sick man;
it is enough to set him up again."
"Isn't it?" said Giselle, kissing Madame d'Argy on the forehead. The
poor mother had resumed her knitting with a sigh, hardly glancing at the
pretty walking-costume, nor at the bonnet with its network of gold.
"Isn't it pretty?" repeated Giselle. "I am delighted with this costume.
It is made after one of Rejane's. Oscar fell in love with it at a first
representation of a vaudeville, and he gave me over into the hands of the
same dressmaker, who indeed was named in the play. That kind of
advertising seems very effective."
She went on chattering thus to put off what she had really come to say.
Her heart was beating so fast that its throbs could be seen under the
embroidered front of the bodice which fitted her so smoothly. She
wondered how Madame d'Argy would receive the suggestion she was about to
make.
She went on: "I dressed myself in my best to-day because I am so happy."
Madame d'Argy's long tortoise-shell knitting-needles stopped.
"I am glad to hear it, my dear," she said, coldly, "I am glad anybody can
be happy. There are so many of us who are sad."
"But why are you pleased?" asked Fred, looking at her, as if by some
instinct he understood that he had something to do with it.
"Our prodigal has returned," answered Giselle, with a little air of
satisfaction, very artificial, however, for she could hardly breathe,
so great was her fear and her emotion. "My house is in the garb of
rejoicing."
"The prodigal? Do you mean your husband?" said Madame d'Argy,
maliciously.
"Oh! I despair of him," replied Giselle, lightly. "No, I speak of a
prodigal who did not go far, and who made haste to repent. I am speaking
of Jacqueline."
There was complete silence. The knitting-needles ticked rapidly,
a slight flush rose on the dark cheeks of Fred.
"All I beg," said Madame d'Argy, "is that you will not ask me to eat the
fatted calf in her honor. The comings and going of Mademoiselle de
Nailles have long ceased to have the slightest interest for me."
"They have for Fred at any rate; he has just proved it, I should say,"
replied Giselle.
By this time the others were as much embarrassed as Giselle. She saw it,
and went on quickly:
"Their names are together in everybody's mouth; you can not hinder it."
"I regret it deeply-and allow me to make one remark: it seems to me you
show a want of tact such as I should never have imagined in telling us--"
Giselle read in Fred's eyes, which were steadily fixed on her, that he
was, on that point, of his mother's opinion. She went on, however, still
pretending to blunder.
"Forgive me--but I have been so anxious about you ever since I heard
there was to be a second meeting--"
"A second meeting!" screamed Madame d'Argy, who, as she read no paper
but the Gazette de France, or occasionally the Debats, knew nothing of
all the rumors that find their echo in the daily papers.
"Oh, 'mon Dieu'! I thought you knew--"
"You need not frighten my mother," said Fred, almost angrily; "Monsieur
de Cymier has written a letter which puts an end to our quarrel. It is
the letter of a man of honor apologizing for having spoken lightly, for
having repeated false rumors without verifying them--in short, retracting
all that he had said that reflected in any way on Mademoiselle de
Nailles, and authorizing me, if I think best, to make public his
retraction. After that we can have nothing more to say to each other."
"He who makes himself the champion to defend a young girl's character,"
said Madame d'Argy, sententiously, "injures her as much as those who have
spoken evil of her."
"That is exactly what I think," said Giselle. "The self-constituted
champion has given the evil rumor circulation."
There was again a painful silence. Then the intrepid little woman
resumed: "This step on the part of Monsieur de Cymier seems to have
rendered my errand unnecessary. I had thought of a way to end this sad
affair; a very simple way, much better, most certainly, than men cutting
their own throats or those of other people. But since peace has been
made over the ruins of Jacqueline's reputation, I had better say nothing
and go away."
"No--no! Let us hear what you had to propose," said Fred, getting up
from his couch so quickly that he jarred his bandaged arm, and uttered a
cry of pain, which seemed very much like an oath, too.
Giselle was silent. Standing before the hearth, she was warming her
small feet, watching, as she did so, Madame d'Argy's profile, which was
reflected in the mirror. It was severe--impenetrable. It was Fred who
spoke first.
