Читать книгу: «Mademoiselle Blanche», страница 3

"I should like to come again," he said to the girl.

"Some afternoon, perhaps," Madame Perrault suggested amiably. "Blanche always rests between three and four, but after that she could see you."

"But I am at my office till six."

"Ah, yes!" Madame Perrault exclaimed with a smile. "That wicked journalist! You must tell him we were vexed with his article."

"Then may I come in the evening? Perhaps you'll let me take you to the theatre some night?"

Madame Perrault clapped her hands. "That would be perfect!"

Mademoiselle Blanche said nothing, but it was to her that Jules directed his next remark.

"Perhaps to-morrow night; I will come at eight o'clock."

Madame Perrault displayed her gleaming teeth patched with gold, and her daughter merely bowed and said, "Thank you."

As Jules was putting on his overcoat in the little hall, he heard a voice say:

"Il est très gentil, ce monsieur," but though he listened he could not catch the reply. He was radiantly happy, however. When he reached the street, he felt like running; with an effort he controlled himself, and walked buoyantly home with a smile on his face. He would take Madeleine out to dinner, as he used to take his mother when they celebrated his holidays!

VI

The next night, promptly at eight o'clock, Jules appeared in the little salon in the rue St. Honoré, bearing his offering of flowers to Mademoiselle Blanche. Madame Perrault gave him the quiet reception of an old friend, and he felt as if he had long been in the habit of calling at the apartment. Madame Perrault informed him that she had just risen from dinner, and asked him to drink a cup of coffee. Then the three figures sat in the dimly-lighted room and talked; that is, Jules and Madame Perrault talked, for Blanche ventured a remark only when a question was put to her.

A few moments later, Madame Perrault went into the next room where she was occupied with the little maid in making a dress; so Jules was left alone with her daughter. They had very little to say to each other, and Jules was content to sit in silence and rapt adoration. As he looked at her, her name kept singing in his mind: Blanche! He wondered if he should ever dare to address her in this way. How beautiful she was as she sat there, the soft light of the fire falling on her face and hands, and on the folds of her gown! He was glad she was so quiet; he hated women that talked all the time. That was the great fault with Madame Perrault; if she said less, he would like her, in spite of her powder and paint. Since hearing that she was engaged, and wanted to get her daughter married, Jules' feelings toward her had softened.

It was nearly ten o'clock before they left for the theatre. Jules called a cab, and all three squeezed into it with a great deal of laughter on the part of Madame Perrault. As they rattled over the rough pavement, the noise was so great that they could not talk, and Jules gave himself up to contemplating the serious face of Mademoiselle Blanche. The thought that he was riding with her to the scene of her triumphs thrilled him. He felt as if he were having a share in her performance, as if her glory were reflected on him. Ah, if Dufresne and Leroux could see him now! How they would be impressed, and how they would envy him!

Before bidding his friends good-night, he asked if he might not take them home; he would remain till the end of the performance, anyway, he said. Instead of entering the theatre at once, he sauntered along the Boulevard toward the place de la Bastille. What were the other performers to him? Without Mademoiselle Blanche the Cirque Parisien would not be worth visiting. He did not return to the theatre till it was nearly time for her to appear. Réju was standing at the door, and made a sign for him to pass in without paying. Jules accepted the invitation with a twinge of conscience. He wondered what Réju would think if he discovered Durand's imposition.

After the performance, Jules waited at the stage-door for half an hour till Mademoiselle Blanche appeared again. Then he asked her and her mother to take supper with him at one of the restaurants in the Boulevard. Madame Perrault consented amiably, and they entered a little café, where a half-dozen young men and girls were sitting round a table, playing cards. Jules wanted to order a bottle of champagne; but Mademoiselle Blanche objected; he could scarcely keep from smiling when she said she would much rather have beer. So he called for three bocks and some cheese sandwiches, and over this simple repast they became very gay. Madame Perrault was the liveliest of the three, and she amused Jules by a description of her fiancé, who had been in love with her, she said, long before her marriage with Blanche's father. She seemed to think it was very droll that he should want to marry her now; she had told him he would do much better to marry Blanche, or to wait till Jeanne grew up. Under the warmth of her humor, Jules' prejudices against her disappeared, and he found himself growing fond of her. At that moment he longed to confide in her, to tell her all about his infatuation for her daughter, and to ask her advice about the best way of pleasing the girl.

