Читать книгу: «Mademoiselle Blanche», страница 5

"Oh, let the children go," said Monsieur Berthier good-naturedly. "It would be cruel to send them to bed early their first night in Paris."

Then Jules added his voice in the girls' behalf, but Madame Perrault shook her head decidedly.

"I can't have them up so late. Besides, they need to rest after their journey. If you are good, Jeanne, and don't tease me to go to-night, I'll take you and Louise to the matinée on Saturday."

"Oh, the matinée!" Jeanne pouted, turning for sympathy to Jules. "Who cares for the matinée! Isn't it too bad?" she went on in a low voice, so that her mother shouldn't hear her. "When I grow up, Monsieur Jules, I shall go to the theatre every night – yes, every night of my life. I don't care what happens."

Jeanne was sullen and Louise looked sad when they were left alone with Charlotte, the little maid.

"I won't go to bed till twelve o'clock," Jeanne cried, as her mother, with parting injunctions, went out, followed by the others. "I shall sit up and cry all the evening."

"Nine o'clock, my dear," said Madame Perrault serenely. "You know what I said about Saturday."

The door was slammed behind them and, as they filed downstairs, they heard Jeanne go stamping back into the salon.

"Don't you think you're severe with the child, Mathilde?" said Berthier.

"No, Félix, not too severe, if you mean that. It's the only way to keep her in check. She has too much spirit. I'm afraid of it sometimes."

"That's just the way you used to be at her age," he laughed.

"And that's just why I mean to keep her down," she replied, almost sternly.

"Jeanne has all the spirit of the family," said Berthier, glancing at Jules.

After the performance they returned to the apartment for supper. Jules was surprised to find the table steaming with hot dishes, bright with flowers and with wine-glasses. Madeleine, who seemed to be in the secret, put on an apron, and proceeded to assist Charlotte.

"We've prepared a little feast for you," Madame Perrault explained, "in honour of Blanche's engagement. Félix has provided the champagne."

Berthier rubbed his hands and smiled, and they took their places at the table. They were all hungry and in good spirits. This was the happiest time of the day for Blanche; though she never consciously worried about her work, she always felt relieved when her performance was done, and she was free to go home and rest. The little rosy-cheeked Charlotte busied herself around them, passing dishes and bringing on fresh ones.

"It's a shame to keep this poor child up so late," said Berthier, when she had left the room for a moment. "Why not send her to bed?"

"I'll send her as soon as she brings in the rest of the things," Madame Perrault replied. "She and Madeleine can have something to eat together. I sha'n't have to send Madeleine home with you to-night, Jules. We've made a bed for her in Charlotte's room. She's a good creature, your Madeleine."

Charlotte came in with the rest of the dishes, and Madame Perrault told her to eat something, and go to bed. "And tell Madeleine not to wait up for us. You can clear the things away in the morning. Did Jeanne go to bed at nine o'clock, Charlotte?"

"Yes, madame."

"And without any trouble?"

"Yes, madame."

"What did she do to amuse herself during the evening?"

Charlotte's cheeks took on a deeper red.

"She tried to imitate Mademoiselle Blanche in the circus," she confessed.

"Ah, that accounts for the broken chair! Good night, Charlotte." Then, as the girl left the room, Madame Perrault sighed. "That Jeanne will be the death of me."

"I'll take her in hand when she comes to me," Berthier laughed. "We'll have to find a husband for her. That will cure her of her craze for the circus."

"A husband for Jeanne, little Jeanne!" Madame Perrault exclaimed in horror. "She's barely fourteen."

"And in two years she'll be a woman. I was in love with you at fifteen. Don't you remember? We thought of eloping."

"Taisez-vous!" cried Madame Perrault, flushing, and trying not to join in the laughter that the speech excited from Jules. "You make me a great fool before my daughter and my new son."

"He isn't your son yet," Berthier insisted, to tease her.

"But he will be soon."

"That's just what I wanted you to say!" Jules cried. "The sooner the better. Tomorrow would suit me."

The glasses had been filled with champagne, and Berthier lifted his glass high in the air, crying:

"Let us drink to the fiancés! May their marriage be long and their engagement short! Here's health and happiness to them!"

