Book: Jacqueline, Complete

T >> Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) >> Jacqueline, Complete




She silently handed back the letter to her stepmother.

"No more than I expected," said the Baroness.

"Indeed?" replied Jacqueline with complete indifference. She wished to
give no opening to any expressions of sympathy on the part of Madame de
Nailles.

"Poor Madame d'Avrigny," she added, "has bad luck; all her actors seem to
be leaving her."

This speech was the vain bravado of a young soldier going into action.
The poor child betrayed herself to the experienced woman, trained either
to detect or to practise artifice, and who found bitter amusement in
watching the girl's assumed 'sang-froid'. But the mask fell off at the
first touch of genuine sympathy. When Giselle, forgetful of a certain
coolness between them ever since Fred's departure, came to clasp her in
her arms, she showed only her true self, a girl suffering all the
bitterness of a cruel, humiliating desertion. Long talks ensued between
the friends, in which Jacqueline poured into Giselle's ear her sad
discoveries in the past, her sorrows and anxieties in the present, and
her vague plans for the future. "I must go away," she said; "I must
escape somewhere; I can not go on living with Madame de Nailles--I should
go mad, I should be tempted every day to upbraid her with her conduct."

Giselle made no attempt to curb an excitement which she knew would resist
all she could say to calm it. She feigned agreement, hoping thereby to
increase her future influence, and advised her friend to seek in a
convent the refuge that she needed. But she must do nothing rashly; she
should only consider it a temporary retreat whose motive was a wish to
remain for a while within reach of religious consolation. In that way she
would give people nothing to talk about, and her step mother could not be
offended. It was never of any use to get out of a difficulty by breaking
all the glass windows with a great noise, and good resolutions are made
firmer by being matured in quietness. Such were the lessons Giselle
herself had been taught by the Benedictine nuns, who, however deficient
they might be in the higher education of women, knew at least how to
bring up young girls with a view to making them good wives. Giselle
illustrated this day by day in her relations to a husband as disagreeable
as a husband well could be, a man of small intelligence, who was not even
faithful to her. But she did not cite herself as an example. She never
talked about herself, or her own difficulties.

"You are an angel of sense and goodness," sobbed Jacqueline. "I will do
whatever you wish me to do."

"Count upon me--count upon all your friends," said Madame de Talbrun,
tenderly.

And then, enumerating the oldest and the truest of these friends, she
unluckily named Madame d'Argy. Jacqueline drew herself back at once:

"Oh, for pity's sake!" she cried, "don't mention them to me!"

Already a comparison between Fred's faithful affection and Gerard de
Cymier's desertion had come into her mind, but she had refused to
entertain it, declaring resolutely to herself that she never should
repent her refusal. She was sore, she was angry with all men, she wished
all were like Cymier or like Marien, that she might hate every one of
them; she came to the conclusion in her heart of hearts that all of them,
even the best, if put to the proof, would turn out selfish. She liked to
think so--to believe in none of them. Thus it happened that an unexpected
visit from Fred's mother, among those that she received in her first days
of orphanhood, was particularly agreeable to her.

Madame d'Argy, on hearing of the death and of the ruin of M. de Nailles,
was divided by two contradictory feelings. She clearly saw the hand of
Providence in what had happened: her son was in the squadron on its way
to attack Formosa; he was in peril from the climate, in peril from
Chinese bullets, and assuredly those who had brought him into peril could
not be punished too severely; on the other hand, the last mail from
Tonquin had brought her one of those great joys which always incline us
to be merciful. Fred had so greatly distinguished himself in a series of
fights upon the river Min that he had been offered his choice between the
Cross of the Legion of Honor or promotion. He told his mother now that he
had quite recovered from a wound he had received which had brought him
some glory, but which he assured her had done him no bodily harm, and he
repeated to her what he would not tell her at first, some words of praise
from Admiral Courbet of more value in his eyes than any reward.

