"Oh, thematinée!" Jeanne pouted, turning for sympathy to Jules. "Who cares for thematinée! Isn't it too bad?" she went on in a low voice, so that her mothershouldn'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 thesalon.
"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 upso 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 girlleft 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 thefiancés! 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 whenshe 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 noreason 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.
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 theTriomphein 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 theCirque 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 MadamePerrault, 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 afêtein the morning after mass, with a Christmas tree laden with presents, and decorated with candles and trinkets andbonbons. 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 theengagement 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 beengreatly vexed by the paragraph in theTriompheand had attributed it to Durand; but Jules explained that theTriomphewas 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 therue 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, involvingseveral journeys to therue 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 thosequeer little gold watches that women carry, set with jewels, or one of those bracelets that we saw in the shop in therue de la Paixthe 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 saidreassuringly. "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 theConfiteor."
"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 gofor, because theyaresorry, 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 littledévoteshe 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 thelycée, 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 theBoulevards, or reading the papers in thecafés, as he had of late been doing till half-past ten, he took afiacreto 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 ofhis 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 theConfiteor. 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 ifhe had thrown off the burden of his past life and received a benediction.
The next afternoon, when Jules entered with Blanche the church ofSt. 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 mighthave the courage and grace to make a good confession. Then he went over again the sins that he had to confess, and he repeated theConfiteorand 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 thoughtsturned 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 ofthis 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 theConfiteor, 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 slidewas 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 twodays later; thepetit salonwas 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 feltradiantly 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 therue St. Honoréwith Madeleine, who looked a dozen years younger in her simple black silk with a piece of white lace at her throat, the gift ofMadame 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 reachedSt. Philippe, and a crowd of idlers hung about the door and followed them into the church.
To Jules the mass that preceded the marriage ceremony seemed interminable; he kept glancing at Blanche's flushed face and downcast eyes, and plucking at his gloves. Then, when he found himself standing before the priest, holding Blanche's hand, and listening to the solemn words of the service, he came near bursting into tears. He thought afterward how ridiculous he would have been if he hadn't been able to control himself. He was relieved when the service was ended, and as he walked to the vestry with his wife on his arm, he could have laughed aloud for joy.
When the register had been signed and they had shaken hands with the priest, they drove at once to thecaféin theavenue de l'Opéra, where Jules had ordered a sumptuous breakfast. There they remained till fouro'clock. Monsieur Berthier was the gayest of them all, and he was seconded by Jeanne, who pretended to flirt desperately with Jules and made pert speeches to Pelletier. Then they all returned to therue St. Honoré, where Blanche changed her wedding finery for a travelling dress.
During the farewell between Blanche and her family, Jules suffered; he never could bear the sight of women in tears. He was greatly relieved when he put his almost hysterical wife and Madeleine into the carriage, and slammed the door behind him.
They went straight to Vienna, arriving fatigued from their long journey. After three days, spent at a little French hotel, Jules found near theRingstrassea furnished apartment that suited him, and they took possession at the end of the week.
Blanche soon felt at home, but Madeleine, though she had become deeply attached to her new mistress, and now had more companionship than she had known since the death of Jules' mother, secretly grieved for her beloved Paris, and looked and acted as if utterly bewildered.
The day of his arrival in Vienna, Jules proceeded to the Circus and had a long talk with Herr Prevost, the manager, with regard to his wife's engagement. He explained the difference in the plunge Blanche would be obliged to take there from her usual one, and persuaded Prevost to make this a featurein his advertisements; he also secured permission for Blanche to practise in the ring every morning till her engagement began.
So he went back to the hotel elated, and explained to Blanche that, after all, in the theatrical life good management was half the battle. Now that she had shaken off that worthless Pelletier and he himself had taken charge of her affairs, she would undoubtedly be recognized in a very few years as the greatest acrobat in the world.