They all stood up smiling and drank together. Then as they sat down again, Berthier went on:

"Ah, I know the folly of long engagements. Get married, get married, my children, as soon as you can, while love is young. I once knew a young girl – as beautiful as the morning – more beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful. Well, this young girl loved a handsome, yes, I may say a fairly handsome, at any rate, an honest young fellow, who fairly worshipped her in return. But the stern parents of this beautiful young girl – "

"Taisez-vous!" Madame Perrault repeated. "No more nonsense. If your beautiful young girl hadn't obeyed her parents, where would Blanche Perrault be at this moment, I should like to know?"

"Ah, my friend," said Berthier to Jules, "it's the women who forget. Only the men are constant in this world."

Madame Perrault rolled her eyes in mock horror.

"Constant – the men!" she repeated scornfully. "They don't know what constancy is. If it weren't for the constant women in the world, the men would go straight to the devil."

Berthier burst into hilarious laughter. He loved nothing better than to be vanquished in an argument by Madame Perrault. Indeed, he often argued simply in order to provoke her. He gave Jules a quick glance and a nod which plainly said: "Isn't she a fine woman? Have you ever seen a woman so clever?"

The innocent pleasantries of the old lovers, however, were lost on Jules. He wanted to discuss in all seriousness his forthcoming marriage, and this was certainly a suitable occasion. So he determined to put the conversation on another basis.

"I am sure Monsieur Berthier is right about long engagements," he said, "and there's no reason why our engagement shouldn't be short. I love Blanche, and Blanche loves me, and we think we can make each other happy. I can afford to marry – I have a little property – and when she marries me Blanche will have a protector in her professional career."

"Bravo!" cried Berthier. "That was said like a man!"

"And the sooner I'm married, the better for you," Jules went on, fixing his eyes on Berthier's white beard. "Then Madame Perrault won't be tied down to Blanche, and there's no reason why you shouldn't be married, too."

"We might have a double marriage!" said the little man jocosely.

"No, no, no!" Madame exclaimed. "When I'm married I shall be married very quietly in Boulogne, without any fuss. These children shall be married first. Then some day, Félix, you and I shall walk to the church and it will be over in five minutes."

Berthier breathed a long sigh, and laid his hand gently on Madame Perrault's arm.

"I've waited a great many years for those five minutes, chérie."

"Blanche's engagement at the Circus ends the last day of the year," Jules resumed, "and she begins her season in Vienna on the fifteenth of January. Now, there's no reason in the world that I can think of to prevent our being married between the first of January and the fifteenth."

Then, from every point of view, they discussed the time of the marriage. Madame Perrault raised the question of dresses for the bride, of Jules' inability to arrange his affairs in so short a time, but these and all other objections were overruled.

Blanche herself had very little to say; when her mother asked her point-blank if she wanted the marriage to take place so early, she replied that she was willing if Jules and the others decided it was best. She seemed more like a passive spectator than one actively interested in the discussion; her eyes kept roving from Jules to her mother, and from her mother back to Jules. Berthier supported Jules valiantly, and at two o'clock, Madame Perrault was finally won over, and it was decided that the marriage should take place during the first week in January. Jules kissed Blanche on the cheek, and there was general embracing and laughter. Then the little party broke up, and Monsieur Berthier followed Jules down the stairs.

"Ah, my boy," he said, as they stood on the sidewalk, before saying good-night, "I'd give all the money I've made for your youth. Youth is the time for love. In my youth it came to me, but I lost it. Take good care of it, my friend," he concluded, tapping Jules' hand affectionately as they were about to go their separate ways.

X

Jules at once began preparations for his marriage. He gave notice of his intention to leave the wool-house, and to move from his apartment. Monsieur Mercier showed no regret at his departure. "I've observed that you were no longer interested in your work," he said coldly.

Jules turned away with a sense of disappointment and pain, feeling that he had been badly treated. Though he said nothing to the twins about his going, they speedily heard of it and gibed him for the reason. He preferred to maintain an air of mystery, but one morning Leroux came into the office, shaking a copy of the Triomphe in the air.

"Let me congratulate you!" he cried, extending his hand. "I respect a man that can make a stroke like that. I've known you were up to some game all along," he added insinuatingly.

