CHAPTER VIITHE PROPOSAL
With her slow and lingering step Madame Guibert came up the avenue of plane-trees. For this visit of ceremony she was dressed in her newest black dress, and Paule with the greatest care had done her hair and arranged the folds of the widow’s veil.
“You look splendid now,” her son and daughter assured her, as she was getting into the carriage before the steps at Le Maupas. In spite of his mother’s protestations, Marcel had ordered a smart Victoria for her instead of Trélaz’s old carriage.
Nodding and smiling at her children with great tenderness, she drove away in all confidence, like a messenger of peace and happiness. But she discovered the way was very short and the strange horse very fast. It was her wish to get out at the gate of the Avenue at La Chênaie, so that the unusual luxury of her carriage might not be noticed. It gave her a kind of awkward feeling, it seemed a lie to her honest soul.
“You can put me down here,” she said to the coachman. “I will walkthe rest of the way.” She went along the avenue leaning on her black parasol. Her heart was beating furiously. In spite of her bravery in facing life, she was still very shy, and society terrified her. In her natural honesty and uprightness, she understood very little about the polite phrases and forms which so cleverly hide the selfish or wicked trend of the speaker’s thoughts—or the utter lack of them. Then, too, she had an exaggerated idea of her own awkwardness and found another cause of anxiety in that; not at all on her own account, but on her son’s, for the sake of whose happiness she still, despite her old age, desired to please.
But then, did she not know full well in advance the result of her undertaking? Could anyone hesitate joyfully to accept the offer of her dear Marcel, whose whole life proclaimed his worth? It was not merely because she was his mother. Love didn’t blind her in the least when she saw and admired the physical seductiveness of his tall, graceful figure, upright as a sapling; of his proudly carried head, his fine, strong features, and above all his eyes, whose glance could chill or warm according as they gazed sternly or kindly—greenish eyes, but large in size, full of fire and astonishingly direct in their expression. What she knew of him she imagined, poor mother, ever other woman must be able to read in his face; the energy whichmet difficulties with dignity, almost with disdain; that generous and active kindliness of heart; that commanding quality of voice and gesture which told of an ardent spirit and a vigorous mind, the character of a born leader. Certainly he was not one of the insipid, stupid race who conceal their dry, selfish, hard souls under a worldly polish and a uniform correctness of manner. She who consented to share his lot, to suffer and to dare with him, would have no dull, commonplace existence. He would enlarge her mind, expand her feelings, and bring to maturity the flower of her soul, whose complete unfoldment is the most beautiful thing in human life.
And then had not Madame Dulaurens been told by her daughter of the proposed visit and that her request had already been granted? So Madame Guibert came with mingled confidence and apprehension to the Dulaurens’ villa. The walk tired her, she was growing stout, and the seriousness of the occasion contributed its share to her fatigue. She respected Marcel’s choice though it was not hers, and she was ready to forget her own wishes and bow to his. She was prepared to give her whole-hearted assistance in the new life which was in store for him, and cherished the thought that within a few minutes she would be welcoming another daughter to her home and her affections.
Before ringing she stopped, to quiet the beatings of her heart andto take breath. She did not raise her eyes to the window where the desperate and heart-broken Alice was crying her eyes out.
Madame Guibert was received by M. Dulaurens in the drawing-room and she saw a happy omen in this. The little insignificant man could not be expected to make much impression on her, and the meeting with him gave her a little more time to recover herself. After a few polite words which he tried to amplify as much as possible, Madame Guibert found herself unable to keep back the object of her visit any longer and said:
“You have guessed why I came to a Chênaie, Monsieur Dulaurens?” And she smiled sweetly, with that pretty, fresh smile that she had kept to old age and which was the reflection of a soul that had remained pure and unsullied.
“No, Madame Guibert, I am quite in the dark concerning it. We are greatly flattered, I assure you, by your visit. I only regret that Madame Dulaurens is not here.”
Greatly worried, and afraid to assume any disturbing responsibility, the unhappy man could not rest. He pulled the bell quickly and when the maid answered it he asked:
“Have you told Madame?”
“I am looking for her, Sir. Madame is not in her room. Madame is perhaps with Mademoiselle in Monsieur’s room.”
