Book: Fromont and Risler, Complete

A >> Alphonse Daudet >> Fromont and Risler, Complete




On the evening in question the actor had not yet come in and the women
were waiting for him, talking as they worked, and with great animation,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. During the whole evening they
had done nothing but talk of Frantz, of his success, of the future that
lay before him.

"Now," said Mamma Delobelle, "the only thing he needs is to find a good
little wife."

That was Desiree's opinion, too. That was all that was lacking now to
Frantz's happiness, a good little wife, active and brave and accustomed
to work, who would forget everything for him. And if Desiree spoke with
great confidence, it was because she was intimately acquainted with the
woman who was so well adapted to Frantz Risler's needs. She was only a
year younger than he, just enough to make her younger than her husband
and a mother to him at the same time.

Pretty?

No, not exactly, but attractive rather than ugly, notwithstanding her
infirmity, for she was lame, poor child! And then she was clever and
bright, and so loving! No one but Desiree knew how fondly that little
woman loved Frantz, and how she had thought of him night and day for
years. He had not noticed it himself, but seemed to have eyes for nobody
but Sidonie, a gamine. But no matter! Silent love is so eloquent, such a
mighty power lies hid in restrained feelings. Who knows? Perhaps some day
or other:

And the little cripple, leaning over her work, started upon one of those
long journeys to the land of chimeras of which she had made so many in
her invalid's easychair, with her feet resting on the stool; one of those
wonderful journeys from which she always returned happy and smiling,
leaning on Frantz's arm with all the confidence of a beloved wife. As her
fingers followed her thought, the little bird she had in her hand at the
moment, smoothing his ruffled wings, looked as if he too were of the
party and were about to fly far, far away, as joyous and light of heart
as she.

Suddenly the door flew open.

"I do not disturb you?" said a triumphant voice.

The mother, who was slightly drowsy, suddenly raised her head.

"Ah! it's Monsieur Frantz. Pray come in, Monsieur Frantz. We're waiting
for father, as you see. These brigands of artists always stay out so
late! Take a seat--you shall have supper with him."

"Oh! no, thank you," replied Frantz, whose lips were still pale from the
emotion he had undergone, "I can't stop. I saw a light and I just stepped
in to tell you--to tell you some great news that will make you very
happy, because I know that you love me--"

"Great heavens, what is it?"

"Monsieur Frantz Risler and Mademoiselle Sidonie are engaged to be
married."

"There! didn't I say that all he needed was a good little wife,"
exclaimed Mamma Delobelle, rising and throwing her arms about his neck.

Desiree'had not the strength to utter a word. She bent still lower over
her work, and as Frantz's eyes were fixed exclusively upon his happiness,
as Mamma Delobelle did nothing but look at the clock to see whether her
great man would return soon, no one noticed the lame girl's emotion, nor
her pallor, nor the convulsive trembling of the little bird that lay in
her hands with its head thrown back, like a bird with its death-wound.




CHAPTER IV

THE GLOW-WORMS OF SAVIGNY
"SAVIGNY-SUR-ORGE.

"DEAR SMONIE:--We were sitting at table yesterday in the great
dining-room which you remember, with the door wide open leading to the
terrace, where the flowers are all in bloom. I was a little bored. Dear
grandpapa had been cross all the morning, and poor mamma dared not say a
word, being afraid of those frowning eyebrows which have always laid down
the law for her. I was thinking what a pity it was to be so entirely
alone, in the middle of the summer, in such a lovely spot, and that I
should be very glad, now that I have left the convent, and am destined to
pass whole seasons in the country, to have as in the old day, some one to
run about the woods and paths with me.

"To be sure, Georges comes occasionally, but he always arrives very late,
just in time for dinner, and is off again with my father in the morning
before I am awake. And then he is a serious-minded man now, is Monsieur
Georges. He works at the factory, and business cares often bring frowns
to his brow.

"I had reached that point in my reflections when suddenly dear grandpapa
turned abruptly to me:

"'What has become of your little friend Sidonie? I should be glad to have
her here for a time.'

"You can imagine my delight. What happiness to meet again, to renew the
pleasant friendship that was broken off by the fault of the events of
life rather than by our own! How many things we shall have to tell each
other! You, who alone had the knack of driving the frowns from my
terrible grandpapa's brow, will bring us gayety, and I assure you we need
it.

