Читать книгу: «Mademoiselle Blanche», страница 9

When he went back to the drawing-room, he had difficulty in sustaining a conversation with Blanche; he kept thinking of the conference in the next room, wondering what the result would be. He was prepared to see Jules enter with a pale face and set lips and with wrath in his eyes.

When Jules finally entered between his hostess and the Doctor, Tate scanned his face narrowly; it was not white, and the lips were not set, but the whole expression had changed to a look of dogged determination and ill-concealed rage. He sat near his wife, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

For a few moments the conversation was resumed, but the atmosphere seemed chilled. Then the Doctor rose to say good-night, explaining that he had promised to call on a patient in Curzon Street before going home. This seemed to be the signal for the breaking-up, and all of the guests left at the same moment, Mrs. Tate calling out to Blanche at the door of the drawing-room that she would look in on her the next day if she were not too busy.

When the front door had closed, Tate turned to his wife.

"Well, you had a stormy time of it, didn't you?"

She walked toward the centre of the drawing-room and stood under the chandelier, keeping her eyes fixed on her husband's face, which seemed to be much more serious than usual.

"What makes you think so?" she asked, removing a bracelet from her arm and nervously twirling it.

"I could tell from the expression in his eyes, and from the way you and the Doctor acted. He was furious, wasn't he?"

"Furious? Le Baron? Hardly; though I could see he didn't believe a word we said. He was almost too startled to understand it at first. The little goose hadn't said a word to him about it."

"And what did he say when you told him she ought to give up her performance? How did he like that?"

"He didn't like it at all, apparently. But I didn't expect him to like it. It means money out of his pocket."

"No, it means more than that, if I'm not mistaken."

"What else can it mean?" she said, lifting her eyebrows questioningly.

"It means the end of whatever affection he has for his wife. Of course he never had much. A man of his sort doesn't."

She looked at him with curiosity in her face. "What difference does her performing make in his affection for her?"

"Can't you see that he didn't fall in love with her? He fell in love with her performance."

Mrs. Tate put one finger to her lips and hesitated for a moment. Then she said slowly: —

"How ridiculous you are, Percy! As if any one ever heard of such a thing!"

XVI

On the way home in the hansom that he had called, Jules scarcely spoke. Blanche kept glancing at him covertly; she had never before seen that look in his face, and it alarmed her; he seemed to be trying to keep back the anger that showed itself in his half-closed eyes and his firm-set chin. When they reached the lodgings, Blanche found Madeleine sound asleep by the fireplace, and without waking her, she started to go into the next room to see if Jeanne were comfortable. When she reached the door, Jules said in a low voice: —

"Wait here a minute. I have something to say to you."

At the sound of the words, Madeleine's eyes opened slowly, and she blinked at Jules, who was glancing angrily at her.

"This is a pretty way you take care of Jeanne. She might have had a dozen convulsions without your knowing anything about them."

In spite of Jules' command, the reference to the convulsions, which had nearly cost Jeanne her life a few weeks after birth, sent Blanche agitatedly into the nursery. Madeleine lumbered behind her, and both were relieved to find the child sleeping contentedly in her cradle, her cheeks flushed, and her chubby hands clenched at her breast. Blanche would have liked to pass several moments there in rapt adoration, but Jules appeared at the door and made a sign to her to come to him.

"Madeleine will look out for her," he said, pointing to the cradle. "Go to bed, Madeleine."

Blanche tiptoed out of the room, removed her wraps, and, with the overcoat Jules had thrown on the couch, hung them in the little closet beside the big mirror. Jules, who had taken a seat in front of the fire-place, watched her impatiently, and then motioned her to sit in the chair opposite him.

"Now perhaps you'll be kind enough to tell me what all this means. I knew that Englishwoman would be up to some mischief. What does it mean?" he said sternly.

Blanche looked timidly into his face; the expression of anger that she had noticed on their way home was still there. She did not know what to say, and tears of misery filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Then weakened by her previous outburst, she covered her face with her hands, and began to sob, giving expression to all the torture that had come from the horror of her performance, from her incessant terror of being killed and separated from Jeanne. Jules was at first touched, and then alarmed, by the unexpected display of grief.