She must sit at once, in costume, for some new photographs, and he would send them to the leading managers of Europe and America. If they could only arrange to go to America under good auspices, their fortune would be made. Instead of receiving, as they were doing in Vienna, five hundred francs a week, they would be paid as much as twice that amount in New York, if not more. Indeed, Jules had so much to say about America, he seemed to have it on the brain.
Blanche experienced no difficulty in making her plunge in the new amphitheatre, and after her first trial there, declared that she had no fear for the public performances.Jules, however, insisted on her practising every morning; she must keep her muscles limber, he said; besides, if she didn't practise, she might lose confidence.
He found himself treating her as her mother had done, directing her movements like those of a child, and she obeyed him as if she considered his attitude toward her eminently natural and right. Even Madeleine adopted a motherly tone with her, chose the dresses she should wear each day, and instructed her in a thousand feminine details.
Blanche, Jules was surprised and secretly annoyed to discover, could speak German, and in the mornings she sometimes gave him lessons. He also picked up a good deal of German slang in thecafésthat he frequented during the day, where he drank coffee and read whatever French and English papers he could find.
After his wife's performances began, he found himself falling into a routine of life. In spite of his distaste for his duties at the wool-house, he had expected to miss them at first; but he quickly became accustomed tohis leisure. He really considered himself a busy person, for in addition to his nightly appearance in the arena, momentary but intensely dramatic, he spent considerable time in fraternizing with the Viennese journalists, to secure newspaper puffs for his wife, in conferring with Prevost, and in corresponding with managers for future engagements. After his first month in Vienna, he felt as if he had been connected with the circus for years.
Blanche heard constantly from home, from either her mother or one of the two girls,—more often from Louise than from Jeanne, who hated to write letters. Six weeks after her departure from Paris, her mother became Madame Berthier, without, as she had said, "any fuss," and was now installed with the children in the big house where Félix had passed so many lonely years as a bachelor. Jules and Blanche wrote a joint letter of congratulation, and after that Blanche seemed even happier than she had been; it was so good, she said, to think that the girls were provided for.
In the afternoons Jules took walks ordrives with his wife, and on Sundays he accompanied her to early mass in the little church that they had discovered near their apartment. Blanche would have liked to go to high mass, but to this Jules strenuously objected; it was too long, and he couldn't understand the sermon, and altogether it made him sleepy. Sometimes on Sundays they would go to one of thecafésfordéjeuneror dinner, and over this they used to be very happy, for it recalled the first months of their love.
After a time, however, these walks grew less frequent. Jules stayed at home more, and Madeleine became solicitous for Blanche's health. Jules had long talks with Prevost; Blanche had been engaged at the Circus for three months, and Prevost wished to reengage her for the spring season; but Jules explained that he had already received several offers for the spring, and had refused them all; his wife needed a long rest, and from Vienna they would go to Boulogne for a few months, to be with her people.
The reference to the engagements was not exactly true; Jules had one offer only for thesummer; that was from Trouville. For the autumn he had a fairly generous offer from South America, and a better one from the Hippodrome in London, to begin on the first of December. He had practically decided to accept the offer from London; but before giving a definite answer, he resolved to consult Blanche about it.
"It will just fit in with our plans," he said. "On the first of May we'll take a good long rest. We'll go to your mother's old house. It hasn't been let yet, you know, and no one will want it before then. So you and Madeleine and I will live there together, and we'll pass the days out of doors, and take long walks by the sea, and forget all about the circus. Then, when you are well and strong again, we'll go to London, and astonish the English, who think there's nothing good in France. What do you say, dear? Don't you think that's a good plan?"
"Yes," she said slowly. "It will be very nice, Jules, if—"
"If? If what?"
"If I'm alive," she answered softly, turning her head away.