"This lovely Savigny is so lonely! For instance, sometimes in the morning
I choose to be a little coquettish. I dress myself, I make myself
beautiful with my hair in curls and put on a pretty gown; I walk through
all the paths, and suddenly I realize that I have taken all this trouble
for the swans and ducks, my dog Kiss, and the cows, who do not even turn
to look at me when I pass. Thereupon, in my wrath, I hurry home, put on a
thick gown and busy myself on the farm, in the servants' quarters,
everywhere. And really, I am beginning to believe that ennui has
perfected me, and that I shall make an excellent housekeeper.

"Luckily the hunting season will soon be here, and I rely upon that for a
little amusement. In the first place, Georges and father, both
enthusiastic sportsmen, will come oftener. And then you will be here, you
know. For you will reply at once that you will come, won't you? Monsieur
Risler said not long ago that you were not well. The air of Savigny will
do you worlds of good.

"Everybody here expects you. And I am dying with impatience.

"CLAIRE."

Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a large straw hat for the first
days of August were warm and glorious--and went herself to drop it in the
little box from which the postman collected the mail from the chateau
every morning.

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the road. She paused a
moment to look at the trees by the roadside, at the neighboring meadows
sleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder the reapers were gathering
the last sheaves. Farther on they were ploughing. But all the melancholy
of the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl was concerned, so
delighted was she at the thought of seeing her friend once more.

No breeze came from the hills in the distance, no voice from the trees,
to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending that fatal
letter. And immediately upon her return she gave her attention to the
preparation of a pretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her own.

The letter did its errand faithfully. From the little green,
vine-embowered gate of the chateau it found its way to Paris, and arrived
that same evening, with its Savigny postmark and impregnated with the
odor of the country, at the fifth-floor apartment on the Rue de Braque.

What an event that was! They read it again and again; and for a whole
week, until Sidonie's departure, it lay on the mantel-shelf beside Madame
Chebe's treasures, the clock under a glass globe and the Empire cups. To
Sidonie it was like a wonderful romance filled with tales of enchantment
and promises, which she read without opening it, merely by gazing at the
white envelope whereon Claire Fromont's monogram was engraved in relief.

Little she thought of marriage now. The important question was, What
clothes should she wear at the chateau? She must give her whole mind to
that, to cutting and planning, trying on dresses, devising new ways of
arranging her hair. Poor Frantz! How heavy his heart was made by these
preparations! That visit to Savigny, which he had tried vainly to oppose,
would cause a still further postponement of their wedding, which
Sidonie-why, he did not know--persisted in putting off from day to day.
He could not go to see her; and when she was once there, in the midst of
festivities and pleasures, who could say how long she would remain?

The lover in his despair always went to the Delobelles to confide his
sorrows, but he never noticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as he
entered, to make room for him by her side at the work-takle, and how she
at once sat down again, with cheeks as red as fire and shining eyes.

For some days past they had ceased to work at birds and insects for
ornament. The mother and daughter were hemming pink flounces destined for
Sidonie's frock, and the little cripple never had plied her needle with
such good heart.

In truth little Desiree was not Delobelle's daughter to no purpose.

She inherited her father's faculty of retaining his illusions, of hoping
on to the end and even beyond.

While Frantz was dilating upon his woe, Desire was thinking that, when
Sidonie was gone, he would come every day, if it were only to talk about
the absent one; that she would have him there by her side, that they
would sit up together waiting for "father," and that, perhaps, some
evening, as he sat looking at her, he would discover the difference
between the woman who loves you and the one who simply allows herself to
be loved.

Thereupon the thought that every stitch taken in the frock tended to
hasten the departure which she anticipated with such impatience imparted.
extraordinary activity to her needle, and the unhappy lover ruefully
watched the flounces and ruffles piling up about her, like little pink,
white-capped waves.

When the pink frock was finished, Mademoiselle Chebe started for Savigny.

The chateau of M. Gardinois was built in the valley of the Orge, on the
bank of that capriciously lovely stream, with its windmills, its little
islands, its dams, and its broad lawns that end at its shores.