He waited, thinking that it would soon expend itself; then when the sobs continued, he went over to her, and taking her gently in his arms, tried to soothe her by stroking her hair and calling her by the endearing names he had used during the first weeks of their marriage, and begging her to control herself for his sake, it hurt him so. After this last appeal, Blanche put her arms round his neck, and buried her head on his breast, and for a few moments they sat together without speaking, her body shaken now and then from the violence of her grief. Then Jules began to question her quietly, and the whole story of her sufferings since Jeanne's birth came out so pathetically that, in spite of his anger, he was touched, and convinced that, after all, the Englishwoman had been right.

In his remorse that Blanche had suffered in silence, and he had not found it out, had done nothing to help her, he declared he would have the diving stopped at once, no matter what the cost might be. Rather than see her unhappy, he would make her give up performing altogether, if that were necessary. At any rate, he would go to Marshall the next day and see what could be done about taking her name off the bills. They would leave this disgusting London, perhaps for the south of France, where Blanche could have a long rest, and gather strength for her visit to America the next year. For a long time they talked over the plan, and then Jules made Blanche go to bed.

"You'll not be able to do your work tomorrow," he said, "if you sit up much longer. Of course, you can't stop it at once. Marshall wouldn't listen to that. You're his best attraction, and he'll have to advertise your last appearances."

For more than an hour after Blanche left him, Jules walked up and down the little drawing-room, smoking cigarettes. The revelation of his wife's trouble had so upset him that he felt unable to sleep. But it was of himself, not of her, that he was chiefly thinking. Dr. Broughton had told him that a long rest might cure Blanche of her nervous terror and relieve her of the pains in the back, but it was probable that she would be affected again as soon as she resumed her performance.

If this proved true, his own career would be ruined; there would be no more travelling, no more triumphs! Blanche would sink into obscurity, would become a mere nonentity, devoted to her child and house-keeping, like scores of other wives and mothers that he knew and despised in Paris. Out of the circus, she was utterly commonplace, Jules said to himself, and the fact came to him with the force of a revelation! But for that he would never have married her; the brilliancy of her talent had dazzled him! And now, if she had to leave the circus, how beautifully he would have been tricked! He would be tied down to her and her child! The expense of maintaining them would oblige him to live meanly, in a way that he had never been used to, that he loathed.

What a fine trap he had got himself into! There was absolutely no escape, unless Blanche recovered from her ridiculous cowardice. And all on account of that infant, who had come into the world without being wanted, and had spoiled his life! For the moment Jules hated Jeanne. He wished she had never been born, or had died at birth; then all this trouble wouldn't have occurred. But for Jeanne, Blanche might have accepted that offer for a summer season at Trouville. Then he wouldn't have been bored at Boulogne, and Father Dumény wouldn't have given him that letter to those beasts of English.

Then Jules' wrath turned from Jeanne to Father Dumény, and on him he poured all his old bitterness against priests. They were always interfering, those black-coated, oily-tongued hypocrites. Oh, if he had Father Dumény there! He would have liked to choke him!

The more Jules thought, the more convinced he became that his wife's nervousness was due to imagination rather than to any physical cause. Then, too, Blanche had been homesick after her long stay in Boulogne, where she saw her mother and her sisters every day. What a fool he had been to allow her to go there! He hated the whole pack of them – Father Dumény, Madame Berthier, her tiresome old husband, all! What right did they have to interfere with Blanche? She was his wife, she belonged to him alone. When he reached this point Jules had worked himself into a fine indignation; but he had exhausted his cigarettes, and it was now nearly twelve o'clock. Instead of going to bed, however, he threw himself on the couch in the corner of the room, where a few hours later Blanche found him, sleeping soundly.

Jules woke in an irritable mood, cross with Madeleine, indifferent to Jeanne, with whom he usually liked to gambol after breakfast, and silent with his wife. For a time he said nothing to Blanche about their talk of the night before, and the expression of his face prevented her from touching upon it. Till eleven o'clock he was busily engaged in writing letters; when he had finished these, he turned to Blanche, who was sitting alone by the table, making a dress for Jeanne.

