Chapter 10

The names of the actors were at the end of the bill. All the chairs in the house were placed closely together in rows in front of the stage, and the ladies, in evening dress, were seated, their skirts, their laces, the flashing of their diamonds, and their white shoulders all mingling together. The two doors at the other end of the room leading into the dining-room and the small _salon_ had been taken off their hinges, and the masculine part of the audience, in white neckties, were grouped together there and standing on tip-toe.

The curtain rose on the first scene of _The Caprice_. Renée was very lively as Mme. de Léry; Henri, in the rôle of husband, proved himself a talented amateur actor, as so many young men of a cold temperament, and grave society men, often do. Noémi, well sustained by Henri, admirably prompted by Denoisel, and slightly carried away by seeing the large audience, played her touching part as the neglected wife very passably. This was a great relief to Mme. Bourjot, who was seated in the front row anxiously watching her daughter. Her vanity had been alarmed by the thought of a fiasco. The curtain fell, and amid the applause were heard shouts for "_All the actors!_" Her daughter had not made herself ridiculous, and the mother was delighted with this great success and gave herself up complacently to listening to that Babel of voices, opinions, and criticisms, which at amateur dramatic performances succeeds the applause and continues it, as it were, in a sort of murmur. In the midst of it all she heard vaguely one phrase, spoken near her, that came to her distinctly and seemed to rise above the general hubbub.

"Yes, it's his sister, I know," some one was saying; "but for the rôle he takes I don't think he is sufficiently in love with her; he is really far too much in love with his wife--didn't you notice?"

The lady who was speaking saw that Mme. Bourjot was listening, and, leaning towards her neighbour, whispered something to her. This little incident made Mme. Bourjot turn very serious.

After an interval the curtain was once more raised, and Henri Mauperin appeared as Pierrot, but not arrayed in the traditional calico blouse and black cap. He was an Italian Pierrot, with a straight felt hat, and was entirely clothed in satin from his coat to his slippers. There was a movement among the ladies, which meant that they thought both the man and the costume charming, and then the buffoonery began.

It was the silly story of Pierrot married to one woman and wishing to marry another; a farce mingled with passion, which had been discovered by a vaudeville-writer, aided by a poet, among the stock-pieces of the old Italian theatre. Renée took the part of the deserted wife, this time, appearing in various disguises when her husband was love-making elsewhere. Noémi was the woman with whom he was in love, and Henri delighted the house in his love scenes with her. He acted well, putting plenty of youthful ardour, enthusiasm, and warmth into his part. In the scene where he confessed his love, there was something in his voice and expression that seemed like a real declaration, which had escaped him, and which he could not keep back. Noémi certainly had made up as the prettiest Colombine imaginable. She looked perfectly adorable, dressed as a bride in a Louis XVI costume copied exactly from the _Bride's Minuet_, an engraving by Debucourt lent by M. Barousse. All around Mme. Bourjot it seemed as if every one were bewitched, the sympathetic public appeared to be helping and encouraging the handsome young couple to love each other. The piece continued, and every now and then it was as though Henri's eyes were seeking, beyond the footlights, the eyes of Mme. Bourjot. Meanwhile Renée arrived, disguised as a village bailiff: there was only the contract to be signed now, and Pierrot, taking the hand of the girl he loved, began to speak of all the happiness he should have with her.

The lady who was seated next Mme. Bourjot felt her leaning slightly on her shoulder. Henri finished his speech, the plot came to the climax, and the piece ended. Mme. Bourjot's neighbour suddenly saw something sink down at her side; it was Mme. Bourjot, who had fainted.

XIX

"Oh, do go in again, please," said Mme. Bourjot to the people who were standing round her in the garden, to which she had been carried for air. "It's all over; there's nothing the matter with me now; it was the heat." She was very pale, but she smiled as she spoke. "I shall be quite right again when I have had a little more air. M. Henri will perhaps stay with me."

