married to a crossing sweeper. She never thought of such a thing.
Impossible! absurd! she'll marry my friend Ruskinstone as soon as she
comes of age. Marry Vaughan! a fellow without a penny----"
Pauline laid her soft, jewelled hand on his arm:
"My dear friend, _he_ thinks of it if you do not, and I am much mistaken
if dear Nina is not already dazzled by his brilliant qualities. Your
countryman is a charming companion, no one can gainsay that; but, alas!
he is a roue, a gambler, an adventurer, who, while winning her young
girl's affections, has only in view the wealth which he hopes he will
gain with her. It is painful to me to say this" (and tears stood in
madame's long, velvet eyes). "We were good friends before he wanted more
than friendship, while poor De Melusine was still living, and his true
character was revealed to me. It would be false delicacy to allow your
darling Nina to become his victim for want of a few words from me,
though I know, if he were aware of my interference, the inference he
would basely insinuate from it. But you," whispered madame, brushing the
tears from her eyes, and giving him an angelic smile, "I need not fear
that you would ever misjudge me?"
"Never, I swear, most generous of women!" said the banker, kissing the
snow-white hand, very clumsily, too. "I'll tell the fellow my mind
directly--an unprincipled, gambling----"
"Non, non, je vous en prie, monsieur!" cried the widow, really
frightened, for this would not have suited her plans at all. "You would
put me in the power of that unscrupulous man. He would destroy my
reputation at once in his revenge."
"But what am I to do?" said the poor gulled banker. "Nina's a will of
her own, and if she take a fancy to this confounded----"
"Leave that to me," said la baronne, softly. "I have proofs which will
stagger her most obstinate faith in her lover. Meanwhile give him no
suspicion, go to his supper on Tuesday, and--you are asked to Vauvenay,
accept the invitation--and conclude the fiancailles with Monsieur le
Ministre as soon as you can."
"But--but, madame," stammered this new Jourdain to his enchanting
Dorimene, "Vauvenay is an exile. I shall not see you there?"
"Ah, silly man," laughed the widow, "I shall be only two miles off. I am
going to stay with the Salvador; they leave Paris in three weeks.
Listen--your daughter is singing 'The Swallows.' Her voice is quite as
good as Ristori's."
Three hours after, madame held another tete-a-tete in that boudoir. This
time the favored mortal was Vaughan. They had had a pathetic interview,
of which the pathos hardly moved Ernest as much as the widow desired.
"You love me no longer, Ernest," she murmured, the tears falling down
her cheeks--her rouge was the product of high art, and never washed
off--"I see it, I feel it; your heart is given to that English girl. I
have tried to jest about it; I have tried to affect indifference, but I
cannot. The love you once won will be yours to the grave."
Ernest listened, a satirical smile on his lips.
"I should feel more grateful," he said, calmly, "if the gift had not
been given to so many; it will be a great deal of trouble to you to
love us all to our graves. And your new friend Gordon, do you intend
cherishing his grey hairs, too, till the gout puts them under the sod?"
She fell back sobbing with exquisite _abandon_. No deserted Calypso's
_pose_ was ever more effective.
"Ernest, Ernest! that I should live to be so insulted, and by you!"
"Nay, madame, end this vaudeville," said he bitterly. "I know well
enough that you hate me, or why have you troubled yourself to coin the
untruths about me that you whispered to Miss Gordon?"
"Ah! have you no pity for the first mad vengeance dictated by jealousy
and despair?" murmured Pauline. "Once there was attraction in this face
for you, Ernest; have some compassion, some sympathy----"
Well as he knew the worth of madame's tears, Ernest, chivalric and
generous at heart, was touched.
"Forgive me," he said, gently, "and let us part. You know now, Pauline,
that she has my deepest, my latest love. It were disloyalty to both did
we meet again save in society."
"Farewell, then," murmured Pauline. "Think gently of me, Ernest, for I
_have_ loved you more than you will ever know now."
She rose, and, as he bent towards her, kissed his forehead. Then,
floating from the room, passed the Reverend Eusebius, standing in the
doorway, looking in on this parting scene. The widow looked at herself
in her mirror that night with a smile of satisfaction.
"C'est bien en train," she said, half aloud. "Le fou! de penser qu'il
puisse me braver. Je ne l'aime plus, c'est vrai, mais je ne veux pas
qu'elle reussisse."