Triumphant herself, and much moved by pity for Jacqueline, Madame d'Argy
felt as if she must put an end to a rupture which could not be kept up
when a great sorrow had fallen on her old friends, besides which she
longed to tell every one, those who had been blind and ungrateful in
particular, that Fred had proved himself a hero. So Jacqueline and her
stepmother saw her arrive as if nothing had ever come between them. There
were kisses and tears, and a torrent of kindly meant questions,
affectionate explanations, and offers of service. But Fred's mother could
not help showing her own pride and happiness to those in sorrow. They
congratulated her with sadness. Madame d'Argy would have liked to think
that the value of what she had lost was now made plain to Jacqueline. And
if it caused her one more pang--what did it matter? He and his mother had
suffered too. It was the turn of others. God was just. Resentment, and
kindness, and a strange mixed feeling of forgiveness and revenge
contended together in the really generous heart of Madame d'Argy, but
that heart was still sore within her. Pity, however, carried the day, and
had it not been for the irritating coldness of "that little hard-hearted
thing," as she called Jacqueline, she would have entirely forgiven her.
She never suspected that the exaggerated reserve of manner that offended
her was owing to Jacqueline's dread (commendable in itself) of appearing
to wish in her days of misfortune for the return of one she had rejected
in the time of prosperity.

In spite of the received opinion that society abandons those who are
overtaken by misfortune, all the friends of the De Nailles flocked to
offer their condolences to the widow and the orphan with warm
demonstrations of interest. Curiosity, a liking to witness, or to
experience, emotion, the pleasure of being able to tell what has been
seen and heard, to find out new facts and repeat them again to others,
joined to a sort of vague, commonplace, almost intrusive pity, are
sentiments, which sometimes in hours of great disaster, produce what
appears to wear the look of sympathy. A fortnight after M. de Nailles's
death, between the acts of Scylla and Charybdis, the principal parts in
which were taken by young d'Etaples and Isabelle Ray, the company, as it
ate ices, was glibly discussing the real drama which had produced in
their own elegant circle much of the effect a blow has upon an
ant-hill--fear, agitation, and a tumultuous rush to the scene of the
disaster.

Great indignation was expressed against the man who had risked the
fortune of his family in speculation. Oh! the thing had been going on for
a long while. His fortune had been gradually melting away; Grandchaux was
loaded down with mortgages and would bring almost nothing at a forced
sale.

Everybody forgot that had M. de Nailles's speculations been successful
they would have been called matters of business, conducted with great
ability on a large scale. When a performer falls from the tightrope, who
remembers all the times he has not failed? It is simply said that he fell
from his own carelessness.

"The poor Baroness is touchingly resigned," said Madame de Villegry, with
a deep sigh; "and heaven knows how many other cares she has besides the
loss of money! I don't mean only the death of her husband--and you know
how much they were attached to each other--I am speaking of that
unaccountable resolution of Jacqueline's."

Madame d'Avrigny here came forward with her usual equanimity which
nothing disturbed, unless it were something which interfered with the
success of her salon.

She was of course very sorry for her friends in trouble, but the
vicissitudes that had happened to her theatricals she had more at heart.

"After all," she said, "the first act did not go off badly, did it? The
musical part made up for the rest. That divine Strahlberg is ready for
any emergency. How well she sang that air of 'La Petite Mariee!' It was
exquisite, but I regretted Jacqueline. She was so charming in that lively
little part. What a catastrophe!

"What a terrible catastrophe! Were you speaking of the retreat she wishes
to make in a convent? Well, I quite understand how she feels about it! I
should feel the same myself. In the bewilderment of a first grief one
does not care to see anything of the world. 'Mon Dieu'! youth always has
these exaggerated notions. She will come back to us. Poor little thing!
Of course it was no fault of hers, and I should not think of blaming
Monsieur de Cymier. The exigencies of his career--but you all must own
that unexpected things happen so suddenly in this life that it is enough
to discourage any one who likes to open her house and provide amusement
for her friends."

Every one present pitied her for the contretemps over which she had
triumphed so successfully. Then she resumed, serenely:

"Don't you think that Isabelle played the part almost as well as
Jacqueline? Up to the last moment I was afraid that something would go
wrong. When one gets into a streak of ill-luck--but all went off to
perfection, thank heaven!"

Meantime Madame Odinska was whispering to one of those who sat near her
her belief that Jacqueline would never get over her father's loss. "It
would not astonish me," she said, "to hear that the child, who has a
noble nature, would remain in the convent and take the veil."

Any kind of heroic deed seemed natural to this foolish enthusiast, who,
as a matter of fact, in her own life, had never shown any tendency to
heroic virtues; her mission in life had seemed to be to spoil her
daughters in every possible way, and to fling away more money than
belonged to her.