The chateau, an old Louis-Quinze structure, low in reality, although made
to appear high by a pointed roof, had a most depressing aspect,
suggestive of aristocratic antiquity; broad steps, balconies with rusty
balustrades, old urns marred by time, wherein the flowers stood out
vividly against the reddish stone. As far as the eye could see, the walls
stretched away, decayed and crumbling, descending gradually toward the
stream. The chateau overlooked them, with its high, slated roofs, the
farmhouse, with its red tiles, and the superb park, with its lindens,
ash-trees, poplars and chestnuts growing confusedly together in a dense
black mass, cut here and there by the arched openings of the paths.

But the charm of the old place was the water, which enlivened its silence
and gave character to its beautiful views. There were at Savigny, to say
nothing of the river, many springs, fountains, and ponds, in which the
sun sank to rest in all his glory; and they formed a suitable setting for
that venerable mansion, green and mossy as it was, and slightly worn
away, like a stone on the edge of a brook.

Unluckily, at Savigny, as in most of those gorgeous Parisian summer
palaces, which the parvenus in commerce and speculation have made their
prey, the chatelains were not in harmony with the chateau.

Since he had purchased his chateau, old Gardinois had done nothing but
injure the beauty of the beautiful property chance had placed in his
hands; cut down trees "for the view," filled his park with rough
obstructions to keep out trespassers, and reserved all his solicitude for
a magnificent kitchen-garden, which, as it produced fruit and vegetables
in abundance, seemed to him more like his own part of the country--the
land of the peasant.

As for the great salons, where the panels with paintings of famous
subjects were fading in the autumn fogs, as for the ponds overrun with
water-lilies, the grottoes, the stone bridges, he cared for them only
because of the admiration of visitors, and because of such elements was
composed that thing which so flattered his vanity as an ex-dealer in
cattle--a chateau!

Being already old, unable to hunt or fish, he passed his time
superintending the most trivial details of that large property. The grain
for the hens, the price of the last load of the second crop of hay, the
number of bales of straw stored in a magnificent circular granary,
furnished him with matter for scolding for a whole day; and certain it is
that, when one gazed from a distance at that lovely estate of Savigny,
the chateau on the hillside, the river, like a mirror, flowing at its
feet, the high terraces shaded by ivy, the supporting wall of the park
following the majestic slope of the ground, one never would have
suspected the proprietor's niggardliness and meanness of spirit.

In the idleness consequent upon his wealth, M. Gardinois, being greatly
bored in Paris, lived at Savigny throughout the year, and the Fromonts
lived with him during the summer.

Madame Fromont was a mild, dull woman, whom her father's brutal despotism
had early molded to passive obedience for life. She maintained the same
attitude with her husband, whose constant kindness and indulgence never
had succeeded in triumphing over that humiliated, taciturn nature,
indifferent to everything, and, in some sense, irresponsible. Having
passed her life with no knowledge of business, she had become rich
without knowing it and without the slightest desire to take advantage of
it. Her fine apartments in Paris, her father's magnificent chateau, made
her uncomfortable. She occupied as small a place as possible in both,
filling her life with a single passion, order--a fantastic, abnormal sort
of order, which consisted in brushing, wiping, dusting, and polishing the
mirrors, the gilding and the door-knobs, with her own hands, from morning
till night.

When she had nothing else to clean, the strange woman would attack her
rings, her watch-chain, her brooches, scrubbing the cameos and pearls,
and, by dint of polishing the combination of her own name and her
husband's, she had effaced all the letters of both. Her fixed idea
followed her to Savigny. She picked up dead branches in the paths,
scratched the moss from the benches with the end of her umbrella, and
would have liked to dust the leaves and sweep down the old trees; and
often, when in the train, she looked with envy at the little villas
standing in a line along the track, white and clean, with their gleaming
utensils, the pewter ball, and the little oblong gardens, which resemble
drawers in a bureau. Those were her ideal of a country-house.

M. Fromont, who came only occasionally and was always absorbed by his
business affairs, enjoyed Savigny little more than she. Claire alone felt
really at home in that lovely park. She was familiar with its smallest
shrub. Being obliged to provide her own amusements, like all only
children, she had become attached to certain walks, watched the flowers
bloom, had her favorite path, her favorite tree, her favorite bench for
reading. The dinner-bell always surprised her far away in the park. She
would come to the table, out of breath but happy, flushed with the fresh
air. The shadow of the hornbeams, stealing over that youthful brow, had
imprinted a sort of gentle melancholy there, and the deep, dark green of
the ponds, crossed by vague rays, was reflected in her eyes.