“Perhaps so. Go and tell her.”
And turning to Madame Guibert, trying to gain time, he said:
“It is tiresome, very tiresome, but, as you see, they are looking for her, they have gone to tell her. She will not be long. I am very sorry to keep you waiting.”
“What I have to say, Monsieur, interests you quite as much as Madame Dulaurens,” said Madame Guibert, who was so full of her mission that she did not think of noticing her questioner’s little tricks. The terrified M. Dulaurens had sat down, but he at once got up again. Was he going to be left alone to answer this most embarrassing question? Would they make him receive the first shock in this way? No, it was impossible; his wife would have to be present at the interview.
“I assure you she is coming,” he cried hurriedly. “Please wait a minute, Madame, I beg you. Madame Dulaurens would be so sorry to miss your call. And you could certainly explain things better to her. That is quite clear, quite clear.”
As he multiplied his words he rang the bell again and, quite unable to stand the strain any longer, went to the door and half opened it.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” he said.
As he put his head into the corridor Madame Guibert raised her eyesand surprised him in this frightened and pitiful attitude. A crushed man is still more to be pitied than a fool. Madame Guibert felt ashamed for him and thought:
“It will certainly be much better to wait for Madame Dulaurens. What I could say to him would matter very little.”
A slight misgiving began to lessen her confidence. She mentally compared her poor companion with her own husband whom no circumstance could have deprived of his composure, his clear-sightedness, his firmness.
“What a difference!” she reflected sorrowfully, for she was quite incapable of overbearing pride. She did not think of herself, who had made such splendid, fearless men and women of her sons and daughters.
While M. Dulaurens was persistently enquiring after her health she was looking affectionately at a portrait of Alice as a child.
“She has scarcely changed at all,” she said. “Dear little Alice, so pretty and gentle. How we shall love her! She is so frail and delicate, but she will grow stronger. We will surround her with love and care. We will make a hardy flower of this hothouse blossom. And perhaps she will keephimnear us better than I could. I am so old now, and every year these separations become more and more cruel.”
She did not disguise from herself her womanly weakness.
At last Madame Dulaurens burst in like a whirl-wind. She flew to her husband’s assistance. Fearing that by now he might have blundered and said, something stupid, she had come downstairs as quickly as she could. The severity of her rule did not suffice to reassure her, for she scarcely suspected the despotism of it.
In many flattering words she excused herself to Madame Guibert for keeping her waiting. The latter, at the sight of her, had already lost almost all of her modest confidence. What could she expect of a favorable nature from this still beautiful and elegant woman, whose high-pitched voice, so patronising and hard, whose affected politeness scarcely hid the pride and dryness of her soul. At once she felt the difference in their points of view concerning the serious things of life. An abyss separated them, which only youth and love, in their madness, could think of bridging over. She had a secret conviction that all which weighed so heavily on her heart was going to be held as naught, and that all her devotion, her energy, and her toil, the true mark of aristocracy in the human race, would presently be matched against those worldly pretensions of which she thought nothing at Le Maupas and of which she discovered suddenly the disturbing reality.Feeling the weakness of her age and poverty, she implored God’s help.
In the meantime Madame Dulaurens continued to shower compliments and attentions on her visitor and got ready to profit by the shyness which she suspected to find. As she heaped up praise on large families, Madame Guibert saw her opportunity to introduce her request.
“How good you are, Madame, to say so! Yes, my sons have worked splendidly. And I have come to see you about one of them—about Marcel.”
She had no doubt that she gave her to understand that she would never have come to see her without good cause. She praised Alice with tender affection. Her heart inspired her here. “Marcel could not see her without loving her. He remembered that as a child she had said to him in their games, ‘I am so happy with you—I want to stay with you.’ He has requested me to ask you for your dear child’s hand. He promises to make her happy and as to his happiness, you will have assured it for ever.”
Madame Dulaurens, who generally had so much to say, was silent, thinking she would thus increase Madame Guibert’s embarrassment. And M. Dulaurens watched her in order to imitate her. Somewhat disturbed by this silence, Marcel’s mother continued softly:
“You know that we have no money. My son did not think at all about this, because he loves her. My husband left his children more honor than money. But, although so young, Marcel has a brilliant record, which gives assurance of his future.”