He took her in his arms and pressed his cheek against hers. "What a foolish little girl it is to talk like that! Of course you'll be alive, and you'll be even better and stronger and happier than you are now. And then think of all the good times you'll have this summer with Jeanne and Louise and your mother and Monsieur Berthier. We'll havefêtesfor the girls at our house, and every day we'll go to see your mother. You don't think she'll be too proud to receive us, do you, now that she's rich and important? I suppose she's the queen of Boulogne, with her carriages and her horses and her servants. She'll soon be getting a husband for Jeanne, some fine young fellow with a lot of money. And won't Jeanne put him through his paces? She's a high-stepper, that Jeanne, and I should pity the man who got her and didn't understand her. Think of trying to keep Jeanne down!"
In her moments of depression he always spoke to her like that, and for the time it cheered her; but when the spring came, she drooped visibly, and Jules becamealarmed; sometimes she would have attacks of convulsive weeping, and these would be followed by hours of profound sadness, during which she spoke scarcely a word. There were other days when she would be full of courage and hope, gayer than she had ever been; then they would drive into the country and she would take deep draughts of the fresh spring air, and her eyes would brighten and her cheeks flush.
In spite of his anxiety, these days were very happy for Jules; the thought that he might lose her made her dearer to him. Sometimes he would take her hand and tell her that without her he couldn't live; she had made him realize how wretched his existence had been before marriage; he could not go back to that again. Then she would rest her head on his shoulder and whisper that she would try to be brave. Her sufferings seemed to be wholly in her mind; the doctor Jules consulted said that, bodily, she was perfectly strong, and could easily fill her engagement at the circus; her work in the ring had given her a remarkable development of the muscles and the chest;if she stopped the work now, and ceased to practise, she would suffer from the inaction.
Jules, however, felt relieved when the fifteenth of April came, and they were able to leave Vienna for Paris. There they remained only a day, for they were eager to reach Boulogne and the little home that Madame Berthier had arranged for them, in the house where Blanche had been born, and had passed the few weeks in each year when she was not travelling.
When they arrived, early in the afternoon, Madame Berthier and the girls, together with Berthier, were at the station to meet them, and they received a rapturous greeting, the girls clinging to their sister with frantic embraces.
"We haddéjeunerprepared for you at your house," said Madame, when the first greetings were over. "I knew you'd want to go there the first thing. Then to-night you are to come and dine with us. I feel as if I hadn't seen you for years."
"But we've never met Madame Berthier before," Jules replied, making a feeble attempt to be gay, for he saw that Blanche'smeeting with her mother threatened to upset her.
Madame blushed like a young girl, and turning, led the way to the carriages.
"One of these is for you and Jules," she said. "I don't mean just for now, but for all the time you are here. Félix chose the horse for you, dear, and she's so gentle you can drive her alone if you want to."
"I'm going to put the three girls and their mother in the big carriage," Berthier said to Jules, "and you and Madeleine and I will follow them." The arrival of his stepdaughter seemed to have given him as much pleasure as any of the others, and his good-natured face was radiant. "Jump in, girls," he cried, holding out his hand to Blanche. "We'll have to turn those lilies of yours into roses this summer, my dear. Here, Jeanne, stop flirting with Jules, or we won't let you come with us. You wouldn't have known our little Louise, Blanche, if you hadn't expected to find her here, would you? She's grown an inch in four months. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever known in my life. And would you believe it?—she'sbecome a perfect chatterbox—she's worse than Jeanne. Sometimes I have to run out of the room to read my paper in peace and have a quiet smoke."
The whole family seemed to have agreed to assume toward Blanche the bantering tone that Jules had adopted. When they reached the house they continued their gayety, though Blanche, tired from her journey, sank weakly on the couch in thesalon.
She looked around, however, and saw that the room had been redecorated, probably by Monsieur Berthier, and when she felt rested she went all over the house and observed many new pieces of furniture, and many touches here and there that made the place more attractive and homelike. "Ah, it is so good to be at home," she said to her mother when they were alone; and then Madame Berthier took her in her arms and kissed her on the forehead and told her she must have courage for Jules' sake.