Every one returned to the house, and the sound of the footsteps had scarcely died away, when Mme. Bourjot seized Henri's arm in a firm grip with her feverish fingers.

"You love her!" she exclaimed. "You love her!"

"Madame," said Henri.

"Be quiet; you won't tell me the truth!" she exclaimed, pushing his arm away.

Henri merely bowed without attempting to speak.

"I know all. I saw everything. Look at me!" she went on, and she gazed into his eyes. He kept his head bent and was silent. "Say something, anyhow--speak. Ah, you can only act comedy with her!"

"The fact is I have nothing to say, Laure," replied Henri, speaking in his gentlest and clearest voice. Mme. Bourjot drew back when he called her Laure as if he had touched her. "I have been struggling against it for the last year, madame," he continued. "I will not attempt to make any excuse; but everything has drawn me to her. We have known each other from childhood, and the fascination has increased lately day by day. I am very sorry, madame, to have to tell you the truth; but it is quite true that I love your daughter."

"But you never can have talked to her, surely? Why, I blush for her when we are out--you surely have not even looked at her. What in the world possesses you men, tell me! Do you think she is beautiful? What nonsense! why, I am better looking than she is. You are so foolish, all of you. And then, I have spoiled you. You'll see whether she will pamper your pride, let you revel in your vanity, and flatter and help you in your ambitions. Oh, I know you thoroughly. Ah, M. Mauperin, all this is only met with once in a lifetime. And women of my age--old women, you understand--are the only ones who care about the future of those they love. You were not my lover; you were like a dear son to me!" As she said this, Mme. Bourjot's voice changed and she spoke with the deepest feeling. "That's enough, though; we won't talk about that," she continued in a different tone. "I tell you that you don't love my daughter--it is not true--but she is rich----"

"Oh, madame!"

"Well, there are men like that--I have had them pointed out to me. Sometimes it succeeds to begin with the mother in order to finish with the dowry. And for the sake of a million, you know, one can put up with being bored."

"Speak more quietly, I beg you--for your own sake. They have just opened one of the windows."

"It's very fine to be so calm and collected, M. Mauperin, very fine--very fine indeed," said Mme. Bourjot, and her low, hissing voice sounded choked.

Some clouds that were moving quickly along in the sky passed like the wings of night-birds over the moon, and Mme. Bourjot gazed blankly into the darkness in front of her. With her elbows resting on her knees and supported by her high heels, she remained silent, tapping the gravel path with her satin slippers. After a few minutes she sat up, moved her arms about in an unconscious way as though she were scarcely awake, then quickly, and in a jerky way, she put her hand between her dress and waistband, pressing the back of her hand against the ribbon as though she were going to burst it. Finally she rose and began to walk, followed by Henri.

"I count on our never seeing each other again, monsieur," she said, without turning round.

As she passed by the fountain she handed him her handkerchief, saying, "Will you dip that in the water for me?"

Henri obeyed, kneeling down on the curbstone. He handed her the damp handkerchief, and she pressed it to her forehead and her eyes.

"We will go in now," she said; "give me your arm."

"Oh, madame, how courageous you are!" said Mme. Mauperin, advancing to meet Mme. Bourjot when she entered the room. "It is not wise of you, though, at all. I will have your carriage ordered."

"No, please don't, thank you," replied Mme. Bourjot quickly. "I think I promised you that I would sing; I am quite ready now," and she went across to the piano, gracious and valiant once more, with that heroic smile beneath which society actors conceal from the public the tears they are weeping within themselves, and the wounds which discharge themselves into their hearts.