And she added in a tone full of dignity, “That is a fortune in itself!”
“We feel exceedingly flattered,” said M. Dulaurens at last. He had been struggling between the fear of wounding good Madame Guibert and that of annoying his wife.
With a look, the latter silenced him. What had he to do with it?
“Certainly we are extremely honored,” she replied with calculated slowness. “The honor takes us by surprise. We were not at all prepared for it.”
“Alice did not tell you anything about it then? ... or are you trifling with me?” asked Madame Guibert in great surprise.
“Your family has not very much to boast of,” went on Madame Dulaurens quietly. “We know, Madame, that Monsieur Guibert ruined himself to save his brother at Annecy. Unhappily he was unable to save him from suicide and ... liquidation of his affairs.”
The word “liquidation” thus pronounced meant bankruptcy; and Madame Guibert could not fail to understand the malice in these words. Shehad come with a message of love and peace, and was received like an enemy. The injustice brought the blood to her face, and her clear, gentle eyes were troubled. From this point, without being able to explain the feeling to herself, she felt the game was lost. However, she continued:
“Oh, there was no liquidation. All the creditors were paid principal and interest. There can be no possible doubt about that. We have as good a reputation at Annecy as at Chambéry.”
She thought of her husband’s splendid courage and her little Paule’s lost dowry. In what had all these sacrifices ended? And was money to be henceforth the only thing that could command respect and esteem?
But her sufferings were not yet at an end. Madame Dulaurens, with that ease which society life supplies, went on boldly, with a smile on her lips:
“Captain Guibert has had a magnificent career. Decorated so young! You know that nobody appreciates his worth more than I. How you must have suffered through this long, long Madagascar campaign! We thought of you so often and pitied and envied you at the same time. And tell me, has he quite gotten over the effects of those dreadful fevers which take so long to cure?”
The cup was full. Madame Guibert could not answer. If she had triedto speak she would have Burst into tears. They had touched the sacred place in her heart, her children. To sacrifice your fortune to save the honor of your name, to give your sons for your country, to expose them to death, only to hear wicked, lying allusions, discrediting disinterestedness and heroism, and to have to accept them in the face of that coterie which is called society!
But Madame Dulaurens went on savagely defending her own and giving her unhappy defenceless victim one wound after another.
“I cannot tell you anything definite, Madame, one way or the other. I will faithfully submit your offer to my daughter and let you know her answer soon. It is the fashion nowadays to consult young girls about their inclinations. But I foresee that the prospect of a separation cannot fail to frighten the dear child, for she has been accustomed to be near me, near us. We have never left each other. I admire your strength of mind. One of your girls is a nun in Paris, is she not? Two of your sons are in Tonkin. Captain Guibert is going back to Algiers. How brave you are, and what an example to all those mothers who love their children too much!”
“And so you think I love them less than those other mothers do,” Madame Guibert would have liked to answer. “Every time they left me my heartwas torn, yet I bore them as I could, all those heartrending good-byes, and I said nothing, fearing to weaken them who were leaving me to go abroad and fill a wider sphere, or to hamper them by keeping them beside me. I have always encouraged them to use all the talents that God gave them. And what you do not know, Madame, is that separation, far from lessening a mother’s and a son’s love, purifies and ennobles it. It takes away their natural selfishness and invests them with that immortal beauty of sacrifice, in which joy and devotion are mingled.”
But her lips remained speechless. Later she remembered all the minutest details of this scene, only to be intensely humiliated by it and even to see in it, in her religious feeling, the punishment of the too great pride that she had in the number and qualities of her children.
Madame Dulaurens had not stopped talking long.
“Alice is hesitating by nature,” she continued. “She is still so young—a mere child! There were other offers before yours. This is a confidence, of course. They have this advantage that they would not take our daughter from us. It is a great point in Alice’s eyes. Nobility, fortune, all are there. If the Captain would only consent not to leave Chambéry, to resign when necessary, to live near us, near youtoo! Is he not surfeited with fame?”
Madame Guibert got up and said simply.
“I do not know, Madame. I thank you.”