Jules looked at the paper, and in the column devoted to news of the theatre he read of the engagement of Mademoiselle Blanche, of the Cirque Parisien, to Monsieur Jules Le Baron, a young business man of wealth. Dufresne added his congratulations, and one after another during the day Jules' other comrades came up to shake his hand. No wonder he had been putting on airs with them! They treated him very jocosely, however, teased him about his reputed wealth, and tortured him with their coarse jokes, so that he looked forward with relief to escaping from them.

All of Jules' leisure was passed with Blanche and her family. He made friends with the girls and with Monsieur Berthier. The better acquainted he became with Louise the more he liked her; Jeanne sometimes vexed him by making fun of him, though he was careful not to betray his annoyance. For Monsieur Berthier he felt a genuine esteem; the little man was always in good humor, though Jules suspected that, in spite of his success in business, his whole life had been clouded by the disappointment of his youth. As for Madame Perrault, notwithstanding the apparent lightness of her character, which had at first prejudiced him against her, the effective way in which she managed her affairs made him realize that she was a woman to be respected. Sometimes Jules wondered what kind of man Blanche's father had been; he fancied that of the two the mother had been by far the stronger.

Jules passed Christmas with his friends and spent a month's salary on gifts for Blanche and her sisters. For the girls Madame had a fête in the morning after mass, with a Christmas tree laden with presents, and decorated with candles and trinkets and bonbons. She chose this time of day, as both in the afternoon and evening Blanche gave performances.

The next morning Madame Perrault learned through Pelletier that the circus in Vienna where Blanche had been engaged to appear was a little more than ninety feet high; so the plunge would be fifteen feet deeper than it was in Paris. This news created excitement in the family. It made Madame so nervous that she urged that the engagement be given up and an offer that had come from Nice be accepted; but Jules laughed at the idea.

"What's a difference of fifteen feet to Blanche?" he said. "It's just as easy for her to dive ninety feet as to dive seventy-five. The only thing for Blanche to do is to go to Vienna as soon as her engagement here is over. Then she can practise the plunge every morning for two weeks. We'll simply have to get married a little earlier than we intended."

Madame Perrault saw the force of the argument, and Monsieur Berthier seconded Jules. As for Blanche, she declared that she should not be afraid of the plunge; at Bucharest she had made a plunge of nearly eighty-three feet. So it was agreed that the civil marriage should take place very quietly on the third of January, and the religious ceremony the day after. Jules and his bride could leave Paris by the afternoon train, accompanied by Madeleine. Madame Perrault was anxious to keep any notice out of the papers, if possible; she thought it might injure Blanche professionally. She had been greatly vexed by the paragraph in the Triomphe and had attributed it to Durand; but Jules explained that the Triomphe was not Durand's paper; besides, the journalist had been sent for the winter to the Riviera as correspondent.

On the last day of the year Jules bade farewell to his associates at the wool-house. Most of them regretted his departure, for before his sudden accession of dignity he had been well liked among them. The next morning, on the first day of his emancipation, when he went to the apartment in the rue St. Honoré, he found some pieces of silver there, the gift of his old comrades. He knew at once that the twins had started a subscription for him, and he felt ashamed of his treatment of them during his last weeks among them. He soon forgot about them, however, and was absorbed in the preparations for his new life. He had sold most of his furniture, save a few pieces that were so intimately associated with the memory of his mother that he could not part with them.

For Madeleine this was a trying time; she performed her numerous duties, involving several journeys to the rue St. Honoré, with a look of bewilderment in her face, as if she could not adjust herself to the change that was about to take place in her life.

Two days before the time chosen for their civil marriage, Jules was sitting alone with Blanche, beside the fireplace where he had passed most of his courtship. They had been making plans for Vienna, and Jules felt as if he were already at the head of a household.

"Do you know," he said, glancing at the engagement ring on her left hand that sparkled in the firelight, "I haven't been able to make up my mind yet what to give you for a wedding present. I wish you'd tell me what you'd like. I want to give you something that will please you very much."

She looked intently into the fireplace, and did not reply.