Nina went to bed very happy. Ernest had sat next her at the dejeuner;
and afterwards at a ball had waltzed often with her and with nobody
else; and his eyes had talked love in the waltzes though his tongue
never had.
Ernest went to his chambers, smoked hard, half mad with the battle
within him, and took three grains of opium, which gave him forgetfulness
and sleep. He woke, tired and depressed, to hear the gay hum of life in
the street below, and to remember he had promised Nina to meet them at
Versailles.
It was Sunday morning. In England, of course, Gordon would have gone up
to the sanctuary, listened to Mr. Bellew, frowned severely on the cheap
trains, and, after his claret, read edifying sermons to his household;
but in Paris there would be nobody to admire the piety, and the "grandes
eaux" only play once a week, you know--on Sundays. So his Sabbath
severity was relaxed, and down to Versailles he journied. There must be
something peculiar in continental air, for it certainly stretches our
countrymen's morality and religion uncommonly: it is only up at
Jerusalem that our pharisees worship. Eusebius dare not go--he'd be sure
to meet a brother-clerical, who might have reported the dereliction at
home--so that Vaughan, despite Gordon's cold looks, kept by Nina's side
though he wasn't alone with her, and when they came back in the _wagon_
the banker slept and the duenna dozed, and he talked softly and low to
her--not quite love, but something very like it--and as they neared
Paris he took the little hand with its delicate Jouvin glove in his, and
whispered,
"Remember your promise: I can brave, and have braved most things, but I
could not bear your scorn. _That_ would make me a worse man than I have
been, if, as some folks would tell you, such a thing be possible."
It was dark, but I dare say the moonbeams shining on the chevelure doree
showed him a pair of truthful, trusting eyes that promised never to
desert him.
The day after he had, by dint of tact and strategy, planned to spend
entirely with Nina. He was going with them to the races at Chantilly,
then to the Gaite to see the first representation of a vaudeville of a
friend of his, and afterwards he had persuaded Gordon to enter the
Lion's den, and let Nina grace a petit souper at No. 10, Rue des Mauvais
Sujets, Chaussee d'Antin.
The weather was delicious, the race-ground full, if not quite so
crowded as the Downs on Derby Day. Ernest cast away his depression, he
gave himself up to the joy of being loved, his wit had never rung finer
nor his laugh clearer than as he drove back to Paris opposite Nina. He
had never felt in higher spirits than, after having given carte blanche
to a cordon bleu for the entertainment, he looked round his salons,
luxurious as Eugene Sue's, and perfumed with exotics from the Palais
Royal, and thought of one rather different in style to the women that
had been wont to drink his Sillery and grace his symposia.
He knew well enough she loved him, and his heart beat high as he put a
bouquet of white flowers into a gold bouquetiere to take to her.
On his lover-like thoughts the voice of one of his parrots--Ernest had
almost as many pets as there are in the Jardin des Plantes--broke in,
screaming "Bluette! Bluette! Sacre bleu, elle est jolie! Bluette!
Bluette!"
The recollection was unwelcome. Vaughan swore a "sacre bleu!" too.
"Diable! she mustn't hear that Francois, put that bird out of the way.
He makes a such a confounded row."
The parrot, fond of him, as all things were that knew him, sidled up,
arching its neck, and repeating what De Concressault had taught it: "Fi
donc, Ernest! Tu es volage! Tu ne m'aimes plus! Tu aimes Pauline!"
"Devil take the bird!" thought its master; "even he'll be witness
against me." And as he went down stairs to his cab, a chorus of birds
shouting "Tu aimes Pauline!" followed him, and while he laughed, he
sighed to think that even these unconscious things could tell her how
little his love was worth. He forgot all but his love, however, when he
leaned over her chair in the Gaites and saw that, strenuously as De
Concressault and De Kerroualle sought to distract her attention, and
many as were the lorgnons levelled at the chevelure doree, all her
thoughts and smiles were given to him.
