Part 7

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

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

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

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

"Never mind," Jules replied nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They did not speak till they were in the street.

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

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

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

They hurried on through the nipping January air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 the _café_ in the _avenue de l'Opéra_, where Jules had ordered a sumptuous breakfast. There they remained till four o'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 the _rue 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.

XI

They went straight to Vienna, arriving fatigued from their long journey. After three days, spent at a little French hotel, Jules found near the _Ringstrasse_ a 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 feature in 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 the _cafés_ that 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 to his 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 or drives 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 the _cafés_ for _déjeuner_ or 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 the summer; 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 have _fêtes_ for 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 became alarmed; 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 had _déjeuner_ prepared 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's meeting 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's become 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 the _salon_.

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 with his 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 little _café_ by 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 there still 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.