When they had left the café, and Jules had taken his friends home and dismissed the cab, he fell again into the depression of the week before. As he walked to the rue de Lisbonne in the damp night, he blamed Durand for having introduced him to the Perraults. If he hadn't met Mademoiselle Blanche he might have gone on living comfortably, enjoyed his daily work, his little dinners, his visits to the theatre, his comfortable apartment, with Madeleine to look after his wants. Now he was upset, at sea. He hated the routine of the office; the vulgar stories of Dufresne and Leroux disgusted him; the apartment was cold and lonely; Madeleine was always interfering with him. He resolved not to go to the Cirque again; he would try to forget Mademoiselle Blanche and her mother's chatter. But when he went to bed it was of her that he thought, and he dreamed that he saw her again, in her white silk tights, climbing hand over hand to the top of the Circus, tumbling through the air, and bouncing with a thud to her feet on the padded net.

The next morning he felt better, and he called himself a fool for his misery of the night before. As he looked back on the evening, he decided that, of course, if they hadn't liked him, they would not have allowed him to take them to the theatre and back, and to a café for supper. He wondered what they would think if he called for them again that night. Perhaps it would be better to wait for two or three days. But at the end of the afternoon he felt so impatient to see Mademoiselle Blanche that he determined to risk seeming intrusive. So he bought another bunch of white roses, and at eight o'clock he reappeared in the apartment. Madame Perrault greeted him just as she had done the night before, without a suggestion of surprise in her manner. This made him feel so bold that he did not apologize, as he had intended to do, but took his place by the fire as if he had a right to be there.

In this way, Jules Le Baron's courtship began. It seemed to him a strange courtship. It taught him a great many things, – among others, how little he knew about women. As he had lived in Paris all of his thirty years, with the exception of his three memorable months in America, he thought he understood women; now he saw his mistake. He had not led a particularly good life, though it was so much better than the lives of most of his acquaintances that he considered himself a man of rather superior character. If he had studied his character more carefully, he would have discovered that his superiority was not a matter of morals, but of taste and temperament. Vice seemed to him vulgar, and it made him uncomfortable; so in its grosser forms he had always avoided it. He had, however, the Parisian's frank, ingenuous, almost innocent fondness for the humorously indecent, and his attitude toward life was wholly French. The mention of virtue made him laugh and shrug his shoulders. Most women, he thought, were naturally the inferiors of men; so the better he understood the character of Mademoiselle Blanche, the more surprised he grew. Indeed, there were times when he felt awed in her presence and ashamed of himself. She seemed to know the world and yet to be untainted by it, to turn away instinctively from its evil phases. If her innocence had been ignorant, he could not have respected it; the knowledge that she had lived in the midst of temptation made her goodness seem almost sublime.

Jules fell into the habit of calling for the Perraults in the evening, and he soon became recognized at the Cirque as their escort. Réju, who still showed respect for him as a journalist, admitted him to the theatre every night without charge, and he was also permitted to enter the sacred precincts beyond the stage-door, where, instead of waiting on the sidewalk, he stood in a cold corridor, dimly lighted by sputtering lamps. After the performance, he sometimes took his friends into the little café for beer and sandwiches, and occasionally Madame Perrault would prepare a supper at home.

Jules' equilibrium became restored again; he made fewer mistakes at the office and he even deceived the twins, who had come to the conclusion that he must be in love. With Madeleine, in spite of his first confidences, he had little to say about Mademoiselle Blanche, and she did not dare ask him questions. His silence and his improved appetite, together with his renewed amiability, made her hope that he had recovered from his infatuation, and she felt easier in mind.

On the Saturday evening following his first call on Mademoiselle Blanche, while Jules was sitting in the little apartment, he asked the girl if they might not pass Sunday together. "We might drive through the Bois into the country," he suggested.

She had been looking into the fire, and she glanced at him hesitatingly. "We always go to mass on Sunday morning," she said.