"In the first place," he said, hesitating, "are you sure that
Mademoiselle de Nailles has not just arrived from Monaco?"
"I am certain that for a week she has been living quietly with Modeste,
and that, though she passed through Monaco, she did not stay there--
twenty-four hours, finding that the air of that place did not agree with
her."
"But what do you say to what Monsieur Martel saw with his own eyes, and
which is confirmed by public rumor?" cried Madame d'Argy, as if she were
giving a challenge.
"Monsieur Martel saw Jacqueline in bad company. She was not there of her
own will. As to public rumor, we may feel sure that to make it as
flattering to her tomorrow as it is otherwise to-day only a marriage is
necessary. Yes, a marriage! That is the way I had thought of to settle
everything and make everybody happy."
"What man would marry a girl who had compromised herself?" said Madame
d'Argy, indignantly.
"He who has done his part to compromise her."
"Then go and propose it to Monsieur de Cymier!"
"No. It is not Monsieur de Cymier whom she loves."
"Ah!" Madame d'Argy was on her feet at once. "Indeed, Giselle, you are
losing your senses. If I were not afraid of agitating Fred--"
He was, in truth, greatly agitated. The only hand that he could use was
pulling and tearing at the little blue cape crossed on his breast, in
which his mother had wrapped him; and this unsuitable garment formed such
a queer contrast to the expression of his face that Giselle, in her
nervous excitement, burst out laughing, an explosion of merriment which
completed the exasperation of Madame d'Argy.
"Never!" she cried, beside herself. "You hear me--never will I consent,
whatever happens!"
At that moment the door was partly opened, and a servant announced
"Monsieur l'Abbe Bardin."
Madame d'Argy made a gesture which was anything but reverential.
"Well, to be sure--this is the right moment with a vengeance! What does
he want! Does he wish me to assist in some good work--or to undertake to
collect money, which I hate."
"Above all, mother," cried Fred, "don't expose me to the fatigue of
receiving his visit. Go and see him yourself. Giselle will take care of
your patient while you are gone. Won't you, Giselle?"
His voice was soft, and very affectionate. He evidently was not angry at
what she had dared to say, and she acknowledged this to herself with an
aching heart.
"I don't exactly trust your kind of care," said Madame d'Argy, with a
smile that was not gay, and certainly not amiable.
She went, however, because Fred repeated:
"But go and see the Abbe Bardin."
Hardly had she left the room when Fred got up from his sofa and
approached Giselle with passionate eagerness.
"Are you sure I am not dreaming," said he. "Is it you--really you who
advise me to marry Jacqueline?"
"Who else should it be?" she answered, very calm to all appearance.
"Who can know better than I? But first you must oblige me by lying down
again, or else I will not say one word more. That is right. Now keep
still. Your mother is furiously displeased with me--I am sorry--but she
will get over it. I know that in Jacqueline you would have a good wife--
a wife far better than the Jacqueline you would have married formerly.
She has paid dearly for her experience of life, and has profited by its
lessons, so that she is now worthy of you, and sincerely repentant for
her childish peccadilloes."
"Giselle," said Fred, "look me full in the face--yes, look into my eyes
frankly and hide nothing. Your eyes never told anything but the truth.
Why do you turn them away? Do you really and truly wish this marriage?"
She looked at him steadily as long as he would, and let him hold her
hand, which was burning inside her glove, and which with a great effort
she prevented from trembling. Then her nerves gave way under his long
and silent gaze, which seemed to question her, and she laughed, a laugh
that sounded to herself very unnatural.
"My poor, dear friend," she cried, "how easily you men are duped! You
are trying to find out, to discover whether, in case you decide upon an
honest act, a perfectly sensible act, to which you are strongly inclined
--don't tell me you are not--whether, in short, you marry Jacqueline, I
shall be really as glad of it as I pretend. But have you not found out
what I have aimed at all along? Do you think I did not know from the
very first what it was that made you seek me?