"I've just written to Hicks in New York," he said, "the man who made me that fine offer for next September. I told him we couldn't sign the contract yet. That'll probably make him offer us more money, and it'll give you time to find out whether you can go on with your work again."

"But I shall surely go on with it," said Blanche, hardly daring to look into his face. "I shall be well again after a rest. I know I shall. The Doctor said – "

"Never mind what the Doctor said. I don't believe he knows anything about it. You're just a little nervous, that's all. You worry about little things too much, about Jeanne especially. Why can't you let Madeleine take care of Jeanne? She knows a good deal more about children than you do. That's what we pay her for. The child costs us enough, Heaven knows, and if your salary's going to be cut off, we'll have to be pretty economical."

For a moment Blanche said nothing; her lips quivered, but she controlled herself. Jules looked at her narrowly, and said to himself that she was not half so pretty as she had been; she was growing thinner, and there were little lines in her face that ought not to be in the face of one so young as her mother said she was. How weak, how helpless she seemed! Once the thought of her weakness and ingenuousness had given him pleasure; now it only made him realize his own superiority.

"Perhaps," she suggested hesitatingly, – "perhaps Mr. Marshall might be willing to make a new contract. Perhaps he would let me go on with my performance on the trapeze and the rope – without the dive."

"I've thought of that," Jules replied, rising and going to the closet for his overcoat. "But it isn't at all likely. He's been advertising your dive all over London, and it's been his best feature. He'll be pretty mad when I tell him you're going to give it up. He'll probably try to make me pay a forfeit for breach of contract."

"For breach of contract!" she repeated blankly. "I – "

"Oh, don't worry about it," said Jules, with a pang of regret for the pain he had caused her. "I think I can make that all right. I suppose that old Doctor would write a certificate if I asked him."

He drew on the fur-lined coat, and as he took his gloves from his pocket he started for the door, without kissing Blanche. Then, at the door, glancing back, and seeing her standing in the middle of the room with a look of helpless pain in her face, he turned and walked towards her, and bent his face to hers.

"There, there, dear, don't worry," he said. "You'll be all right again in a little while!" At the door he added: "I shall be back in an hour or two, and tell you what Marshall says."

The hour or two proved to be three hours, and these Blanche passed chiefly in walking up and down the apartment. She could not keep still; she felt convinced that something dreadful was going to happen. She hardly dared even to talk to Jeanne, as if she fancied the child might divine her misery. She feared that she would be unable to give up her performance, and she feared she would have to go on with it. If she did give it up, she had a presentiment that she would pay dear for the release; if she did not, she knew it would result in her death.

Ever since coming to London, she had prepared herself for the catastrophe. No one, not even kind-hearted Mrs. Tate, could imagine the agony of mind she had endured. And it was all for Jeanne! Her very sufferings had fed her love for the child. If she and Jules could go away with Jeanne, far away, where they would never hear or think of performances again, how happy they would be! But she must go on with her work; she ought to fight against her weakness. Jules had said she would grow strong again; she had always believed what he said, and perhaps he was right now. Perhaps after a rest she would want to go back to the ring. But she was afraid, she was afraid! Poor little Jeanne! Every few moments she ran into the room where Jeanne was taking her mid-day sleep. She wanted to clasp the child to her breast and walk up and down the room with her. But for several weeks she had not dared to hold her in her arms for fear of dropping her from nervousness.

Instead of going directly to the Hippodrome, Jules turned into Piccadilly, where he had seen the sign of a French physician. He had suddenly decided to seek further medical advice before speaking to Marshall, and he did not propose to trust Blanche's case to another Englishman. He was obliged to wait in Dr. Viaud's outer office for more than an hour. The Doctor received him with what seemed to Jules an almost suspicious courtesy; but this disappeared as soon as he explained that he was French.

Jules was gratified by the interest paid to his repetition of Blanche's confession of the night before. The Doctor did not interrupt till Jules had mentioned the advice given by the English physician.

"Broughton!" he exclaimed, repeating the name after Jules. "You couldn't have consulted a better man. He's at the head of his profession here in London."