Ernest had never, even in his careless boyhood, felt so happy as he did
that night as he handed her into Gordon's carriage, and drove to the
Chaussee d'Antin; and though Gordon sat there heavy and solemn, looming
like an iceberg on Ernest's golden future, Vaughan forgot him utterly,
and only looked at the sunshine beaming on him from radiant eyes that,
skeptic in her sex as he was from experience, he felt would always be
true to him. The carriage stopped at No. 10, Rue des Mauvais Sujets. He
had given her one or two dinners with the Senecterre, the De Salvador,
and other fine ladies--grand affairs at the Freres Provencaux that would
have satisfied Brillat-Savarin--but she had never been to his rooms
before, and she smiled joyously in his face as he lifted her out--the
smile that had first charmed him at the Francais. He gave her his arm,
and led her across the salle, bending his head down to whisper a
welcome. Gordon and Selina and several men followed. Selina felt that it
was perdition to enter the _Lion's_ den, but a fat old vicomte, on whom
she'd fixed her eye, was going, and the "femmes de trente ans" that
Balzac champions risk their souls rather than risk their chances when
the day is far spent, and good offers grow rare.
Ernest's Abyssinian, mute, subordinate to that grand gentleman, M.
Francois, ushered them up the stairs, making furtive signs to his
master, which Vaughan was too much absorbed to notice. Francois, in all
his glory, flung open the door of the salon. In the salon a sight met
Ernest's eyes which froze his blood more than if all the dead had arisen
out of their graves on the slopes of Pere la Chaise.
The myriad of wax-lights shone on the rooms, fragrant with the perfume
of exotics, gleamed on the supper-table, gorgeous with its gold plate
and its flowers, lighted up the aviary with its brilliant hues of
plumage, and showed to full perfection the snowy shoulders, raven hair,
and rose-hued dress of a woman lying back in a fauteuil, laughing, as De
Cheffontaine, a man but slightly known to Ernest, leaned over her,
fanning her. On a sofa in an alcove reclined another girl, young, fair,
and pretty, the amber mouthpiece of a hookah between her lips, and a
couple of young fellows at her feet.
The brunette was Bluette, who played the soubrette roles at the Odeon;
the blonde was Celine Gamelle, the new premiere danseuse. Bluette rose
from the depths of her amber satin fauteuil, with her little _petillant_
eyes laughing, and her small plump hands stretched out in gesticulation.
"Mechant! Comme tu es tard, Ernest. Nous avons ete ici si longtemps--dix
minutes au moins! And dis is you leetler new Ingleesh friend. How do you
do, my dear?"
Nina, white as death, shrank from her, clinging with both hands to
Ernest's arms. As pale as she, Vaughan stood staring at the actress, his
lips pressed convulsively together, the veins standing out on his broad,
high forehead. The bold _Lion_ hunted into his lair, for once lost all
power, all strength.
Gordon looked over Nina's shoulder into the room. He recognized the
women at a glance, and, with his heavy brow dark as night, he glared on
Ernest in a silence more ominous than words or oaths, and snatching
Nina's arm from his, he drew her hand within his own, and dragged her
from the room.
Ernest sprang after him. "Good God! you do not suppose me capable of
this. Stay one instant. Hear me----"
"Let us pass, sir," thundered Gordon, "or by Heaven this insult shall
not go unavenged."
"Nina, Nina!" cried Ernest, passionately, "do you at least listen!--you
at least will not condemn----"
Nina wrenched her hands from her father, and turned to him, a passion of
tears falling down her face. "No, no! have I not promised you?"
With a violent oath Gordon carried her to her carriage. It drove away,
and Ernest, his lips set, his face white, and a fierce glare in his dark
eyes that made Bluette and Celine tremble, entered his salons a second
time, so bitter an anguish, so deadly a wrath marked in his expressive
countenance, that even the Frenchmen hushed their jests, and the women
shrunk away, awed at a depth of feeling they could not fathom or brave.
The fierce anathemas of Gordon, the "Christian" lamentations of
Eusebius, the sneers of Selina, the triumphs of Augusta, all these vials
of wrath were poured forth on Ernest, in poor little Nina's ears, the
whole of the next day. She had but one voice among many to raise in his
defence, and she had no armor but her faith in him. Gordon vowed with
the same breath that she should never see Vaughan again, and that she
should engage herself to Ruskinstone forthwith. Eusebius poured in at
one ear his mild milk-and-water attachment, and, in the other, details
of Ernest's scene in the boudoir with Madame de Melusine, or, at least,
what he had seen of it, _i. e._ her parting caress. Selina rang the
changes on her immodesty in loving a man who had never proposed to her;
and Augusta drew lively pictures of the eternal fires which were already
being kept up below, ready for the _Lion's_ reception. Against all these
furious batteries Nina stood firm. All their sneers and arguments could
not shake her belief, all her father's commands--and, when he was
roused, the old banker was very fierce--could not move her to promise
not to see Ernest again, or alter her firm repudiation of the warden's
proposals. The thunder rolled, the lightning flamed, the winds screamed
all to no purpose, the little reed that one might have fancied would
break, stood steady.