"I was not the rope, but I had lived near the rose; I reminded you of her
continually. We two loved her; each of us felt we did. Even when you
said harm of her, I knew it was merely because you longed to utter her
name, and repeat to yourself her perfections. I laughed, yes, I laughed
to myself, and I was careful how I contradicted you. I tried to keep you
safe for her, to prevent your going elsewhere and forming attachments
which might have resulted in your forgetting her. I did my best--do me
justice--I did my best; perhaps sometimes I pushed things a little far
in her interest, in that of your mother, but in yours more than all; in
yours, for God knows I am all for you," said Giselle, with sudden and
involuntary fervor.
"Yes, I am all yours as a friend, a faithful friend," she resumed, almost
frightened by the tones of her own voice; "but as to the slightest
feeling of love between us, love the most spiritual, the most platonic--
yes, all men, I fancy, have a little of that kind of self-conceit. Dear
Fred, don't imagine it--Enguerrand would never have allowed it."
She was smiling, half laughing, and he looked at her with astonishment,
asking himself whether he could believe what she was saying, when he
could recollect what seemed to him so many proofs to the contrary. Yet
in what she said there was no hesitation, no incoherence, no false note.
Pride, noble pride, upheld her to the end. The first falsehood of her
life was a masterpiece.
"Ah, Giselle!" he said at last, not knowing what to think, "I adore you!
I revere you!"
"Yes," she replied, with a smile, gracious, yet with a touch of sadness,
"I know you do. But her you love!"
Might it not have been sweet to her had he answered "No, I loved her
once, and remembered that old love enough to risk my life for her, but in
reality I now love only you--all the more at this moment when I see you
love me more than yourself." But, instead, he murmured only, like a man.
and a lover: "And Jacqueline--do you think she loves me?" His anxiety, a
thrill that ran through all his frame, the light in his eyes, his sudden
pallor, told more than his words.
If Giselle could have doubted his love for Jacqueline before, she would
have now been convinced of it. The conviction stabbed her to the heart.
Death is not that last sleep in which all our faculties, weakened and
exhausted, fail us; it is the blow which annihilates our supreme illusion
and leaves us disabused in a cold and empty world. People walk, talk,
and smile after this death--another ghost is added to the drama played on
the stage of the world; but the real self is dead.
Giselle was too much of a woman, angelic as she was, to have any courage
left to say: "Yes, I know she loves you."
She said instead, in a low voice: "That is a question you must ask of
her."
Meantime, in the next room they could hear Madame d'Argy vehemently
repeating: "Never! No, I never will consent! Is it a plot between you?"
They heard also a rumbling monotone preceding each of these vehement
interruptions. The Abbe Bardin was pointing out to her that, unmarried,
her son would return to Tonquin, that Lizerolles would be left deserted,
her house would be desolate without daughter-in-law or grandchildren;
and, as he drew these pictures, he came back, again and again, to his
main argument:
"I will answer for their happiness: I will answer for the future."
His authority as a priest gave weight to this assurance, at least Madame
d'Argy felt it so. She went on saying never, but less and less
emphatically, and apparently she ceased to say it at last, for three
months later the d'Etaples, the Rays, the d'Avrignys and the rest,
received two wedding announcements in these words:
"Madame d'Argy has the honor to inform you of the marriage of her son,
M. Frederic d'Argy, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, to Mademoiselle de
Nailles."
The accompanying card ran thus:
"The Baroness de Nailles has the honor to inform you of the
marriage of Mademoiselle Jacqueline de Nailles, her
stepdaughter, to M. Frederic d'Argy."
Congratulations showered down on both mother and stepmother. A love-
match is nowadays so rare! It turned out that every one had always
wished all kinds of good fortune to young Madame d'Argy, and every one
seemed to take a sincere part in the joy that was expressed on the
occasion, even Dolly, who, it was said, had in secret set her heart on
Fred for herself; even Nora Sparks, who, not having carried out her
plans, had gone back to New York, whence she sent a superb wedding
present. Madame de Nailles apparently experienced at the wedding all the
emotions of a real mother.
The roses at Lizerolles bloomed that year with unusual beauty, as if to
welcome the young pair. Modeste sang 'Nunc Dimittis'. The least
demonstrative of all those interested in the event was Giselle.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
As we grow older we lay aside harsh judgments and sharp words
Blow which annihilates our supreme illusion
Death is not that last sleep
Fool (there is no cure for that infirmity)
The worst husband is always better than none