For a moment Jules appeared confused. "But can't you go to early mass?"

Madame Perrault, who was in the next room, called out: "It's no use trying to persuade her not to go to high mass, monsieur. She'd think something terrible was going to happen to her if she didn't go. Now, I go at eight o'clock; so I have the rest of the day free."

Jules looked at Mademoiselle Blanche and smiled, and she smiled back.

"I like to hear the music," she explained apologetically.

"Oh, she's too religious for this world," Madame Perrault laughed. "I believe she'd go to mass every morning of her life if she didn't have to stay up so late at night. She ought to be in a convent instead of a circus."

"In a convent!" Jules exclaimed, in mock alarm.

"Don't you ever go to church?" the girl asked, turning to Jules.

He looked confused again. "I? Well, no. To tell the truth, I haven't been in a church for nearly ten years. Oh, yes I have. I went to a funeral two years ago at the Trinity."

"But weren't you – weren't you brought up to go to church?"

"Brought up to go to church? Oh, yes; my mother went to church every Sunday of her life. I used to go with her after my father died."

A long silence followed. Mademoiselle Blanche turned again to the fire, and Jules had a sensation of extreme unpleasantness. Like many Parisians, he never thought about religion. He had been so affected by the skepticism of his associates that he had no real belief in any doctrine. He saw now for the first time that serious complications might arise from his religious indifference. It was very disagreeable, he thought, to be confronted with it in this way. Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more annoyed he became. He felt that he must justify himself in some way. So at last he spoke up: "I suppose you're shocked because I don't go to church, aren't you, mademoiselle?"

Mademoiselle Blanche looked down at her hands lying folded in her lap.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he repeated, trying to laugh. "Why are you sorry? I rather like it. I never did enjoy going to church."

"We don't go to church to enjoy it, do we?" she asked gently.

He sank back in his seat, and looked at her. "No, I suppose not." Then, after a moment, he suddenly leaned forward. "We can't all be good like you, mademoiselle. Perhaps if I had known you always, I should go to church. I'd do anything to please you."

"But you ought not to go to please me. You ought to go for your own good."

"So you think it does good, then – going to church?"

"I'm sure of it," she replied, gazing into the fire. "Sometimes, – when I feel unhappy because I haven't seen the girls for so long, and because I must be separated from them so much, or when Aunt Sophie complains about Jeanne, or Jeanne has been unkind to Louise, or disobedient, then, after I've been to church, I feel better."

"Why do you feel better?" he asked, more to keep her talking than because he cared for her answer.

"Because I feel sure," she went on, holding her head down, "I feel sure it will all come out right – if I only have faith. Jeanne is a good girl; she's never disobedient or unkind with me."

"Then you worry about Jeanne?"

"Yes – sometimes."

"But you don't worry so much after you've been at church?"

"No."

"And that is why you like to go to church?"

"That's one reason. But there are others – a great many others."

He felt like laughing at the simplicity of her reasoning, and yet he was touched. He had a sudden desire to take her in his arms and stroke her soft hair and tell her he loved her. Then he heard her mother's step in the next room, and this roused him.

"I should like to go to church with you sometimes," he said. "May I?"

"Take him to-morrow, Blanche," cried Madame Perrault, and at that moment Jules could have kissed her, too. "There's going to be a special service at St. Philippe de Roule at ten o'clock. The music will be good."

That was how Jules first happened to go to church with Mademoiselle Blanche. After mass they walked up the Champs Élysées and then along the avenue du Bois de Boulogne, in the midst of the multitude of promenaders. A few of the men recognized the girl, and turned to look after her. She seemed not to see them, but Jules did, and he felt very proud to be her escort. She looked very pretty in her tight-fitting black jacket and little hat tipped with fur, her cheeks scarlet with the early frost. She was the last person in the crowd, Jules thought, who would be taken for an acrobat. It seemed to him wonderful that she should appear so unlike the marvel that she was, and this lack of resemblance to herself made her the more attractive to him.

After that day, Jules went to church with Mademoiselle Blanche every Sunday. At first the sight of the priests in their vestments, of the altar-boys in their white surplices, of the white altar gleaming with candles and plate and enshrouded in incense, and the reverberation of the organ, mingled with the voices singing the music of the mass, all reminded him so strongly of his mother, that his old affection for her swept over him, and brought tears to his eyes.