Those lovely surroundings had in very truth shielded her from the
vulgarity and the abjectness of the persons about her. M. Gardinois might
deplore in her presence, for hours at a time, the perversity of tradesmen
and servants, or make an estimate of what was being stolen from him each
month, each week, every day, every minute; Madame Fromont might enumerate
her grievances against the mice, the maggots, dust and dampness, all
desperately bent upon destroying her property, and engaged in a
conspiracy against her wardrobes; not a word of their foolish talk
remained in Claire's mind. A run around the lawn, an hour's reading on
the river-bank, restored the tranquillity of that noble and intensely
active mind.

Her grandfather looked upon her as a strange being, altogether out of
place in his family. As a child she annoyed him with her great, honest
eyes, her straightforwardness on all occasions, and also because he did
not find in her a second edition of his own passive and submissive
daughter.

"That child will be a proud chit and an original, like her father," he
would say in his ugly moods.

How much better he liked that little Chebe girl who used to come now and
then and play in the avenues at Savigny! In her, at least, he detected
the strain of the common people like himself, with a sprinkling of
ambition and envy, suggested even in those early days by a certain little
smile at the corner of the mouth. Moreover, the child exhibited an
ingenuous amazement and admiration in presence of his wealth, which
flattered his parvenu pride; and sometimes, when he teased her, she would
break out with the droll phrases of a Paris gamine, slang redolent of the
faubourgs, seasoned by her pretty, piquant face, inclined to pallor,
which not even superficiality could deprive of its distinction. So he
never had forgotten her.

On this occasion above all, when Sidonie arrived at Savigny after her
long absence, with her fluffy hair, her graceful figure, her bright,
mobile face, the whole effect emphasized by mannerisms suggestive of the
shop-girl, she produced a decided sensation. Old Gardinois, wondering
greatly to see a tall young woman in place of the child he was expecting
to see, considered her prettier and, above all, better dressed than
Claire.

It was a fact that, when Mademoiselle Chebe had left the train and was
seated in the great wagonette from the chateau, her appearance was not
bad; but she lacked those details that constituted her friend's chief
beauty and charm--a distinguished carriage, a contempt for poses, and,
more than all else, mental tranquillity. Her prettiness was not unlike
her gowns, of inexpensive materials, but cut according to the style of
the day-rags, if you will, but rags of which fashion, that ridiculous but
charming fairy, had regulated the color, the trimming, and the shape.
Paris has pretty faces made expressly for costumes of that sort, very
easy to dress becomingly, for the very reason that they belong to no
type, and Mademoiselle Sidonie's face was one of these.

What bliss was hers when the carriage entered the long avenue, bordered
with velvety grass and primeval elms, and at the end Savigny awaiting her
with its great gate wide open!

And how thoroughly at ease she felt amid all those refinements of wealth!
How perfectly that sort of life suited her! It seemed to her that she
never had known any other.

Suddenly, in the midst of her intoxication, arrived a letter from Frantz,
which brought her back to the realities of her life, to her wretched fate
as the future wife of a government clerk, which transported her, whether
she would or no, to the mean little apartment they would occupy some day
at the top of some dismal house, whose heavy atmosphere, dense with
privation, she seemed already to breathe.

Should she break her betrothal promise?

She certainly could do it, as she had given no other pledge than her
word. But when he had left her, who could say that she would not wish him
back?

In that little brain, turned by ambition, the strangest ideas chased one
another. Sometimes, while Grandfather Gardinois, who had laid aside in
her honor his old-fashioned hunting-jackets and swanskin waistcoats, was
jesting with her, amusing himself by contradicting her in order to draw
out a sharp reply, she would gaze steadily, coldly into his eyes, without
replying. Ah! if only he were ten years younger! But the thought of
becoming Madame Gardinois did not long occupy her. A new personage, a new
hope came into her life.

After Sidonie's arrival, Georges Fromont, who was seldom seen at Savigny
except on Sundays, adopted the habit of coming to dinner almost every
day.

He was a tall, slender, pale youth, of refined appearance. Having no
father or mother, he had been brought up by his uncle, M. Fromont, and
was looked upon by him to succeed him in business, and probably to become
Claire's husband. That ready-made future did not arouse any enthusiasm in
Georges. In the first place business bored him. As for his cousin, the
intimate good-fellowship of an education in common and mutual confidence
existed between them, but nothing more, at least on his side.