"Really? Was she so very fond of her father!" asked Madame Ray,
incredulously. "When he was alive, they did not seem to make much of him
in his own house. Maybe this retreat is a good way of getting over a
little wound to her 'amour-propre'."

"The proper thing, I think," said Madame d'Etaples, "would be for the
mother and daughter to keep together, to bear the troubles before them
hand in hand. Jacqueline does not seem to think much of the last wishes
of the father she pretends to be so fond of. The Baroness showed me, with
many tears, a letter he left joined to his will, which was written some
years ago, and which now, of course, is of no value. He told mother and
daughter to take care of each other and hoped they would always remain
friends, loving each other for love of him. Jacqueline's conduct amazes
me; it looks like ingratitude."

"Oh! she is a hard-hearted little thing! I always thought so!" said
Madame de Villegry, carelessly.

Here the rising of the curtain stopped short these discussions, which
displayed so much good-nature and perspicacity. But some laid the blame
on the influence of that little bigot of a Talbrun, who had secretly
blown up the fire of religious enthusiasm in Jacqueline, when Madame
d'Avrigny's energetic "Hush!" put an end to the discussion. It was time
to come back to more immediate interests, to the play which went on in
spite of wind and tide.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

A mother's geese are always swans
Bathers, who exhibited themselves in all degrees of ugliness
Fred's verses were not good, but they were full of dejection
Hang out the bush, but keep no tavern
A familiarity which, had he known it, was not flattering
His sleeplessness was not the insomnia of genius
Importance in this world are as easily swept away as the sand
Natural longing, that we all have, to know the worst
Notion of her husband's having an opinion of his own
Pride supplies some sufferers with necessary courage
Seemed to enjoy themselves, or made believe they did
This unending warfare we call love
Unwilling to leave him to the repose he needed




JACQUELINE

By THERESE BENTZON (MME. BLANC)




BOOK 3.




CHAPTER XIV

BITTER DISILLUSION

Some people in this world who turn round and round in a daily circle of
small things, like squirrels in a cage, have no idea of the pleasure a
young creature, conscious of courage, has in trying its strength; this
struggle with fortune loses its charm as it grows longer and longer and
more and more difficult, but at the beginning it is an almost certain
remedy for sorrow.

To her resolve to make head against misfortune Jacqueline owed the fact
that she did not fall into those morbid reveries which might have
converted her passing fancy for a man who was simply a male flirt into
the importance of a lost love. Is there any human being conscious of
energy, and with faith in his or her own powers, who has not wished to
know something of adversity in order to rise to the occasion and confront
it? To say nothing of the pleasure there is in eating brown bread, when
one has been fed only on cake, or of the satisfaction that a child feels
when, after strict discipline, he is left to do as he likes, to say
nothing of the pleasure ladies boarding in nunneries are sure to feel on
reentering the world, at recovering their liberty, Jacqueline by nature
loved independence, and she was attracted by the novelty of her situation
as larks are attracted by a mirror. She was curious to know what life
held for her in reserve, and she was extremely anxious to repair the
error she had committed in giving way to a feeling of which she was now
ashamed. What could do this better than hard work? To owe everything to
herself, to her talents, to her efforts, to her industry, such was
Jacqueline's ideal of her future life.

She had, before this, crowned her brilliant reputation in the 'cours' of
M. Regis by passing her preliminary examination at the Sorbonne; she was
confident of attaining the highest degree--the 'brevet superieur', and
while pursuing her own studies she hoped to give lessons in music and in
foreign languages, etc. Thus assured of making her own living, she could
afford to despise the discreditable happiness of Madame de Nailles, who,
she had no doubt, would shortly become Madame Marien; also the crooked
ways in which M. de Cymier might pursue his fortune-hunting. She said to
herself that she should never marry; that she had other objects of
interest; that marriage was for those who had nothing better before them;
and the world appeared to her under a new aspect, a sphere of useful
activity full of possibilities, of infinite variety, and abounding in
interests. Marriage might be all very well for rich girls, who unhappily
were objects of value to be bought and sold; her semi-poverty gave her
the right to break the chains that hampered the career of other well-born
women--she would make her own way in the world like a man.

Thus, at eighteen, youth is ready to set sail in a light skiff on a rough
sea, having laid in a good store of imagination and of courage, of
childlike ignorance and self-esteem.

