M 
 
 
 

 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ''tjBk.
 
 j 
 
 Theo. Benfzon. 
 
 [From a Photograph.} 
 
 rent Lit 
 
 1910
 
 
 
 
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 By TH. BENTZON 
 (MME. BLANC) 
 
 
 Crowned by the French Academy 
 
 
 With a Preface by M. 
 THUREAU-DANGIN 
 of the French Academy 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Current Literature Publishing Company 
 
 1910
 
 COPYRIGHT 1905 
 
 BY 
 ROBERT ARNOT 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1910 
 
 BY 
 
 CURRENT LITERATURE PUBLISHING COMPANY
 
 TH. BENTZON 
 
 ? T is natural that the attention and 
 affection of Americans should be at- 
 tracted to a woman who has devoted 
 herself assiduously to understanding 
 and to making known the aspirations 
 of our country, especially in introduc- 
 ing the labors and achievements of 
 our women to their sisters in France, 
 of whom we also have much to learn; for simple, 
 homely virtues and the charm of womanliness may still 
 be studied with advantage on the cherished soil of 
 France. 
 
 Marie-The'rese Blanc, nee Solms for this is the 
 name of the author who writes under the nom dt plume 
 of Madame Bentzon is considered the greatest of 
 living French female novelists. She was born in an old 
 French chateau at Seine-Porte (Seine et Oise), Septem- 
 ber 21, 1840. This chateau was owned by Madame 
 Bentzon's grandmother, the Marquise de Vitry, who 
 was a woman of great force and energy of character, 
 "a ministering angel" to her country neighborhood. 
 Her grandmother's first marriage was to a Dane, Major- 
 General Adrien-Benjamin de Bentzon, a Governor of 
 the Danish Antilles. By this marriage there was one 
 
 [v] 
 
 2042184
 
 PREFACE 
 
 daughter, the mother of Therese, who in turn married 
 the Comte de Solms. "This mixture of races," Ma- 
 dame Blanc once wrote, "surely explains a kind of 
 moral and intellectual cosmopolitanism which is found 
 in my nature. My father of German descent, my 
 mother of Danish my nom de plume (which was her 
 maiden-name) is Danish with Protestant ancestors 
 on her side, though she and I were Catholics my 
 grandmother a sound and witty Parisian, gay, brilliant, 
 lively, with superb physical health and the consequent 
 good spirits surely these materials could not have pro- 
 duced other than a cosmopolitan being." 
 
 Somehow or other, the family became impoverished. 
 Therese de Solms took to writing stories. After many 
 refusals, her debut took place in the Revue des Deux 
 Mondes, and her perseverance was largely due to the 
 encouragement she received from George Sand, al- 
 though that great woman saw everything through the 
 magnifying glass of her genius. But the person to 
 whom Therese Bentzon was most indebted in the mat 
 ter of literary advice she says herself was the late 
 M. Caro, the famous Sorbonne professor of philosophy, 
 himself an admirable writer, "who put me through a 
 course of literature, acting as my guide through a vast 
 amount of solid reading, and criticizing my work with 
 kindly severity." Success was slow. Strange as it may 
 seem, there is a prejudice against female writers in 
 France, a country that has produced so many admira- 
 able women-authors. However, the time was to come 
 when M. Becloz found one of her stories in the Journal 
 des Debats. It was the one entitled Un Divorce, and he 
 
 [vi]
 
 PREFACE 
 
 lost no time in engaging the young writer to become 
 one of his staff. From that day to this she has found 
 the pages of the Revue always open to her. 
 