"Isn't there something that you want especially?" Then Jules saw her face flush, and he went on quickly: "Ah, I know there is, but you're afraid to tell. Now, out with it. Is it a diamond brooch, or one of those queer little gold watches that women carry, set with jewels, or one of those bracelets that we saw in the shop in the rue de la Paix the other day?"

She began to laugh, and without turning her eyes toward him, she said: —

"You know I don't care for those things. But there – there is something – "

"Well, out with it."

"It isn't a – it isn't what you think – a present or anything like that; but it is something I should like to have you – something that would make me very happy."

"Then tell me what it is," said Jules, impatiently. "What are you afraid of? Am I such an ogre?"

For a moment she did not answer. Then she said timidly: "I wish you'd go to confession before we're married."

He burst into a laugh that rang through the apartment.

"Oh, is that all? So you're afraid to marry such a wicked person as I am till the Church has forgiven him and made him good again."

She shook her head.

"No, it isn't that, Jules. I don't believe you are wicked. I don't believe you ever were; but I should be so much happier if you would go to confession, and then before we're married in church we could go to communion together."

He threw himself beside her chair, seized her head in his hands, and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm not fit to be your husband. You're too good for me," he said softly.

She drew away from him with a smile.

"And will it make you very much happier if I go to confession?" he asked.

"Yes, Jules, very much."

For an instant he hesitated, looking into her eyes.

"Then I'll go," he said.

She turned to him, and threw her arms around his neck. As he held her closely to him, his lips pressed against her hair, he went on: —

"But it will be hard for me, Blanche. I haven't been to confession for more than twelve years. Think of all the things I shall have to tell."

"It will be over in a few minutes," she said reassuringly. "Then you'll be glad you've done it."

He rose to his feet and drew his chair nearer hers.

"I've even forgotten how to make a confession. I don't even remember the Confiteor."

"Then I shall have to teach it to you. It's in my prayer-book, and you can take it and learn it."

"But I sha'n't know what to do. I shall appear awkward and foolish."

"It's easy enough. You begin by examining your conscience; then you – "

"Examining my conscience! I shall have to wake it up first. It's been sound asleep all these years. Ah, my dear Blanche, you can't imagine how pleasant it is to have your conscience asleep."

She ignored his jesting, and went on: "Then you have to be sorry for what you've done, – for the sins, I mean."

"But if you're not sorry. They've been very pleasant, a good many of them."

"Of course, if you aren't sorry you can't go to confession. That's what people go for, because they are sorry, and because they intend to try to be better."

"But all the confessions in the world wouldn't make me better. It's only you that can do that. I'm sorry for my sins simply because, when I think of them, they take me so far away from you. If I hadn't met you, I shouldn't have thought they were so bad. But when I think of you, Blanche, and when I look at you, you seem so good – well, I – I feel ashamed, and then I want to be good too. Why can't I confess to you?" he went on banteringly. "You'd do me more good than all the priests in Christendom. Only I'm afraid I should shock you. I suppose the priests hear stories like mine every day; so one or two more or less wouldn't make any difference to them."

She turned her head away, and he saw that he had offended her. So he patted her cheek and smiled into her face.

"What a little dévote she is, anyway! She's vexed even when I joke about her religion. Don't you see that it's all fun, dear? I'm going to do everything you say, make a clean breast of it to the priest, tell him I'm sorry, and promise to be good for the rest of my life. It won't be hard to promise that. How can I help being good when I shall have you with me all the time?"

Then for an hour they talked seriously about the confession. The more he thought of the ordeal, the more nervous Jules felt. Sins came back to him, committed during those first few years after he left the lycée, when his freedom was novel and delicious. How could he tell of those things, how could he put them into the awful baldness of speech? He knew that no sin could be concealed in the confessional; but he asked Blanche if he would have to be particular, if he couldn't say in a general way that he had broken this commandment or that. He was alarmed by her reply that she told everything, that sometimes the priest asked probing questions. He couldn't endure the shame of speaking out those horrors. He was afraid, however, to acknowledge his fears to the girl; they might make her suspect what he had done, and inspire her with a loathing for him.