When he had questioned Jules about Blanche's symptoms, he said thoughtfully: "I cannot add anything to the advice Dr. Broughton has given, – that is, of course, with my present knowledge of the case. But I have absolute confidence in his judgment. The pains in the back I do not fear so much as the terrible apprehension that you say haunts your wife. In itself that is, of course, great suffering; and the consequences may be fatal. Your wife's dive requires iron nerve, and that is being constantly weakened by her continual worrying. I agree with Dr. Broughton that she at least needs a rest as soon as possible. There can't be two opinions about that. But I should not like to interfere with Dr. Broughton's – "

Jules understood at once, and rose from his seat.

"I merely wanted to see what you thought. If you had disagreed – "

"Ah, but Dr. Broughton is very reliable!" said the Frenchman, with a smile and a shrug, as if afraid of even a suggestion of professional discourtesy.

Jules left him feeling bitterly disappointed. There was no hope then! He had surmised that the shrewd-eyed Englishman knew his business. There was nothing to do but to go to Marshall and explain the situation.

When he returned from the Hippodrome to the apartment Blanche met him at the door. His face was darkened with a scowl.

"What did he say?" she asked nervously, as he entered and threw his overcoat on a chair. "Was he – was he angry?"

"Angry? No; he was altogether too cool. If he'd been angry I shouldn't have cared. I'd have liked that a good deal better."

"Then we sha'n't have to pay a forfeit?" said Blanche, glancing up into his face.

He turned away and threw himself wearily on the couch. "No, you won't have to pay a forfeit, but you'll have to go on with the engagement."

"With the diving?" she said, her face growing white.

"No, with the other work – on the trapeze and the rope. He said you'd have to elaborate that, and he'd pay you half what you're getting now till you were ready to do the diving again. He wants to keep you on account of your name. He's advertised you all over the city, and even out in the country places near London."

"But he – he doesn't object to my giving up the plunge?" Blanche repeated, in a tone which suggested that her professional pride was hurt.

"He didn't when I told him the Doctor had forbidden your going on with it for a while. Besides, he had another reason for not objecting."

"What was that?"

"He showed me a letter he'd just had from that woman who made such a sensation in Bucharest while we were in Vienna. Don't you remember? I showed you some of her notices. She does a swimming act, and dives from a platform into a tank. She's been playing in the English provinces, and now she wants to come to London."

"So he's going to engage her in my place?" Blanche gasped.

"In your place?" Jules repeated irritably. "How can he engage her in your place when he's going to keep you? We've got to live, and it won't hurt you to go on with your work on the trapeze and the rope. He knows your name will be an attraction, and if he engages that Englishwoman, she'll be another card for him – a big one. He says she's been drawing crowds in Manchester for six weeks."

"What's her name?"

"King – Lottie King – or something like that."

"Is she pretty? Did he show you her pictures?"

"Yes; her manager sent him a whole box of them. She's petite, with wicked little eyes."

"Dark?"

"No, blonde."

"And what is her dive?"

"What?"

"How high is it?"

"Fifty feet, Marshall said; but one of the circus hands told me it wasn't much more, than forty."

"Oh!" There was a suggestion of a sneer in her tone, and Jules looked up in surprise.

"Of course, it's nothing compared with yours," he said, to console her.

"When is she going to begin?" she asked, after a moment.

"Going to begin? Do you mean here in London? Marshall hasn't signed with her yet. She's engaged in Manchester for three weeks longer."

"Then I shall have to go on with my dive till she comes?"

"I suppose so," Jules replied coldly.

She saw that he did not wish to continue the conversation; so she went into the nursery, leaving him lying on the couch, where he often took an afternoon nap; since coming to London he had grown very lazy, and had gained flesh. Blanche found Jeanne wide awake and crowing in Madeleine's arms. She sat beside the cradle, and taking the child in her lap, sent Madeleine out of the room. Jeanne snatched at the brooch she wore at her throat, and laughed into her face. Blanche tried to smile in reply, but the tears welled into her eyes again, and fell in big drops on her cheeks.