His own disbelief had made him doubt even the faith of others. It had also inspired him with the hatred for priests, so common even among Parisians of traditions like his own. Now, as he watched them, chanting at the altar, they seemed harmless as other men. He tried, as he went mechanically through the service, to count the men he knew who went to church. Nearly all of his acquaintances, he found, scoffed at it. Then gradually the service became subtly mingled with his love for the girl beside him, and for her sake he loved it. The organ seemed to sing her praise exultingly. He would have liked to tell her of this fancy, but he did not dare; he knew it would shock her. In a short time, going through the mass with her grew to mean to him an expression of his love, a spiritual exaltation which he offered as a tribute, not to God, but to her.

VII

By the month of November, Jules had identified himself with Madame Perrault and her daughter. He took his position as their friend and recognized escort so quickly and so quietly that he was himself surprised by it. There were moments when he had a fear that it was all an illusion, that some night he should find the stage-door of the Cirque slammed in his face.

It was while watching Mademoiselle Blanche in the ring that he found it most difficult to realize his happiness. He actually knew this wonderful creature in white tights who darted from trapeze to trapeze, who posed like a marble statue on the rope, who shot through the air like a thunderbolt! He saw her every day; he loved her, and she knew that he loved her. Sometimes he fancied that she loved him in return – from an expression in her face, a glance of her eyes, a blush, a tremor when his hand touched hers. He did not dare speak to her about his love; he doubted if he should ever dare to speak; at a word he feared his happiness might be shattered.

Sometimes on Sunday afternoons he drove with Mademoiselle Blanche and her mother into the country, and on Sunday nights he would dine and pass the evening with them in the little apartment. Occasionally he had long talks with the mother; in these he told about his family and about his property, laying stress on the fact that even if he lost his place at the office his income was large enough to support him. She told him, in return, about her own family and her husband's, and gave him a humorous account of her sister-in-law, Blanche's Aunt Sophie.

"Blanche is a little like her," she said. "Sophie takes everything au grand sérieux. Then she's strict with the children, and that's a great mistake, for Jeanne hates restraint, and Louise doesn't need it."

She also told him amusing stories about Monsieur Berthier's devotion to her. He had offered himself to her while she was at the convent where she was educated, near Boulogne, and she had refused him twice. Her family had objected to her marriage with Blanche's father, simply because he was an acrobat. No, she hadn't fallen in love with him at the circus. She never saw him perform till a short time before she became engaged to him. Ah, it had been hard for her to be separated from him so much. Sometimes she travelled with him in his long journeys; but while the children were very young, she couldn't. Blanche had been such a consolation to him. Madame Perrault believed that husband and wife ought never to be separated; it was bad for both of them. If she had her life to live over again, she would always travel with her husband, no matter how far he went.

Most of Jules' talk with Madame Perrault, however, consisted of a discussion of the qualities of her daughter, whose praises she constantly sang for him. Blanche's ambition, she said, was to provide dowries for her sisters; she had already accumulated a few thousand francs, and these she had set aside for the girls. She never seemed to think that she herself needed a dot. Ah, sometimes Madame was very much worried about her daughter's future. Blanche could not marry any of the other performers; they were not worthy of her, and their coarseness and roughness shocked her. Of course, they were good enough in their way, but their way was not Blanche's way.

Then, as Madame became more familiar with Jules, she also grew more confidential. Yes, Blanche had had a great many admirers. The young Prince of Luperto had fallen desperately in love with her in Bucharest three years before, and he had followed her all over Europe. But she had refused to notice any of his letters, – and oh, mon Dieu! such letters! Madame had read every one of them, and she had met the Prince the night he tried to force himself into Blanche's dressing-room. He seemed such a gentleman, and he had the most beautiful eyes! But Blanche, – she was so frightened. She cried and cried, and for weeks she was in terror of her life! Then there were others, – so many, so many. One by one, Madame Perrault unfolded their histories to Jules, and he listened in rapt attention, with a growing appreciation of the daughter's charms and of the mother's amiability.