She thanked her enemy for having tormented her needlessly! Never had she felt so weak and so helpless. Madame Dulaurens, as she went to the door with her, felt sorry for her and, satisfied with her victory, overwhelmed her with congratulations on her health, on her children who had formed a little France out in Tonkin, on Paule who was so beautiful and distinguished, who did not come often enough to see Alice. She was going to keep her daughter, so she could afford to be generous. On the doorstep she seemed to be parting with her best friend with the best grace in the world. Behind her trotted M. Dulaurens, bowing like a little automaton.
Left alone again, Madame Guibert went down the long plane avenue. She breathed freely, as if she had just escaped a great danger. That woman had been unkind and hard to her. How instinctively she had known what would wound her pride and delicacy of feeling. How she had fastened upon her brother-in-law’s misfortune, which had made so great a demand upon Dr. Guibert’s strength of will and presence of mind and which had brought about the financial ruin of the family; upon the wearinessof that colonial expedition, over which Marcel’s splendid health had triumphed. What a sinister interpretation she had put on these events which were her glory! And yet she herself had brought the olive-branch and had spoken gently. Life, her life of humble, daily devotion, had not taught her that maternal love contracts the heart more often than it widens it, otherwise she would have understood that it was this warped feeling which had made Madame Dulaurens defend in every way her threatened happiness, the happiness which she mistook in all good faith for that of her daughter.
But solitude was not long much comfort to her. Must she not go back to Le Maupas to tell her son the sad news? The thought of the pain which she could not spare him, of which she brought the tidings, brought to her eyes the tears which she had so long tried to keep back. The sun’s rays crossed the tops of the thick trees, as slowly wended his course towards the mountain. For the first time in her life it hurt her to return to her old home, where she knew they were awaiting her confidently and impatiently.
With a tired step, which now dragged more than ever, she made her slow and hopeless way back. She felt the weight of that one day more than the weight of her sixty years. As she walked she reproached herself that she had not been, as she called it, equal to her task. Why hadshe not been able to find more persuasive words to plead Marcel’s cause? She had been with people accustomed to society compliments. Why had she not taken their ways into account and flattered their vanity? Such concessions and amiabilities were the means of accomplishing one’s end. Was not her son the very person of all in the world whose achievements supplied the excuse for boasting; and could not his bravery have been changed for the occasion into the current coin of display and ostentation? Would it have been lessened in any way by such use of it? Marcel was good-looking, prepossessing, almost famous. He had a courtesy of manner which lent distinction to his gestures. What would she not have given for the possession of those advantages? But no, she was only a poor woman, incapable of flattery in such a serious matter. And then she experienced, in talking of herself and her children, that feeling of shyness which affects all refined natures. Strong, at home, she lost this strength as soon as she crossed the threshold. Thus in the face of injustice she had no resource but tears. Yet how many times had she hidden herself, that her tears might not be seen, on occasions of parting, for a time or forever! Was she now going to shed tears publicly in face of those who had hurt her? Without doubt God had tried her to punish her too great pride. This explanationsatisfied her faith. She mourned it, but without complaint, and in her loneliness felt a sharp joy in dwelling on her humility and weakness.
“My husband!” she thought. “Since he went I have been useless. He was my joy and my strength—everything would have happened so differently if he had lived. My God! have You forsaken me? I promised myself to take his place as well as I could, and I see clearly now that I am unable.”
She abandoned herself to despair. Her distress and weariness increased. Reaching the end of the Avenue, she asked herself if she had the strength to continue on her way. She was out of breath, and had to stop.
“I must not be ill at their house,” she said. This was her only desire, and to realise it she made a supreme call upon her strength. She dragged herself to the gate, reached it at last, and outside the grounds sat down, exhausted, on a heap of stones. There she gave herself up to her misery and began to cry again, without even noticing a little group of children, who came up to her, curious. As she raised her bent head they all flew like a flock of frightened sparrows. One of them knocking at the door of the neighboring house called:
“Mamma, Mamma! There is an old lady out here, and she is ill.” Thedoor opened immediately and the peasant woman appeared, carrying her youngest babe.