XVII

Three days after Jules' talk with Marshall, the forthcoming engagement at the Hippodrome of Miss Lottie King was announced in the London newspapers. Blanche signed a new contract, by which she agreed to perform for several weeks longer on the trapeze and on the rope at half the salary she had been receiving. Marshall said that no mention of the plunge would be made in the papers; her name would continue to "draw," and the public would be satisfied with Miss King's great dive into the tank. This remark made Jules very angry, and it also depressed Blanche, who felt as if she had already been deposed from her supremacy as the chief attraction at the Hippodrome. Indeed, as the time drew near when she was to cease making the plunge, instead of feeling happier, she grew more despondent; she had already elaborated her performance on the trapeze by introducing several new feats that she and Jules had planned together, but with these she was not satisfied; she felt like an actor obliged to play small parts after winning success in leading characters.

As for Jules, he did not try to hide his discontent at the change in his wife's work. In the first place, it made his brief but dramatic public appearance unnecessary; in future he would be obliged to conduct Blanche to the circus, and live again like any mere hanger-on to the skirts of a public performer. The rôle was ignoble, unworthy of him. Then, too, he chafed at the thought of his wife's decline in importance at the Hippodrome; he fancied that when her inability to go on with the plunge had become known to the other performers they would lose respect for her and for himself.

He secretly doubted if the public would accept Blanche merely for her performance on the trapeze and on the rope. Almost any one could do that; but in the plunge she was without a rival. He hoped that, as a compensation for his vexation, the performance of Miss King would be a failure. Forty feet! What did that amount to in comparison with the magnificent plunge of more than ninety feet that Blanche had made at Vienna?

Already Jules had begun to think of his wife in the past tense chiefly, as if she lived in the triumphs she had made by her nightly flight through the air. Indeed, she seemed to him almost another person now. Instead of looking on her almost with reverence, as he had done, he felt sorry for her, as if she were his inferior; and though he continued to treat her with kindness, there was a suggestion of pity, almost of contempt, in his manner toward her. She sought consolation in her child, who, she thought, grew stronger and more beautiful every day. For Jeanne's sake she tried to be glad the time was so near when she should give up risking her life; but the nearer it grew, the more depressed she became, and the more she thought about that woman who was to take her place.

Mrs. Tate, who had definitely taken Blanche under her protection, and called at the little hotel several times each week, had been delighted at what she considered the fortunate solution of a shocking difficulty. Now that Blanche was to stop making that horrible dive, there was no reason why she shouldn't be the happiest woman in the world. With her keen instinct, however, she observed that Blanche was not happy; she wondered, too, at the frequent absence of the husband from this ménage. Jules couldn't be very devoted, she thought, for a man who had been married little more than a year. Perhaps, however, he avoided her; for, in spite of his French politeness, he had not been able to conceal his dislike for her. For this reason she did not ask him to dinner again. She often took Blanche and Jeanne to drive in the afternoon, and pointed out the celebrities that they passed in the Park.

"My husband says I take you to drive just to show you off," she said jokingly one day. "He thinks I have a mania for celebrities."

"Ah, but I'm not a celebrity!" Blanche replied, with a smile that was almost sad.

"Not a celebrity? Of course you are. I haven't a doubt that half the people we meet recognize you. You know, it's been quite the fashion to go to the Hippodrome this year."

"But I sha'n't be a celebrity much longer," said Blanche, glancing at the bare boughs of the trees, and wondering if any other place could be as desolate as London in winter.

"Why not? You don't think of retiring into private life altogether, do you?" Mrs. Tate laughed.

"No, but I shall only be an ordinary performer after this week."

"But I'd rather be an ordinary performer and keep my neck whole than be an extraordinary one and risk my life every night," Mrs. Tate retorted sharply. She was vexed with Blanche for not appreciating her emancipation.

They rode on in silence for a few moments. Then Blanche said, —

"There's some one going to take my place, you know."

"Some one that's going to make that dreadful plunge?" Mrs. Tate cried in horror.

"No, not that. She jumps into a tank of water – from a platform – only about forty feet. My jump is more than seventy-five feet," Blanche added with a touch of pride.

Mrs. Tate rested her hands in her lap and burst out laughing. "What a ridiculous thing! I beg your pardon, dear, but I can't help being amused. Of course it doesn't seem funny to you. You're used to it; but it does to me."