XX

Mme. Bourjot had married in order that two important business houses should be united; for the sake of amalgamating various interests she had been wedded to a man whom she did not know, and at the end of a week of married life she had felt all the contempt that a wife can possibly feel for a husband. It was not that she had expected anything very ideal, nor that she had looked on marriage as a romantic and imaginative girl so often does. She was remarkably intelligent herself, and seriously inclined, her mind had been formed and nurtured by reading, study, and acquirements which were almost more suitable for a man. All that she asked from the companion of her life was that he should be intellectual and intelligent, a being in whom she could place all her ambitions and her pride as a married woman, a man with a brilliant future before him, capable of winning for himself one of those immense fortunes to which money nowadays leads, and who should prove himself able to leap over the gaps of modern society to a high place in the Ministry, the Public Works, or the Exchequer.

All her castles in the air crumbled away with this husband, whom she found day by day more and more hopelessly shallow, more and more incapable, devoid of all that should have been in him, and which was in her instead, more narrow-minded, more mean and petty as time went on, and all this mingled with and contradicted by all the violences and weaknesses of a childish disposition.

It was her pride that had preserved Mme. Bourjot from adultery, a pride which, it may be said, was aided by circumstances. When she was young, Mme. Bourjot, who was of a spare build and southern type, had features which were too pronounced to be pleasing or beautiful. When she was about thirty-four she began to get rather more plump, and it seemed then that another woman had evolved from the one she had been. Her features, though still strongly pronounced, became softer and more pleasing; the hardness of her expression appeared to have melted away, and her whole face smiled. It was one of those autumn beauties such as age brings to certain women, making one wish to have seen them as they were at twenty; a beauty which makes one imagine for them a youthfulness they never had. As a matter of fact, then, so far Mme. Bourjot had not run any great danger, nor had she known any very great temptations. The society, which on account of her tastes she had chosen, her surroundings, the men who frequented her _salon_ and whom she met elsewhere, had scarcely made it necessary for her to stand seriously on the defensive. They were, for the most part, academicians, savants, elderly literary men, and politicians, all of them unassuming and calm, men who seemed old, some of them from stirring up the past and the others the present. Satisfied with very little, they were happy with a mere nothing--the presence of a woman, a flattering speech, or the expression of eyes that were drinking in their words. Accustomed to their academic adoration, Mme. Bourjot had, without much risk, allowed it free scope and had treated it with jests like an Egeria: it had been a flame which did not scorch, and with which she had been able to play.

But the time of maturity arrived for Mme. Bourjot. A great transformation in her face and figure took place. Tormented, as it were, by health which was too robust and an excess of vitality, she seemed to lose the strength morally which she was gaining physically. She had a great admiration for her past, and she felt now that she was less strong-minded, and that there was less assurance in her pride than formerly.

It was just at this time that Henri Mauperin had made his appearance in her drawing-room. He seemed to her young, intelligent, serious, and thorough, equipped for the victories of life with all those dispassionate and unwavering qualities that she had dreamed before her marriage of finding in a husband. Henri had seized the situation at a glance, and, divining his own chances, he made his plans and swooped down on this woman as his prey. He began to make love to her, and this woman, who had a husband and daughter, who had been a faithful wife for twenty years, and who held a high position in Parisian society, scarcely waited for him to tempt her. She yielded to him at their first interview, conducting herself like a mere cocotte. Her love became a mad passion with her, as it so frequently does with women of her age, and Henri proved himself a genius in the art of attaching her to himself and of chaining her, as it were, to her sin. He never betrayed himself, and never for an instant allowed her to see a sign of the weariness, the indifference, or the contempt that a man feels after a too easy conquest, or of that sort of disgust with which certain situations of a woman in love inspire him. He was always affectionate, and always appeared to be deeply moved. He had for Mme. Bourjot those transports of love and jealousy, all those scruples, little attentions, and thoughtfulness which a woman, after a certain age, no longer expects from her lover. He treated her as if she were a young girl, and begged her to give him a ring which she always wore, and which had been one of her confirmation presents. He put up with all the childishness and coquetry which was so ridiculous in the passion of this mother of a family, and he encouraged it all without a sign of impatience on his face or a shade of mockery in his voice. At the same time he made himself entirely master of her, accustoming her to be docile and obedient to him, revealing to her such passionate love that Mme. Bourjot was both grateful to him and proud of her victory over this apparently cold and reserved young man. When he was thus completely master of her, Henri worked her up still more by impressing her with the danger of their meetings and the risks there were in their _liaison_, while by all the emotions of a criminal passion he excited her imagination to such a pitch of fear that her love increased with the very thought of all she had to lose.