“Poor lady! Why, it is Madame Guibert. What is the matter? A pain? They come on without warning. I won’t have it said that I left you in trouble. Your husband saved this child from typhoid.” She pointed to a little chubby maid who was laughing. Coming nearer, she saw the tears running down the weary face and guessed that it was nothing physical. Out of respect she asked no questions, but continued:
“He would not take anything, the good man. He loved the poor, and above all the children of the poor. He was always laughing. My babies were not afraid of him, they would have eaten off his plate. ‘This is what brave men and women are made of,’ he would say. ‘I have some of them at home, you know!’ It is true, Madame Guibert, that we have a lot of them. But it is just the same, having a lot. You love them all the same. At least one wouldn’t like to lose any of them.”
By kind words she comforted Madame Guibert, who thought:
“My husband saved Alice Dulaurens too. At La Chênaie they did not honor him any the more for that, and they don’t even remember it. The poor forget less quickly.”
“Look at me chattering away without helping you,” continued the woman. “Come inside; have a little glass of something, it will do you good. It warms the heart. Come in and rest for a minute.”
Madame Guibert got up, taking the hand which the woman held out to her.
“Thank you, Fanchon, thank you. I don’t want anything. There, I am all right again, you see. It was only a passing faintness. Your children are lovely. May God keep you, Fanchon! I don’t want to refuse you, but they are waiting for me at home. My daughter is very easily worried.”
“I would like to help you, Madame. One of these days I will bring you a dozen fresh eggs. Don’t say no, it will give me so much pleasure! Come along, children. If it had not been for the Doctor there would have been one less. My lot wouldn’t have been complete.”
“You are kind, Fanchon. Good-bye.”
At last she was able to continue on her way to Le Maupas. She walked slowly, stopping now and then to wipe her damp forehead, sickened at the thought of the news she had to bring. She did not know how long it took to go from Cognin up the hill which crosses the oakwood, but it must have been very long, for she arrived there as the sun was touching Mount Lépine and darting its shafts against the shield of leaves.A hundred times she felt she would never get back. Under the trees, however, she was grateful for the coolness of the shade and home seemed nearer. Like a wounded animal that measures its safety by the distance from its burrow, she made a last effort.
Marcel, leaning against the gate, was looking down the road. He saw his poor mother coming painfully up the road, her face crimson, her back bent, a picture of old age. He ran to her and when he came up, she burst into sobs. “My boy, my dear boy!” she gasped.
He had to support her, and he asked simply:
“Why did you not keep the carriage? You are tired. You are hot, Mother dear, it is not wise of you. Lean on my arm. We will go slowly.”
He helped her till she was seated in the drawing-room, wrapped in a shawl that Paule brought. Not another word had been spoken, and already everything had been told. With lowering brows and hard eyes Marcel was silent. He had understood at the first look, and although the blow was unexpected he was too proud to complain. He asked for no explanation.
His mother wiped her face, on which tears and perspiration were mingled. Trembling she murmured:—
“Don’t regret anything. It is not worth while.”
“Why?” asked Paule surprised.
“They don’t want to separate themselves from their daughter. They think they love her all the more because of that.”
“And Alice?” asked Marcel’s sister.
“I did not see her. She is hiding. Or they are hiding her. Her parents had not been told about my visit. They were astonished. You would have had to promise them to stay at Chambéry, to resign, if necessary. I understood that a Marthenay would suit them better.”
Marcel’s eyes flashed, but all he said was “Oh!”
Madame Guibert began to tell about the humiliating way she had been questioned. But, made ungrateful by the pain which he felt and refused to admit, Marcel did not leave her time to do so.
“You did not understand how to talk to them! I’m sure of that. You don’t like them and you let them see it. You hate society and you ignore it.”
He had assumed his disdainful, haughty manner. Pride had opened the wound. The mother answered softly, but with deep sadness in her voice:
“Your father never reproached me for that. However, I deserve it,I daresay. But I am too old to change, and these people treated me without consideration.”
Marcel, sullen and ashamed of himself, went out without saying anything to lessen the harshness of his words.
Paule during this scene had stood motionless and very pale. Now she threw herself into her mother’s arms and kissed her passionately:
“Mother, don’t cry. Oh, how I despise them! And Marcel is so unjust. It was hateful what he said just now!”
Her eyes shone with sombre fire. Madame Guibert kept back her tears and said:
“No, Paule, you must not despise anyone. And be patient with your brother. Don’t you see that he is suffering? Go look for him.”