After the excitement of Paris and Vienna, Jules found it hard to accustom himself to the dull life at Boulogne. He bought a small yacht, and found amusement in sailing withhis new acquaintances, and sometimes, when the weather was fine, he took Blanche and the girls with him. He also occupied himself with the little garden around his cottage; but this soon bored him, and he gave it over to Monsieur Berthier's gardener, who came every few days to look after it. In the afternoons he drove with Blanche far into the country, and sometimes they stopped at a littlecaféby the roadside and had an early dinner, and then hurried home before the damp night should close around them.
On these occasions they had many earnest talks, and Jules was surprised by the seriousness and depth of his wife's mind; at any rate, she impressed him as being wonderfully profound. The longer he knew her, the more she awed and puzzled him; there were moments when she seemed to dwell in another world, a world that made her almost a stranger to him.
Since her return to Boulogne she had grown much more cheerful than she had been during those last weeks in Vienna; but a thousand little things she said showed him that beneath the surface of her thought therestill lurked a strange melancholy, an unchangeable conviction that life was slipping away from her. He spoke of this once to her mother, and she explained mysteriously that he must expect that; it was very natural with one of Blanche's temperament. She had known many cases like it before.
As the summer passed, Jules said little to his wife about the circus; indeed, her work was scarcely mentioned between them, though every morning she practised her exercises. Jules, however, had decided that they should go to London late in November and, the first week of the following month, appear at the Hippodrome, which had been established with great success the year before, at a short distance from the Houses of Parliament. The contract had not been signed, for Jules had written to Marshall, the manager, that he could not bind himself to an engagement until early in the autumn; but he explained that his word was as good as any contract.
When September came, Blanche seemed much better for her months of rest; her eyes were brighter, and her cheeks were shot with color. Sometimes Jules wished thatshe were not quite so religious; she went to early mass every morning now, and rather than let her go alone, he went with her, for Madeleine had assumed the duties of the household. Their evenings, which during the summer had been spent chiefly on the porch of Monsieur Berthier's house, were now passed in theirsalon, bright with flowers, sometimes with a wood-fire crackling on the old-fashioned hearth. Blanche's fingers were always busy with soft, fleecy garments, which Jules used sometimes to take in his hands and rub affectionately against his face. Then he often noticed a light in her eyes that he had never seen before; it reminded him of pictures of the Madonna. Sometimes he was so touched when he looked at her that he would take her in his arms and hold her close for a long while. Their evenings together became very dear to him; yet they said little to each other: he was content to sit and watch her, with the curtains drawn to shut out the rest of the world.
Occasionally Father Dumény would come in for an hour's chat. He was a large-framed, heavy man, with deep gray eyes shaded byenormous eyebrows that moved up and down as he spoke. He spoke as he walked, slowly and lumberingly, and he had a quaint humor that used to delight Blanche and puzzle Jules. When he appeared, she always brightened, and she liked to hear his doleful accounts of his rheumatism. He seemed to find humor in everything, even in his arduous duties and his ailments.
"Ah, my children," he would say, "why should any one go to the theatre for pleasure? This life is nothing but a comedy, if you only look at it in the right way."
From Blanche he derived a great deal of amusement; that she should perform in a circus always seemed a joke to him, and he was continually making fun over it. He had never been at a circus; so, though he had baptized Blanche and had met her during her visits in Boulogne, he had never seen her perform. Once when Jules showed him a photograph of Blanche as she appeared while posing on the rope, he rolled his eyes and pretended to be much shocked, and they all laughed together.
"I suppose you two people will be leavingthis nest of yours before winter comes," he said one night. "You've made your plans already, haven't you?"
Jules looked down at Blanche, but she avoided his eyes.
"We haven't decided definitely," Jules replied, "but we think of going to London."
Blanche sighed, and Father Dumény glanced at her quickly and then smiled up at Jules.
"She has a notion that she isn't going to live," Jules added, nodding at his wife. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"
Father Dumény put his hands to his sides, and for a moment his great body shook with laughter.