Then she questioned Blanche about the new performer, and Blanche repeated what Jules had told her and what she had since heard of the woman at the Hippodrome. Mrs. Tate was greatly interested, and laughed immoderately; afterward, however, when she had returned home and thought over the conversation, she regarded it more seriously.

"What do you think, Percy?" she said at the dinner table that night. "Those Hippodrome people have engaged a creature to dive into a tank of water from a platform. Of course, that's to take the place of Madame Le Baron's plunge. Could anything be more absurd? The worst of it is that the poor little woman is frightfully jealous already. I could see that from the way she talked. What a dreadful world it is, isn't it? They're all like that, aren't they, even the best of them? Do you remember that poor Madame Gardini who sang here one night? She told me if she had her life to live over again she'd never dream of going on the stage. She said opera-singers were the unhappiest people in the world, – just poisoned with jealousy. And these circus people are exactly like them!"

"What makes you think she's jealous? What was it she said?"

"It wasn't what she said, it was the way she talked about the woman. Her husband says she's a great beauty."

"Ah, the husband says so, does he?" Tate remarked dryly. A moment later he added: "I wish you hadn't had anything to do with those people!"

"You've said that a dozen times, Percy, and I wish you'd stop. For my part, I'm very glad I've met them. If I hadn't, that poor little creature would be in her grave before the end of a year."

"Perhaps she'll wish that she were in her grave before the end of the year."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, dear, nothing. Don't catch at everything I say. How is she now – any better? I suppose she's easier in mind now that she's going to stop that diving?"

"That's the strangest thing about it," Mrs. Tate answered, with a change of tone. "I thought she would be, too, but she isn't. I really believe she's sorry she's giving it up. But perhaps that's because she's been doing it all her life. She'll miss it at first – even if it did worry her nearly to death!"

"Has Dr. Broughton been to see her lately?"

"No; he said it wouldn't be necessary. He's going to wait to see what effect the rest from the diving will have on her."

For a few moments Tate looked thoughtfully at his wife. "Upon my word," he said, "I half suspect that you want something to happen to that little woman. It would just be romantic enough to suit you."

"Percy, how can you talk so? You're simply brutal."

"She might at least break a leg to please you," her husband laughed, "before giving up that plunge."

Blanche made her last dive without the accident that Tate had regarded as indispensable to dramatic effect. Indeed, since knowing that she was to give it up, she seemed to have lost much of her terror of the plunge; she thought of it now chiefly with regret. That night, as she rode home with Jules and Madeleine, she seemed depressed; Jules, too, was even more sullen than he had been for the past two weeks. When they had entered the lodgings and were eating their midnight meal, she said: —

"If to-morrow is pleasant we might take Jeanne for a drive in the country. The air would do her good."

"I can't go," he replied indifferently. "I have something else to do. Besides, it would cost too much. We shall have to be economical now that you're going to be on half-salary."

The next morning Jules left the hotel at eleven o'clock, saying that he shouldn't be back for luncheon. He did not explain where he was going, and Blanche did not question him. She busied herself with Jeanne, and this distracted her till Jeanne fell sound asleep. Then she became a prey to her old melancholy, and for an hour she walked up and down the room, to the bewilderment of Madeleine, who could not understand what the matter was.

"Is Madame suffering with the pain in her back?" Madeleine asked at last.

No, Madame was not suffering. She had not been troubled by the pain for several days; she hoped it would leave her for good now that she had stopped taking the plunge.

"Ah, God be praised that you do that no longer!" Madeleine cried, lifting her withered hands to heaven and rolling her eyes. "It was too terrible. Since that first night in Paris, when I went with you and Monsieur Jules, I never dared to look. It was affreux!"

"But Jules loved it," said Blanche, throwing herself into a chair beside the old woman.

Ah, yes, Madeleine acknowledged. He used to rave about it in the little flat in the rue de Lisbonne. Once Madeleine heard him talking in his sleep about the circus and the wonderful dive; he always slept with his door wide-open, and she often heard him talking away like one wide-awake. He had told her that it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and no other woman in the world would have dared to do it. Madeleine was always delighted to have a chance to talk about Jules, and she babbled on, never suspecting that her words were making Blanche suffer.