She finally reached that stage when she only lived through him and for him, by his presence, his thoughts, his future, his portrait, all that remained to her of him after she had seen him. Before leaving him she would stroke his hair with her hands and then put her gloves on quickly. And all day afterward, when she was at home again with her husband and her daughter, she would put the palms of her hands, which she had not washed since, to her face and inhale the perfume of her lover's hair.

This _soirée_, and this treason and rupture at the end of a year, completely crushed Mme. Bourjot. She felt at first as if she had received a blow, and her life seemed to be ebbing away through the wound. She fancied she was really dying, and there was a certain sweetness in this thought. The following day she hoped Henri would come. She was vanquished and quite prepared to beg his pardon, to tell him that she had been in the wrong, to beg him to forgive her, to entreat him to be kind to her, and to allow her to gather up the crumbs of his love. She waited a week, but Henri did not come. She asked him for an interview that he might return her letters, and he sent them to her. She wrote and begged to see him for the last time that she might bid him farewell. Henri did not answer her letter, but, through his friends and through the newspaper and society gossip, he contrived to let Mme. Bourjot hear the rumour of an action that had been taken against him for one of his articles on the misery of the poor. For a whole week he managed to keep her mind occupied with the ideas of police and police courts, prison, and all that the dramatic imagination of a woman pictures to itself as the consequence of a lawsuit.

When the Attorney-General assured Mme. Bourjot that the action would not be taken, she felt quite a coward after all the terror she had gone through, and weak and helpless from emotion, she could not endure any more, and so wrote in desperation to Henri:

"To-morrow at two o'clock. If you are not there I shall wait on the staircase. I shall sit down on one of the stairs till you come."

XXI

Henri was ready, and had taken great pains to dress for the occasion in an apparently careless style. He was wearing one of those morning suits in which a young man nearly always looks well.

At the time appointed in the letter there was a ring at the door. Henri opened it and Mme. Bourjot entered. She passed by and walked on in front of him as though she knew the way, until she reached the study. She took a seat on the divan, and neither of them spoke a word. There was plenty of room by her on the divan, but Henri drew up a smoking-chair, which he turned round, and, sitting down astride on it, folded his arms over the back.

Mme. Bourjot lifted her double lace veil and turned it back over her hat. Holding her head slightly aside, and with one hand pulling the glove slowly off the other, she gazed at the things on the wall and on the mantel-shelf. She gave a little sigh as if she were alone, and then, glancing at Henri, she said:

"There is some of my life here--something of me--in all that." She held out her ungloved hand to him, and Henri kissed the tips of her fingers respectfully.

"Forgive me," she went on, "I did not intend speaking of myself; I have not come here for that. Oh, you need not be afraid, I am quite sensible to-day, I assure you. The first moment--well, the first moment was hard! I won't deny that I had to pull myself together," she continued, with a tearful smile, "but it's all over now. I scarcely suffer any more, and I am quite myself again, I assure you. Of course everything cannot be forgotten all in a minute, and I won't say that you are nothing to me now--for you would not believe me. But this I can assure you, and you must believe me, Henri, there is no more love for you in my heart. I am no longer weak; the woman within me is dead--quite dead, and the affection I have for you now is quite pure."

The light seemed to annoy her as she spoke, as if it were some one gazing at her. "Will you put the blind down, dear?" she said. "The sun--my eyes have rather hurt me the last few days."

While Henri was at the window she arranged her hat and let the cloak she was wearing drop from her shoulders. When the light was not so strong in the room she began again:

"Yes, Henri, after struggling a long time, and enduring such anguish as you will never know, after passing nights such as I hope you may never have, and after crying and praying, I have conquered myself. I have won the victory, and I can now think of my daughter's happiness without being jealous, and of yours as the only happiness now left for me on earth."