The day passed, and the next passed, and there were no tidings of
Ernest. Nina's little loyal heart, despite its unhesitating faith, began
to tremble lest it should have wrecked itself: but then, she thought of
his eyes, and she felt that all the world would never make her mistrust
him.
On the _surlendemain_ the De Melusine called. Gordon and Eusebius were
out, and Nina wished her to be shown up. Ill as the girl felt, she rose
haughtily and self-possessed to greet madame, as, announced by her tall
chasseur, with his green plume, the widow glided into the room.
Pauline kissed her lightly (there are no end of Judases among the dear
sex), and, though something in Nina's eye startled her, she sat down
beside her, and began to talk most kindly, most sympathisingly. She was
_chagrinee, desolee_ that her _chere_ Nina should have been so insulted;
every one knew M. Vaughan was quite _entete_ with that little, horrid,
coarse thing, Bluette; but it was certainly very shocking; men were such
_demons_. The affair was already _repandue_ in Paris; everybody was
talking of it. Ernest was unfortunately so well known; he could not be
in his senses; she almost wished he _was_ mad, it would be the only
excuse for him; wild as he was, she should scarcely have thought, &c.,
&c., &c. "Ah! chere enfant," madame went on at the finish, "you do not
know these men--I do. I fear you have been dazzled by this naughty
fellow; he _is_ very attractive, certainly: if so, though it will be a
sharp pang, it will be better to know his real character at once. Voyez
donc! he has been persuading you that you were all the world to him,
while at the same time, he has been trying to make me believe the same.
See, only two days ago he sent me this."
She held out a miniature. Nina, who hitherto had listened in haughty
silence, gave a sharp cry of pain as she saw Vaughan's graceful figure,
stately head, and statue-like features. But, before the widow could
pursue her advantage, Nina rallied, threw back her head, and said, her
soft lips set sternly:
"If you repulsed his love, why was he obliged to repulse yours? Why did
you tell him on Saturday night that 'you had loved him more than he
would ever know now?'"
The shot Eusebius had unconsciously provided, struck home. Madame was
baffled. Her eyes sank under Nina's, and she colored through her rouge.
"You have played two roles, madame," said Nina, rising, "and not played
them with you usual skill. Excuse my English ill-breeding, if I ask you
to do me the favor of ending this comedy."
"Certainly, mademoiselle, if it is your wish," answered the widow, now
smiling blandly. "If it please you to be blind, I have no desire to
remove the bandage from your eyes. Seulement, je vous prie de me
pardonner mon indiscretion, et j'ai l'honneur, mademoiselle, de vous
dire adieu!"
With the lowest of _reverences_ madame glided from the room, and, as the
door closed, Nina bowed her head on the miniature left behind in the
_deroute_, and burst into tears.
Scarcely had la Melusine's barouche rolled away, when another visitor
was shown in, and Nina, brushing the tears from her cheeks, looked up
hurriedly, and saw a small woman, finely dressed, with a Shetland veil
on, through which her small black eyes roved listlessly.
"Mademoiselle," she said, in very quick but very bad English, "I is
come to warn you against dat ver wrong man, Mr. Vaughan. I have like
him, helas! I have like him too vell, but I do not vish you to suffer
too."
Nina knew the voice in a moment, and rose like a little empress, though
she was flushed and trembling. "I wish to hear nothing of Mr. Vaughan.
If this is the sole purport of your visit, I shall be obliged by your
leaving me."
"But mademoiselle----"
"I have told you I wish to hear nothing," interposed Nina, quietly.
"Ver vell, ma'amselle; den read dat. It is a copy, and I got de
original."
She laid a letter on the sofa beside Nina. Two minutes after, Bluette
joined her friend Celine Gamelle in a fiacre, and laughed heartily,
clapping her little plump hands. "Ah, mon Dieu! Celine, comme elle est
fiere, la petite! Je ne lui ai pas dit un seul mot--elle m'a arretee si
vite, si vite! Mais la lettre fera notre affaire n'est pas? Oui, oui!"