"Why, I expect to baptize at least half a dozen of your children! In a few years we shall see them trotting around here in Boulogne and coming to my Sunday-school to be prepared for their first communion. We need all the good Catholics we can have, in these days, to fight against the infidelity that's ruining the country. Ah, my dear child," he said, patting Blanche's hand, "when you're a grandmother with a troopof children around you, you'll look back and smile at these foolish little fears."
After that night he came oftener, and kept Blanche laughing with his gayety.
"When you go to London," he said one evening, "I shall give you letters to some dear English friends of mine,—Mr. and Mrs. Tate. I met the Tates when I was in Paris visiting Father Brémont more than ten years ago. Mr. Tate represented the banking-house of Welling Brothers, of London, there, and now he's in London as a member of the firm, I believe. You'll like Mrs. Tate, my dear. She's a good soul, and she speaks French almost as well as English. I shall expect to hear that you've become great friends."
"But we aren't sure of going to England yet," Blanche replied with a weary smile.
"Perhaps we shall go to America," Jules laughed. "I want Blanche to see the country."
Toward the end of September Blanche drooped again, and her mother was with her nearly every moment of the day, remaining sometimes till late at night. The girls had gone back to the convent, but theywere allowed to come home twice a week, and most of their freedom they devoted to their sister, whom they treated with a protecting tenderness that used to afford Jules secret amusement. Madame Berthier maintained a cheerful composure in her daughter's presence, but when alone with Jules she became so serious that for the first time he grew nervous. Then as his anxiety deepened he began to resent it, as he did any long-continued annoyance. Why should they be kept in idleness and suspense so long? How stupid to be buried in a wretched provincial town when they might be earning thousands of francs in Vienna, or Bucharest, or Paris!
Then one night he was suddenly aroused from his sleep, and he felt a sensation of mingled horror and awe. He dressed himself quickly, his whole being wrung by the groans he heard from the next room, and tore out of the house to Doctor Brutinière's, five minutes away. After delivering his message, he ran breathlessly to summon Madame Berthier. It took her scarcely five minutes to dress, and then they werein the street together. Madame Berthier went at once to Blanche's room, and Jules paced up and down in the half-lightedsalon.
That was the ghastliest night of Jules Le Baron's life. He was overwhelmed by the knowledge that Blanche was in agony, that she was battling for life, that at any moment he might hear she was dead. Why should the burden of suffering fall on her? Oh, how cruel Nature was, how pitiless to women! The poor child, the poor little one, to be tortured so! Several times he listened for a sound, and the silence terrified him. Suddenly he heard a shriek, loud and piercing, that only the most exquisite pain could have wrung, and he clenched his hands in impotent horror and misery.
The stillness that followed made him fear that she was dead, and he could hardly keep from rushing up the stairs and learning the truth. After a few moments, as he stood at the door, he heard another cry, small, timorous, peevish, that changed to a wail and then died away. He turned into the room, clapsed his face in his hands, and cried, "Thank God, thank God! Andmercy for her, my God, mercy for my poor little Blanche!"
After what seemed to him a long time, during which he was tortured with suspense, a door opened and shut, and he heard a rustling on the stairs. He stepped out into the hall and saw Madame Berthier descending. She stopped, smiled, and put her hand to her lips; he could see traces of tears in her eyes.
"Come up," she whispered. "It's all over. It's a girl, and Blanche has her in her arms."
Jules bounded up the stairs. "Only a minute, you know," she said softly, "and you must be very quiet."
When she opened the door he almost pushed her aside in his eagerness to enter. The Doctor and Madeleine were standing beside the bed, where Blanche, white but bright-eyed and smiling, was lying with the babe nestling close to her. Jules flung himself by her side, and kissed her passionately, murmuring incoherent words of love and thankfulness.