Jules had heard that some men told the women they were going to marry of their lapses, and he had been greatly amused. It never occurred to him that he ought to reveal the dark passages in his life to Blanche; these would simply shock her, give her wrong ideas about him, perhaps make her suspicious and jealous after marriage. His sins he had always regarded as follies of youth: they did not in any way affect his character or his honor as a gentleman. Now, however, he was looking back on himself, not from the point of view of the man of the world, but of a good woman.

That night, on leaving Blanche at the theatre, instead of roaming in the Boulevards, or reading the papers in the cafés, as he had of late been doing till half-past ten, he took a fiacre to the Madeleine, where he spent one of the most disagreeable hours of his life. Vespers were being sung, and the church was nearly full; he sought an obscure corner, knelt there before a picture of Christ carrying the Cross of Calvary, repeated an "Our Father," and a "Hail Mary," which came back to him like an echo of his mother's voice, and then gave himself up to the task of examining his conscience.

The whole panorama of his manhood passed before him, the life of the young Parisian at the close of the century, – selfish, cynical, pleasure-loving, sense-gratifying, animal. He buried his face in his hands. Oh, what an existence! Yet he dared to take a pure young girl for his wife, to make her the mother of his children! He could not think of himself or of his sins without reference to her, and the more he thought of her and of them, the deeper his shame became, and this shame he mistook for contrition. This then was what Blanche had meant by saying that he must be sorry for what he had done, and must promise to fight against temptation. From the depth of his heart he believed he was sorry.

Then he took from his pocket the prayer-book that she had given him, and read several times the act of contrition and the Confiteor. The repetition recalled them to his memory, and he was ready for his confession to the priest the next day. With a sigh he rose from his seat, feeling as if he had thrown off the burden of his past life and received a benediction.

The next afternoon, when Jules entered with Blanche the church of St. Philippe de Roule, he found groups of people kneeling around the confessional boxes and in front of the altars. He had resolved to confess to Father Labiche, who, Blanche had told him, was the most lenient of all the fathers. The names of the priests were printed on the boxes, and the largest crowd was gathered around the box assigned to Jules' choice.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a long time," Blanche whispered.

"Never mind," Jules replied nervously.

He felt almost glad that he was to have a respite. The sight of the confessional boxes and of the people whispering prayers, together with the atmosphere of devotion that pervaded the place, had filled him with terror. Blanche made a sign to him to go forward and join the group awaiting Father Labiche, and she herself stopped near the group beside it, knelt and made the sign of the cross. Jules, too, knelt before one of the hard-wood benches, and prayed that he might have the courage and grace to make a good confession. Then he went over again the sins that he had to confess, and he repeated the Confiteor and the act of contrition.

All day long these prayers, and the items of his confession, had been surging in his mind, and now, as he sat up and waited for his turn to come in the procession that passed in and out on either side of the confessional, they kept repeating themselves. He looked at the wrinkled women around him, and wondered if their feelings were like his; he could see no nervousness, no fear in their faces; they seemed to be absorbed, almost exalted in their devotion. Then he began to grow impatient, and wished that the people who entered the confessional would not take so much time. He could catch glimpses of the dark figure of the priest, bending his head from one side to the other, and glancing out at the people. In his line at least fifteen persons were waiting their turn before him; it would take Father Labiche more than two hours, Jules feared, to hear them and the fifteen others in the opposite line. His thoughts turned to Blanche, and he wondered if she had been heard yet. He looked around, and saw her in the crowd behind him, reading her prayer-book; she kept apart from the others, and had evidently finished her confession and was waiting for him.

How gentle and good she looked; how different from her appearance in the ring! Once again he saw her tumbling through the air in her silk tights. He tried to drive this thought from his mind, but again and again he saw her, climbing hand over hand to the top of the Circus, hurling herself backward, spinning through the air, striking the padded net with a thud, bouncing up again, and landing, with the pretty gesture of both hands, on her feet. And in two days she would be his wife! They would go away together, and whenever she performed in public, he would appear with her, hold the rope while she climbed to the top of the building, make the dramatic announcement that would awe the audience into silence, and then scamper across the net to the platform before she fell.