With Sidonie, on the contrary, he was exceedingly embarrassed and shy,
and at the same time desirous of producing an effect--a totally different
man, in short. She had just the spurious charm, a little free, which was
calculated to attract a superficial nature, and it was not long before
she discovered the impression that she produced upon him.

When the two girls were walking together in the park, it was always
Sidonie who remembered that it was time for the train from Paris to
arrive. They would go together to the gate to meet the travellers, and
Georges's first glance was always for Mademoiselle Chebe, who remained a
little behind her friend, but with the poses and airs that go halfway to
meet the eyes. That manoeuvring between them lasted some time. They did
not mention love, but all the words, all the smiles they exchanged were
full of silent avowals.

One cloudy and threatening summer evening, when the two friends had left
the table as soon as dinner was at an end and were walking in the long,
shady avenue, Georges joined them. They were talking upon indifferent
subjects, crunching the gravel beneath their idling footsteps, when
Madame Fromont's voice, from the chateau, called Claire away. Georges and
Sidonie were left alone. They continued to walk along the avenue, guided
by the uncertain whiteness of the path, without speaking of drawing
nearer to each other.

A warm wind rustled among the leaves. The ruffled surface of the pond
lapped softly against the arches of the little bridge; and the blossoms
of the acacias and lindens, detached by the breeze, whirled about in
circles, perfuming the electricity-laden air. They felt themselves
surrounded by an atmosphere of storm, vibrant and penetrating. Dazzling
flashes of heat passed before their troubled eyes, like those that played
along the horizon.

"Oh! what lovely glow-worms!" exclaimed Sidonie, embarrassed by the
oppressive silence broken by so many mysterious sounds.

On the edge of the greensward a blade of grass here and there was
illuminated by a tiny, green, flickering light. She stooped to lift one
on her glove. Georges knelt close beside her; and as they leaned down,
their hair and cheeks touching, they gazed at each other for a moment by
the light of the glow-worms. How weird and fascinating she seemed to him
in that green light, which shone upon her face and died away in the fine
network of her waving hair! He put his arm around her waist, and
suddenly, feeling that she abandoned herself to him, he clasped her in a
long, passionate embrace.

"What are you looking for?" asked Claire, suddenly coming up in the
shadow behind them.

Taken by surprise, and with a choking sensation in his throat, Georges
trembled so that he could not reply. Sidonie, on the other hand, rose
with the utmost coolness, and said as she shook out her skirt:

"The glow-worms. See how many of them there are tonight. And how they
sparkle."

Her eyes also sparkled with extraordinary brilliancy.

"The storm makes them, I suppose," murmured Georges, still trembling.

The storm was indeed near. At brief intervals great clouds of leaves and
dust whirled from one end of the avenue to the other. They walked a few
steps farther, then all three returned to the house. The young women took
their work, Georges tried to read a newspaper, while Madame Fromont
polished her rings and M. Gardinois and his son-in-law played billiards
in the adjoining room.

How long that evening seemed to Sidonie! She had but one wish, to be
alone-alone with her thoughts.

But, in the silence of her little bedroom, when she had put out her
light, which interferes with dreams by casting too bright an illumination
upon reality, what schemes, what transports of delight! Georges loved
her, Georges Fromont, the heir of the factory! They would marry; she
would be rich. For in that mercenary little heart the first kiss of love
had awakened no ideas save those of ambition and a life of luxury.

To assure herself that her lover was sincere, she tried to recall the
scene under the trees to its most trifling details, the expression of his
eyes, the warmth of his embrace, the vows uttered brokenly, lips to lips,
it that weird light shed by the glow-worms, which one solemn moment had
fixed forever in her heart.

Oh! the glow-worms of Savigny!

All night long they twinkled like stars before her closed eyes. The park
was full of them, to the farthest limits of its darkest paths. There were
clusters of them all along the lawns, on the trees, in the shrubbery. The
fine gravel of the avenues, the waves of the river, seemed to emit green
sparks, and all those microscopic flashes formed a sort of holiday
illumination in which Savigny seemed to be enveloped in her honor, to
celebrate the betrothal of Georges and Sidonie.

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