The weeks of convalescence that followed were the happiest Blanche had ever known. She felt wrapped in the devotion of her husband and her family, and exalted by her love for her child. At moments she feared that she could not live through such happiness. Sometimes she would fancy that all her sufferings had been only a dream, and then she would turn and find with a thrill of joy the babe lying beside her. Jules would sit by the bed holding her hand, and making jokes about their daughter's future. They had decided that she should be called Jeanne, and no one but Father Dumény should baptize her.
One morning, when Blanche was sitting up in bed for the first time, Jules entered the room with a letter in his hand and in his face a look of exultation.
"It's from Marshall," he said, "from the Hippodrome in London, you know. Hewants me to make a contract for six months, from the first of January. I was afraid he might back out because we held off so long. But this makes it all right. You'll have more than a month to get strong again and to practise in."
Jules was so excited by the prospect that he did not notice the look of alarm that had appeared in his wife's eyes. She lay still, with one arm extended on the coverlet, her head leaning to one side, and her dark hair making a background for her white face.
"'We want you to open on the first,'" Jules read aloud. "'Let us hear from you as soon as possible and we will send on the contract for your signature.' Of course," he went on, folding the note, "we must jump at it. What do you say?"
For a moment she looked at him without speaking. Then she replied weakly, "Do what you think best, Jules."
"Good!" he said, jumping up. "I'll write now. We've lost a lot of time, you know, and we must make up for it when we get back to work."
"Do you—do you think I'll be strong enough?" she went on, as if she hadn't heard him.
"Strong enough!" he laughed. "Of course you'll be strong enough in seven weeks more. You're nearly your old self now," he added affectionately. "Don't you worry about that."
When he had closed the door and left her alone, she felt as if her body were sinking into the bed from weakness. The circus again! That ghastly plunge! Since the birth of her child she had hardly thought of it. Now the thought horrified her! How could she leave her babe and risk her life night after night? Perhaps some night—oh! it was too horrible. She couldn't, she couldn't! She lifted her hands to her face as if to shut out the horror of the thought. Then she turned to the little Jeanne who was sleeping beside her, and drew her close to her bosom.
She had lost courage! It would never come back to her. When Jules returned she would tell him, and she would beg him, for Jeanne's sake, to give up that engagementin London till she felt well again. Oh, if they could only leave the circus forever! If she could only do as other women did, devote her life to her child. The circus was no place for a mother.
Then it suddenly flashed upon her that if she said these things to Jules he would urge her to place Jeanne in her mother's care while they were in England; but to that she would never consent, never. She would rather give up performing altogether. Yes, when Jules came back she would speak of this. He loved the circus, but for Jeanne's sake he would give it up, she knew he would.
But when Jules did return, he was so enthusiastic about the engagement in London that she did not dare oppose it. "Think of the sensation we'll make there!" he said. "How those stupid English will open their eyes! And then we'll surely have big offers from other places. After a London success we can make a fortune in America. They say the Americans are crazy over everything that makes a hit in London. Oh," he went on, stretching his arms and yawning, "it will be a relief to get out of this dull old town.Think of the months we've wasted here. I feel rusty already."
Something in his tone as well as his words frightened her, and a feeling of helplessness came over her when he put his hand on her forehead and said gently: "You must try to get strong as soon as possible, dear. Think of all the practising you'll have to do for your plunge."
She turned her head away, and he observed nothing strange in her manner. She wanted to speak of taking Jeanne with them, but a fear that he might object restrained her.
Two days later, when her mother and Jules were in the room together, Madame Berthier, with apparent carelessness, asked what they were going to do with the little one while they were travelling. "Of course you can't carry her about with you. So you'd better leave her with me. I'll take the best of care of her."
She was startled by the light that flashed into her daughter's eyes. "No, no!" Blanche cried. "We shall keep her with us always. I couldn't bear to leave her here.I couldn't—I couldn't go away without her."
Madame Berthier and Jules exchanged glances, and Blanche saw that her intuition was correct. They had been discussing the project of leaving the child in Boulogne. She felt as if they were conspiring against her.
"Don't you think it would be better if your mother—" Jules began, but Blanche cut him short.