"You are an angel, Laure," said Henri, getting up and walking up and down the room as though he were greatly agitated. "But you must look at things as they are. You were quite right the other day when you said that we must separate forever--never see each other again. The idea of our constantly meeting! You know we could not. It would take so little to open wounds as slightly closed as ours are. Then, too, even if you are sure of yourself, how do you know that I am as sure of myself? How can I tell--if we were meeting at all times--with such constant temptation--if I were always near you," he said, speaking very tenderly, "why, some day, unexpectedly--how can I tell--and I am an honourable man."

"No, Henri," she answered, taking his hands in hers and drawing him to the seat at her side, "I am not afraid of you, and I am not afraid of myself. It is all over. How can I make you believe me? And you will not refuse me? No, you cannot refuse me the only happiness which remains for me--my only happiness. It is all I have left in the world now--it is to see you, only to see you--" and throwing her arms round Henri's neck she drew him to her closely.

"Ah, no, it is quite impossible," said Henri, when the embrace had lasted a few seconds. "Don't say any more about it," he continued, brusquely, getting up as he spoke.

"I will be brave," said Mme. Bourjot very seriously.

When they had played out their comedy of renunciation they both felt more at ease.

"Now, then, listen to me," began Mme. Bourjot once more, "my husband will give you his daughter."

"How foolish you are, really, Laure."

"Don't interrupt me--my husband will give you his daughter. I fancy he intends asking his son-in-law to live in the same house. Of course you would be quite free--your suite of rooms, your carriage, meals, and everything quite apart--you know what our style of living is. Unless M. Bourjot has changed his mind, she will have a dowry of forty thousand pounds, and unless he should lose his money, which I do not think is very probable, you will have, at our death, four or five times that amount."

"And how can you seriously imagine that Mlle. Bourjot, who has forty thousand pounds, and who will have four or five times that much, would marry----"

"I am her mother," answered Mme. Bourjot in a decisive tone. "And then--don't you love her? Why, it would merely be a kind of marriage of expediency," and Mme. Bourjot smiled. "You provide her with happiness."

"But what will the world say?"

"The world? My dear boy, we should close the world's mouth with truffles," and she gave her shoulders a little shrug.

"And M. Bourjot?"

"That's my part. He will like you very much before the end of two months. The only thing is, as you know, he will want a title; he has always intended his daughter to marry a count. All I can do is to get him to consent to a name tacked on to yours. Nothing is simpler, nowadays, than to get permission to add to one's name the name of some estate, or forest, or even the name of a meadow, or a bit of land of any sort. Didn't I hear some one talking to your mother about a farm called Villacourt that you have in the Haute-Marne? _Mauperin de Villacourt_; that would do very well. You know, as far as I am concerned, how little I care about such things."

"Oh, but it would be so ridiculous, with my principles, and a Liberal, too, bound as I am. And then, you know----"

"Oh, you can say it is a whim of your wife's. Every one goes about with names like that now; it's a sort of cross people have to bear. Shall I say a word for you to any one in authority?"

"Oh, no; no, please don't! I didn't think I had said anything which could make you imagine I should be inclined to accept. I don't really know, frankly. You understand that I should have to think it over, I should have to collect myself and consider what my duty is; to be more myself, in fact, and less influenced by you, before I could give you an answer."

"I shall call on your mother this week," said Mme. Bourjot, getting up and pressing his hand. "Good-bye," she said sadly; "life _is_ a sacrifice!"

XXII

"Renée," said Mme. Mauperin one evening to her daughter, "shall we go and see Lord Mansbury's collection of pictures to-morrow? It appears that it is very curious; people say that one of the pictures would fetch four thousand pounds. M. Barousse thought it would interest you, and he has sent me the catalogue and an invitation. Should you like to go?"