No doubt she would meet with some difficulties; that thought did but
excite her ardor. No doubt Madame de Nailles would try to keep her with
her, and Jacqueline had provided herself beforehand with some
double-edged remarks by way of weapons, which she intended to use
according to circumstances. But all these preparations for defense or
attack proved unnecessary. When she told the Baroness of her plans she
met with no opposition. She had expected that her project of separation
would highly displease her stepmother; on the contrary, Madame de Nailles
discussed her projects quietly, affecting to consider them merely
temporary, but with no indication of dissatisfaction or resistance. In
truth she was not sorry that Jacqueline, whose companionship became more
and more embarrassing every day, had cut the knot of a difficult position
by a piece of wilfulness and perversity which seemed to put her in the
wrong. The necessity she would have been under of crushing such a girl,
who was now eighteen, would have been distasteful and unprofitable; she
was very glad to get rid of her stepdaughter, always provided it could be
done decently and without scandal. Those two, who had once so loved each
other and who were now sharers in the same sorrows, became enemies--two
hostile parties, which only skilful strategy could ever again bring
together. They tacitly agreed to certain conditions: they would save
appearances; they would remain on outwardly good terms with each other
whatever happened, and above all they would avoid any explanation. This
programme was faithfully carried out, thanks to the great tact of Madame
de Nailles.

No one could have been more watchful to appear ignorant of everything
which, if once brought to light, would have led to difficulties; for
instance, she feigned not to know that her stepdaughter was in possession
of a secret which, if the world knew, would forever make them strangers
to each other; nor would she seem aware that Hubert Marien, weary to
death of the tie that bound him to her, was restrained from breaking it
only by a scruple of honor. Thanks to this seeming ignorance, she parted
from Jacqueline without any open breach, as she had long hoped to do, and
she retained as a friend who supplied her wants a man who was only too
happy to be allowed at this price to escape the act of reparation which
Jacqueline, in her simplicity, had dreaded.

All those who, having for years dined and danced under the roof of the
Nailles, were accounted their friends by society, formed themselves into
two parties, one of which lauded to the skies the dignity and resignation
of the Baroness, while the other admired the force of character in
Jacqueline.

Visitors flocked to the convent which the young girl, by the advice of
Giselle, had chosen for her retreat because it was situated in a quiet
quarter. She who looked so beautiful in her crape garments, who showed
herself so satisfied in her little cell with hardly any furniture, who
was grateful for the services rendered her by the lay sisters, content
with having no salon but the convent parlor, who was passing examinations
to become a teacher, and who seemed to consider it a favor to be
sometimes allowed to hear the children in the convent school say their
lessons--was surely like a heroine in a novel. And indeed Jacqueline had
the agreeable sensation of considering herself one. Public admiration was
a great help to her, after she had passed through that crisis in her
grief during which she could feel nothing but the horror of knowing she
should never see her father again, when she had ceased to weep for him
incessantly, to pray for him, and to turn, like a wounded lioness, on
those who blamed his reckless conduct, though she herself had been its
chief victim.

For three months she hardly left the convent, walking only in the grounds
and gardens, which were of considerable extent. From time to time Giselle
came for her and took her to drive in the Bois at that hour of the day
when few people were there.

Enguerrand, who, thanks to his mother's care, was beginning to be an
intelligent and interesting child, though he was still painfully like M.
de Talbrun, was always with them in the coupe, kindhearted Giselle
thinking that nothing could be so likely to assuage grief as the prattle
of a child. She was astonished--she was touched to the heart, by what she
called naively the conversion of Jacqueline. It was true that the young
girl had no longer any whims or caprices. All the nuns seemed to her
amiable, her lodging was all she needed, her food was excellent; her
lessons gave her amusement. Possibly the excitement of the entire change
had much to do at first with this philosophy, and in fact at the end of
six months Jacqueline owned that she was growing tired of dining at the
table d'hote.