 Madame Bentzon is a novelist, translator, and writer 
 of literary essays. The list of her works runs as follows: 
 Le Roman (Pun Muet (1868); Un Divorce (1872); La 
 Grande Sauliere (1877); Un remords (1878); Yette and 
 Georgette (1880); Le Retour (1882); Tete folle (1883); 
 Tony, (1884); Emancipee (1887); Constance (1891); 
 Jacqueline (1893). We need not enter into the merits 
 of style and composition if we mention that Un remords, 
 Tony, and Constance were crowned by the French 
 Academy, and Jacqueline in 1893. Madame Bentzon 
 is likewise the translator of Aldrich, Bret Harte, 
 Dickens, and Ouida. Some of her critical works are : 
 Litter ature et Mceurs etrangeres, 1882, and Nouveaux 
 romanciers americains, 1885. 
 
 de l'Acadmie Fran<jaise. 
 
 [vii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGB 
 
 A PARISIENNE'S "AT HOME" i 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 A CLEVER STEPMOTHER 28 
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY 40 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 A DANGEROUS MODEL 63 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 SURPRISES 72 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 A CONVENT FLOWER 91 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 THE BLUE BAND 106 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 A PUZZLING CORRESPONDENCE 133 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 BEAUTY AT THE FAIR 148 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 GISELLE'S CONSOLATION 162 
 
 [ix]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FRED ASKS A QUESTION 170 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 A COMEDY AND A TRAGEDY 186 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 THE STORM BREAKS 199 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 BITTER DISILLUSION 213 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 TREACHEROUS KINDNESS 232 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 THE SAILOR'S RETURN 253 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 TWIN DEVILS 268 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 "AN AFFAIR OF HONOR" 280 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 GENTLE CONSPIRATORS 291 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 A CHIVALROUS SOUL 299
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A PARISIENNE'S "AT HOME" 
 
 ESPITE a short frock, checked stock- 
 ings, wide turned-over collar, and a 
 loose sash around the waist of her 
 blouse in other words, despite the 
 childish fashion of a dress which 
 seemed to denote that she was not 
 more than thirteen or fourteen years 
 of age, she seemed much older. An 
 observer would have put her down as the oldest of the 
 young girls who on Tuesdays, at Madame de Nailles's 
 afternoons, filled what was called "the young girls' 
 corner" with whispered merriment and low laughter, 
 while, under pretence of drinking tea, the noise went on 
 which is always audible when there is anything to eat. 
 No doubt the amber tint of this young girl's com- 
 plexion, the raven blackness of her hair, her marked yet 
 delicate features, and the general impression produced 
 by her dark coloring, were reasons why she seemed 
 older than the rest. It was Jacqueline's privilege to 
 exhibit that style of beauty which comes earliest to per- 
 fection, and retains it longest; and, what was an equal 
 privilege, she resembled no one.
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 The deep bow- window her favorite spot which en- 
 abled her to have a reception-day in connection with 
 that of her mamma, seemed like a great basket of roses 
 when all her friends assembled there, seated on low 
 chairs in unstudied attitudes: the white rose of the 
 group was Mademoiselle d'Etaples, a specimen of pale 
 and pensive beauty, frail almost to transparency; the 
 Rose of Bengal was the charming Colette Odinska, a 
 girl of Polish race, but born in Paris; the dark-red rose 
 was Isabelle Ray Belle she was called triumphantly 
 whose dimpled cheeks flushed scarlet for almost any 
 cause, some said for very coquetry. Then there were 
 three little girls called Wermant, daughters of an agent 
 de change a spray of May roses, exactly alike in feat- 
 ures, manners, and dress, sprightly and charming as 
 little girls could be. A little pompon rose was tiny Doro- 
 the"e d'Avrigny, to whom the pet name Dolly was appro- 
 priate, for never had any doll's waxen face been more 
 lovely than her little round one, with its mouth shaped 
 like a little heart a mouth smaller than her eyes, and 
 these were round eyes, too, but so bright, and blue, and 
 soft, that it was easy to overlook their too frequently 
 startled expression. 
 