For more than an hour Jules thought of this brilliant future; then he suddenly realized where he was, and he saw that he had moved up within three places of the confessional. In a few moments it would be his turn to go into that dark box, where so many ghastly secrets were told, where he would be obliged to reveal all the vileness and the weakness of his human nature. His nerves vibrated; he felt as if something within him were sinking, as if his courage were leaving him. Then his lips began again to repeat the Confiteor, and his mind ran nervously over his self-accusations.

The woman before him remained so long in the confessional that he wondered if she would ever come out; but when she did appear he had a sudden access of terror. He rose mechanically, however, made his way into the box, and knelt beside the little closed slide, through which the priest conferred with the penitents. He could hear the low murmur of Father Labiche's voice, and the more faint responses of a woman confessing on the other side. He tried not to listen, but he could not help catching a few words. Suddenly the slide was opened, and he confronted the kindly face of the old priest whose right hand was raised in blessing.

Blanche had seen Jules enter the confessional, and she waited for him to appear again. The woman who had entered before him on the other side soon came out; so Jules was now making his peace with God. She lowered her head, and breathed a simple prayer of thankfulness. Ten, fifteen minutes passed; still he did not come. She wondered why Father Labiche kept him there so long. When at last he did appear, his face was white. Poor Jules! she thought. How hard it must have been for him, and how good he was to have gone through it so heroically. He walked forward to the main altar, and there he knelt for several moments. When he came back, he found her waiting.

"Come," he said, touching her on the arm.

They did not speak till they were in the street.

"It was pretty tough," he said doggedly. "I thought he'd never let me out."

She smiled up into his face. "But it's all over now, Jules."

"Yes, it's all over," he repeated grimly. "But I should hate to go through it again."

They hurried on through the nipping January air.

"I'm afraid we shall be late for dinner, Jules. It must be after half-past six, and then we have so many things to do to-night. My trunks aren't all packed yet."

"I would help you if I could," Jules replied, "but I must go back to the church. Father Labiche gave me the Stations of the Cross for penance. He said he thought it would do me good before I was married to reflect on the sufferings of Christ," he explained with a smile.

"Then you told him you were going to be married?" she laughed, her breath steaming in the air.

"He asked how I happened to come to confession after staying away so long; so I had to acknowledge that I did it to please you."

The little apartment was in commotion over Blanche's marriage and departure two days later; the petit salon was littered with dresses, and the two girls were greatly excited over their new frocks. Jules saw that he was in the way, and soon after dinner he left his friends, saying that he would have the carriages ready for them at half-past seven in the morning; Blanche, her mother, and Monsieur Berthier would ride with him in one, and in the other the girls would go with Madeleine and Pelletier, who had been invited on account of his long business association with the family.

That night at church Jules did his best to put himself into a religious frame of mind and to feel a proper pity for the sufferings of Christ. As he passed from station to station in the Way of the Cross, he reflected seriously on the significance of each, and he said his prayers devoutly. But his mind was constantly distracted by the thought of the girl he loved and of his marriage the next day. At the most inopportune moments visions of Blanche would haunt him as she looked in the ring, climbing the rope and whirling through the air.

When his prayers were said he felt radiantly happy. He had done his duty, and he felt that he deserved to be rewarded. It was only nine o'clock, but he hurried home at once to go on with his packing. When he went to bed that night, he dreamed that he was making his first appearance in the circus at Vienna, holding the rope for his wife, and speaking the thrilling words of warning to the audience.

In the morning Jules and Blanche received communion at early mass, and later they went with Madame Perrault and Monsieur Berthier to the Mayor's office, where the civil marriage ceremony was performed. This Jules regarded merely as a formality, though it made him feel that she was at last his, his forever! No one could take her away from him now! The next morning was clear and cold, and the sun shone as he looked out of his window in the dismantled apartment. He smiled as he thought that his lonely days as a bachelor were over. At ten o'clock he drove to the rue St. Honoré with Madeleine, who looked a dozen years younger in her simple black silk with a piece of white lace at her throat, the gift of Madame Perrault. Blanche, in her white satin dress with the bunch of white roses he had sent to her in her hand, had never seemed to him so beautiful. It was after eleven o'clock when they reached St. Philippe, and a crowd of idlers hung about the door and followed them into the church.