Jules often wondered why he did not hear more talk about the circus in the little apartment. The subject was rarely mentioned. Mademoiselle Blanche displayed no nervousness before or after her performance. She practised a little in the morning at home, she said, to keep her muscles limber; she had done the same things on the trapeze so often that they had become easy to her. Once Jules met in the apartment the oily little Frenchman who always held the rope when Mademoiselle Blanche climbed to the top of the Cirque, and then he learned for the first time that Monsieur Pelletier was Mademoiselle's agent. "And he is such a trial to us," the mother explained when he was gone. "He makes such bad terms, and we have to pay him such a high percentage; and then he sometimes mixes up our dates, and we don't know what to do. Ah, if we could only have some one to take care of our affairs that we could trust. It is so hard for two unprotected women."

Jules thought of this speech many times. Indeed, he fairly brooded over it. For several weeks he had felt that his career was too limited; he hated the thought of being tied down to his business all his life. He was made for something better than that, for a grander, a more conspicuous rôle.

In his youth he had thought of the army, then of a diplomatic career; for a time, too, of the stage. But he had been too poor to enter either of the first two professions, and for the stage he was unfitted by temperament. Now, in his imagination a brilliant career stretched before him, combining both glory and love. Up to the present he had not lived; his life was about to begin. The world seemed to open out to him! He would travel from one end of the earth to the other in an unbroken march of triumph. Even Paris lost attractiveness for him and seemed uninteresting and petty; he pitied the poor boulevardiers who were bound to a wretched routine of existence, who loved it simply because they knew of no other. He would not only visit America again – this time not in a sordid capacity, friendless and lonely, but surrounded by a retinue – he would go also to Russia, to India, to Australia, perhaps to Japan and the other countries of the remote East. The night when he was first enchanted by this vision, he could not sleep for excitement till nearly four o'clock. Then he saw the vision realized, only to be shattered by Madeleine's cracked voice, and her injunction that it was time for him to get up and go to his work.

In the evening, when he saw his friends again, he found them very unhappy; they had just received news from Jeanne that Aunt Sophie was very ill, threatened with pneumonia. Madame Perrault was in tears, and Mademoiselle Blanche's eyes showed that she, too, had been crying. The next day, they said, Jeanne had promised to write, and the next night Jules learned that bad news had been received. The doctor pronounced the case pneumonia, and said the patient was in great danger. Mamma must come on, Jeanne wrote. But Madame explained to Jules with sobs that she could not leave Blanche.

"And my poor Jeanne, what will she do, a child of fourteen with only the little Louise to help her."

Then Jules became inspired. His faithful Madeleine – she would save the situation. Madame Perrault might go to Boulogne by the first train, and Madeleine would take her place, would be a second mother to Mademoiselle Blanche, accompany her to the theatre, help her to dress, come back with her, keep her from being lonely. Jules wanted to rush off at once, and bring Madeleine to the rue St. Honoré, for inspection and approval.

Then the girl's quiet wisdom asserted itself. Jeanne had said there was no immediate danger; so if Mamma took the train in the morning, that would be in quite time enough. After their petit déjeuner they might call on Madeleine, or Monsieur Jules might tell them if she would come. Then Jules burst into a eulogy of Madeleine's qualities: he had never before realized what a good soul she was. He would bring her with him, he said, in the morning, on his way to the office; he knew she would be glad to come.

On this occasion Jules had a chance to display his executive ability. After leaving his friends at the Circus, he drove home furiously, found Madeleine sound asleep in the big chair by the fireplace, woke her up, and explained the situation.

"Now, my dear Madeleine," he said at the end, "you are to go to that poor girl and take her mother's place; she will love you, and you will love her. So be good to her for my sake, Madeleine," and he leaned over, and patted the old woman's wrinkled hand affectionately. Madeleine was moved, chiefly, however, by Jules' unwonted tenderness. She had never known an actress, not to speak of a performer in a circus, and she felt alarmed at the thought of meeting one. But she felt sure that Mademoiselle Blanche must be good. Hadn't Jules said so? Jules had not said that he was in love with Mademoiselle; he trusted Madeleine to find that out for herself; he also trusted Madeleine to find out a few other things for him. Secretly he was blessing the chance that enabled him to send Madeleine to Mademoiselle; for the moment he did not even think of the personal discomfort it would cause himself.