"We shall have Madeleine. She will help me to take care of Jeanne. I couldn't go without her," she repeated, with tears in her voice.
"There, there!" said Madame Berthier, becoming alarmed. "Have your own way. Perhaps it's better that you should keep the child with you."
Blanche read annoyance in her husband's face, but she said nothing. A few moments later, Madame Berthier left the room and Jules followed. She knew they had gone to discuss the little scene that had just taken place. But she resolved that she would not give up the child! Rather than do that she would stay in Boulogne.
The fear of being separated from Jeanne, made her decide not to refer in any way to her terror of the plunge. That might strengthen Jules' belief that the presence of the child disturbed her, and he might insist on a separation. Besides, she tried to convince herself that as she grew stronger her nervousness would disappear. It must of course be due solely to her weak condition. Once restored to health, the plunge would be, as it always had been, merely part of her daily routine.
But in spite of her rapidly increasing strength, Blanche found that after three weeks she was still depressed by the thought of her season in London. Jules complained that she was devoting herself too much to Jeanne; she must drive out more, and walk with the girls, and give more time to her exercises. Her mother, too, grew severe with her. "One would think there never was another child in the world," she said, and then Blanche suspected that Jules had been complaining of her. "The little one is a dear, and I love her," Madame Berthier continued, "but you have your work to do,and you must think of that too. No wonder Jules is growing impatient."
Jules had already received the contract for the engagement at the Hippodrome, and on signing it at his request, Blanche had had a horrible fancy that she was putting her signature to a warrant for her own doom. Once she thought of confiding her fear to her mother, but her mother would be sure to repeat what she said to Jules. At any cost, she felt she must hide it from him. Then she determined to tell Father Dumény, but when the moment came she had not courage to put her feeling into words, and she was ashamed of it as a superstition. So she decided that she would keep the miserable secret to herself, finding no relief save in gusts of weeping when she was alone with the child.
Once Jules found her with traces of tears in her eyes. "What's the matter?" he asked gently, taking her hand.
She turned her head away. "I don't feel well," she said.
He looked at her closely. "You'll be well when you get back to your work. That's what the matter is. You aren't usedto being idle. The best thing for us to do is to leave here the day after Christmas. That will give you nearly a week for practice in London, and we'll have time to look about for rooms there. Since we are going to have Jeanne with us, we'll want to take an apartment in some quiet street."
When he went away she sat for a long time without speaking. In a week they would be far away from this place, among strangers. She wondered why she had not suffered so on leaving home before. Until now she had regarded the circus as part of her life; she had not hoped for any other kind of life. How strange it was that Jules should love it so! Sometimes it seemed——But it was right that she should go on with her work, for she must earn money for the little Jeanne now. Perhaps in a few years she would make a fortune, and then Jules could not object to her leaving the circus. But before a few years passed she would be obliged to go through her performance more than a thousand times. At this thought her heart seemed to stop beating, and then it thumped against her side.
Their Christmas in Boulogne at Monsieur Berthier's house reminded them of theirfêtein Paris of the year before. Berthier himself led in the gayety, and the girls were in the wildest spirits. Blanche sat among them with the child in her arms, looking, as Jules said, as if she were posing for a Madonna. In the evening Father Dumény came to bid his friends good-bye. He pretended to pinch the little Jeanne on the cheek, and he made jokes with Blanche about her terror before the child's birth. "She's the healthiest baby I've ever baptized," he said. "You should have heard her roar when I poured the water on her head. That's a good sign. I suppose you'll make a great performer of her too," he continued, smiling into the face of the mother, but growing serious when he saw the effect of the question.
"Never!" exclaimed Blanche.
"We're going to earn a fortune for her," said Jules with a smile. "So she won't have to work at all. We'll settle down in Paris and make a fine lady of her, and marry her into the nobility."
Blanche did not speak again for a longtime. They knew she was depressed at the thought of leaving home the next day. When Father Dumény rose, he took a letter from the pocket of his long black coat.