There was a little knot of crooked old ladies who were righteous
overmuch, and several sour old maids whose only occupation seemed to be
to make remarks on any person who had anything different in dress,
manners, or appearance from what they considered the type of the
becoming. If it is not good that man should live alone, it is equally
true that women should not live together. Jacqueline found this out as
soon as her powers of observation came back to her. And about the same
time she discovered that she was not so free as she had flattered herself
she should be. The appearance of a lady, fair and with light hair, very
pretty and about her own age, gave her for the first time an inclination
to talk at table. She and this young woman met twice a day at their
meals, in the morning and in the evening; their rooms were next each
other, and at night Jacqueline could hear her through the thin partition
giving utterance to sighs, which showed that she was unhappy. Several
times, too, she came upon her in the garden looking earnestly at a place
where the wall had been broken, a spot whence it was said a Spanish
countess had been carried off by a bold adventurer. Jacqueline thought
there must be something romantic in the history of this newcomer, and
would have liked exceedingly to know what it might be. As a prelude to
acquaintance, she offered the young stranger some holy water when they
met in the chapel, a bow and a smile were interchanged, their fingers
touched. They seemed almost friends. After this, Jacqueline contrived to
change her seat at table to one next to this unknown person, so prettily
dressed, with her hair so nicely arranged, and, though her expression was
very sad, with a smile so very winning. She alone represented the world,
the world of Paris, among all those ladies, some of whom were looking for
places as companions, some having come up from the provinces, and some
being old ladies who had seen better days. Her change of place was
observed by the nun who presided at the table, and a shade of displeasure
passed over her face. It was slight, but it portended trouble. And,
indeed, when grace had been said, Mademoiselle de Nailles was sent for by
the Mother Superior, who gave her to understand that, being so young, it
was especially incumbent on her to be circumspect in her choice of
associates. Her place thenceforward was to be between Madame de X-----,
an old, deaf lady, and Mademoiselle J-----, a former governess, as cold
as ice and exceedingly respectable. As to Madame Saville, she had been
received in the convent for especial reasons, arising out of
circumstances which did not make her a fit companion for inexperienced
girls. The Superior hesitated a moment and then said: "Her husband
requested us to take charge of her," in a tone by which Jacqueline quite
understood that "take charge" was a synonym for "keep a strict watch upon
her." She was spied upon, she was persecuted--unjustly, no doubt.

All this increased the interest that Jacqueline already felt in the lady
with the light hair. But she made a low curtsey to the Mother Superior
and returned no answer. Her intercourse with her neighbor was
thenceforward; however, sly and secret, which only made it more
interesting and exciting. They would exchange a few words when they met
upon the stairs, in the garden, or in the cloisters, when there was no
curious eye to spy them out; and the first time Jacqueline went out alone
Madame Saville was on the watch, and, without speaking, slipped a letter
into her hand.

This first time Jacqueline went out was an epoch in her life, as small
events are sometimes in the annals of nations; it was the date of her
emancipation, it coincided with what she called her choice of a career.
Thinking herself sure of possessing a talent for teaching, she had spoken
of it to several friends who had come to see her, and who each and all
exclaimed that they would like some lessons, a delicate way of helping
her quite understood by Jacqueline. Pupils like Belle Ray and Yvonne
d'Etaples, who wanted her to come twice a week to play duets with them or
to read over new music, were not nearly so interesting as those in her
little class who had hardly more than learned their scales! Besides this,
Madame d'Avrigny begged her to come and dine with her, when there would
be only themselves, on Mondays, and then practise with Dolly, who had not
another moment in which she could take a lesson. She should be sent home
scrupulously before ten o'clock, that being the hour at the convent when
every one must be in. Jacqueline accepted all these kindnesses
gratefully. By Giselle's advice she hid her slight figure under a loose
cloak and put on her head a bonnet fit for a grandmother, a closed hat
with long strings, which, when she first put it on her head, made her
burst out laughing. She imagined herself to be going forth in disguise.
To walk the streets thus masked she thought would be amusing, so amusing
that the moment she set foot on the street pavement she felt that the joy
of living was yet strong in her. With a roll of music in her hand, she
walked on rather hesitatingly, a little afraid, like a bird just escaped
from the cage where it was born; her heart beat, but it was with
pleasure; she fancied every one was looking at her, and in fact one old
gentleman, not deceived by the cloak, did follow her till she got into an
omnibus for the first time in her life--a new experience and a new
pleasure. Once seated, and a little out of breath, she remembered Madame
Saville's letter, which she had slipped into her pocket. It was sealed
and had a stamp on it; it was too highly scented to be in good taste, and
it was addressed to a lieutenant of chasseurs with an aristocratic name,
in a garrison at Fontainebleau.

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