That night Jules told his friends that Madeleine had consented to come, and he promised to bring her with him in the morning. Madeleine was greatly agitated, and rose unusually early to make an elaborate toilette. She rarely went out, save to the shops and to mass; so she had not kept up with the fashions, and her best dress was made in a mode long before discarded. She was a very grotesque figure as she walked in her queer little bonnet with long ribbons flying from it, and her wide skirts. When they reached the apartment in the rue St. Honoré, Jules thought he saw an expression of amusement in Madame Perrault's face, but Blanche greeted Madeleine with great kindliness. Then the mother explained that she had just received a letter from Jeanne, saying Aunt Sophie was in no immediate danger, but begging her to come as soon as possible. Jules saw that both his friends were pleased with Madeleine, and it was quickly arranged that she should install herself in the apartment that day, and at four o'clock Madame Perrault would leave for Boulogne. He departed radiantly happy, with the promise to return at three to take Madame to the station. He secured leave of absence from the office, and on his return to the apartment he found Madeleine there, helping Mademoiselle Blanche to make a new dress.

"I'll be ready in a minute," Madame Perrault cried from the adjoining room.

"Are you coming with us, mademoiselle?" Jules asked.

"No, I won't let her," her mother replied. "It's too cold, and it would tire her. You aren't afraid to ride alone in a cab with me, are you?"

Jules was surprised by her vivacity; he knew that she was greatly worried about her sister, yet in the midst of her agitation she could joke. If he had known her less he would have supposed that she was a woman of little feeling. She presently flounced out of the room, putting on her gloves and smiling.

"Madeleine and Blanche have become great friends," she said. "I'm afraid I shall be jealous of her. When I come back there won't be any place for me." Then she took her daughter by both hands and Jules saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "Good-bye, dear," she said, kissing the girl on both cheeks. "You must write to me every day, and I'll write to you. In a week, at least, I shall be back. I have a presentiment that Sophie will improve as soon as I get there."

Mademoiselle Blanche clung tightly to her mother, and kissed her again and again.

"There, there! Now, my child – there!" With a parting embrace, Madame Perrault tore herself away, crying as she passed out of the door, "Good-bye, Madeleine. Take care of the little one! And remember Monsieur Jules is coming back to dinner. I'm going to invite him."

This was the first time she had ever called Jules by his first name, and on hearing it he felt a thrill of joy. She hurried before him down the steep stairs, wiping her eyes. When they entered the cab, she had controlled herself again, and was smiling as usual.

The cab rattled so noisily over the pavement that during most of the ride to the station they kept silent. They arrived there half an hour ahead of time, and this they spent in walking up and down the platform.

"You must be very kind to my Blanche while I'm away," said Madame Perrault. "She will be very lonely. She hasn't been separated from me before since her father died."

Jules assured her that he would be a second mother to her. He would take her and Madeleine to the Cirque every night, and in the morning on his way to the office he would call to ask if he could do her any service. "She'll be spoiled when you come back," he concluded with a smile.

For a moment they walked without speaking. The station was so cold that their breaths made vapour in the air. Yet Jules felt warm enough; his whole being seemed to glow.

"There's something I want to tell you."

She made a sign with her head that she was listening.

"I'm in love with Mademoiselle Blanche," he said, impressively, finding a delicious relief in speaking the words.

She smiled roguishly into his face.

"Is that all?"

They looked into each other's eyes, and read there a mutual understanding.

"Then you've known all along?"

"Of course, from the very first, from the first night you came into the dressing-room, and pretended to be a reporter."

"Ah, I thought you had forgiven that."

"So I have – that is, there was nothing to forgive. You didn't deceive me."

"Do you mean that you knew at the time I wasn't a reporter? And Blanche – she knew too?"

"No, poor dear, she didn't know. Yet it was plain as daylight. Ah, my friend, I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Don't you suppose I could tell from your looks and your manner, and what you said, and what you didn't say, – don't you suppose I could tell from all that, what you had come for?"