The letter unfolded in Nina's hand. It was a promise of marriage from
Ernest Vaughan to Bluette Lemaire. Voiceless and tearless, Nina sat
gazing on the paper: first she rose, gasping for breath; then she threw
herself down, sobbing convulsively, till she heard a step, caught up the
miniature and letter, dreading to see her father, and, instead, saw
Ernest, pale, worn, deep lines round his mouth and eyes, standing in the
doorway. Involuntarily she sprang towards him. Ernest pressed her to
heart, and his hot tears fell on the chevelure doree, as he bent over
her, murmuring, "_You_ have not deserted me. God bless you for your
noble faith." At last he put her gently from him, and, leaning against
the mantelpiece, said, with an effort, between his teeth, "Nina, I came
to bid you farewell, and to ask your forgiveness for the wrong I have
done you."
Nina caught hold of him, much as Malibran seized hold of _Elvino_:
"Leave me! leave me! No, no; you cannot mean it!"
"I have no strength for it now I see you," said Ernest, looking down
into her eyes; and the bold, reckless _Lion_ shivered under the clinging
clasp of her little hands. "I need not say I was not the cause of the
insult you received the other night. Pauline de Melusine was the agent,
women willing to injure me the actors in it. But there is still much for
you to forgive. Tell me, at once, what have you heard of me?"
She silently put the miniature and letter in his hand. The blood rushed
to his very temples, and, sinking his head on his arms, his chest rose
and fell with uncontrollable sobs. All the pent-up feelings of his
vehement and affectionate nature poured out at last.
"And you have not condemned me even on these?" he said at length, in a
hoarse whisper.
"Did I not promise?" she murmured.
"But if I told you they were true?"
She looked at him through her tears, and put her hand in his. "Tell me
nothing of your past; it can make no difference to my love. Let the
world judge you as it may, it cannot alter me."
Ernest strained her to him, kissing her wildly. "God bless you for your
trust! would to God I were more worthy of it! I have nothing to give you
but a love such as I have never before known; but most would tell you
all _my_ love is worthless, and my life has been one of reckless
dissipation and of darker errors still, until you awoke me to a deeper
love--to thoughts and aspirations that I thought had died out for ever.
Painful as it is to confess----"
"Hush!" interrupted Nina, gently. "Confess nothing; with your past life
I can have nothing to do, and I wish never to hear anything that it
gives you pain to tell. You say that you love me now, and will never
love another--that is enough for me."
Ernest kissed the flushed cheeks and eloquent lips, and thanked her with
all the fiery passion that was in him; and his heart throbbed fiercely
as he put her promise to the test.
"No, my darling! Priceless as your love is to me I will not buy it by
concealment. I will not sully your ears with the details of my life. God
forbid I should! but it is only due to you to know that I did give both
these women the love-tokens they brought you. Love! It is desecration of
the name, but I knew none better then! Three years ago, Bluette Lemaire
first appeared at the Odeon. She is illiterate, coarse, heartless, but
she was handsome, and she drew me to the coulisses. I was infatuated
with her, though her ignorance and vulgarity constantly grated against
all my tastes. One night at her petit souper I drank more Sillery than
was wise. I have a stronger head than most men: perhaps there was some
other stimulant in it; at any rate, she who was then poor, and is always
avaricious, got from me a promise to marry her, or to pay twenty
thousand francs. Three months after I gave it I cared no more for her
than for my old glove. France is too wise to have Breach of Promise
cases, and give money to coarse and vengeful women for their pretended
broken hearts; but I had no incentive to create a scene by breaking with
her, and so she kept the promise in her hands. What Pauline de Melusine
is, you can judge. Twelve months ago I met her at Vichy; the love she
gave me, and the love I vowed her, were of equal value--the love of
Paris boudoirs. That I sent her that picture only two days ago, is, of
course, false. On my word, as a man of honor, since the moment I felt
your influence upon me I have shunned her. Now, my own love, you know
the truth. Will you send me from you, or will you still love and still
forgive?"
In an agony of suspense he bent his head to listen for her answer. Tears
rained down her cheeks as she put her arms round his neck, and
whispered:
"Why ask? Are you not all the world to me? I should love you little if I
condemned you for any errors of your past. I know your warm and noble
heart, and I trust to it without a fear. There is no doubt between us
now!"