 Jacqueline had nothing in common with a rose of 
 any kind, but she was not the less charming to look at. 
 Such was the unspoken reflection of a man who was 
 well able to be a judge in such matters. His name was 
 Hubert Marien. He was a great painter, and was now 
 watching the clear-cut, somewhat Arab-like profile of 
 this girl a profile brought out distinctly against the 
 dark-red silk background of a screen, much as we see
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 a cameo stand out in sharp relief from the glittering 
 stone from which the artist has fashioned it. Marien 
 looked at her from a distance, leaning against the fire- 
 place of the farther salon, whence he could see plainly 
 the corner shaded by green foliage plants where Jacque- 
 line had made her niche, as she called it. The two 
 rooms formed practically but one, being separated only 
 by a large recess without folding-doors, or portieres. 
 Hubert Marien, from his place behind Madame de 
 Nailles's chair, had often before watched Jacqueline 
 as he was watching her at this moment. She had 
 grown up, as it were, under his own eye. He had seen 
 her playing with her dolls, absorbed in her story-books, 
 and crunching sugar-plums, he had paid her visits 
 for how many years? He did not care to count 
 them. 
 
 And little girls bloom fast! How old they make us 
 feel ! Who would have supposed the most unpromising 
 of little buds would have transformed itself so soon into 
 what he gazed upon? Marien, as an artist, had great 
 pleasure in studying the delicate outline of that graceful 
 head surmounted by thick tresses, with rebellious ring- 
 lets rippling over the brow before they were gathered 
 into the thick braid that hung behind ; and Jacqueline, 
 although she appeared to be wholly occupied with her 
 guests, felt the gaze that was fixed upon her, and was 
 conscious of its magnetic influence, from which nothing 
 would have induced her to escape even had she been 
 able. All the young girls were listening attentively 
 (despite their more serious occupation of consuming 
 dainties) to what was going on in the next room among 
 
 [3]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 the grown-up people, whose conversation reached them 
 only in detached fragments. 
 
 So long as the subject talked about was the last re- 
 ception at the French Academy, these young girls (com- 
 rades in the class-room and at the weekly catechising) 
 had been satisfied to discuss together their own little 
 affairs, but after Colonel de Valdonjon began to talk 
 complete silence reigned among them. One might have 
 heard the buzzing of a fly. Their attention, however, 
 was of little use. Exclamations of oh! and ah! and 
 protests more or less sincere drowned even the loud and 
 somewhat hoarse voice of the Colonel. The girls heard 
 it only through a sort of general murmur, out of which 
 a burst of astonishment or of dissent would occasion- 
 ally break forth. These outbreaks were all the curious 
 group could hear distinctly. They sniffed, as it were, 
 at the forbidden fruit, but they longed to inhale the full 
 perfume of the scandal that they felt was in the air. That 
 stout officer of cuirassiers, of whom some people spoke 
 as "The Chatterbox," took advantage of his profession 
 to tell many an unsavory story which he had picked up 
 or invented at his club. He had come to Madame de 
 Nailles's reception with a brand-new concoction of 
 falsehood and truth, a story likely to be hawked round 
 Paris with great success for several weeks to come, 
 though ladies on first hearing it would think proper to 
 cry out that they would not even listen to it, and would 
 pretend to look round them for their fans to hide their 
 confusion. 
 
 The principal object of interest in this scandalous 
 gossip was a valuable diamond bracelet, one of those 
 
 [4]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 priceless bits of jewelry seldom seen except in show- 
 windows on the Rue de la Paix, intended to be bought 
 only for presentation to princesses of some sort or 
 kind. Well, by an extraordinary chance the Marquise 
 de Versannes aye, the lovely Georgine de Versannes 
 herself had picked up this bracelet in the street by 
 chance, as it were. 
 
 "It so happened," said the Colonel, "that I was at 
 her mother-in-law's, where she was going to dine. She 
 came in looking as innocent as you please, with her 
 hand in her pocket. ' Oh, see what I have found ! ' she 
 cried. 'I stepped upon it almost at your door.' And 
 the bracelet was placed under a lamp, where the dia- 
 monds shot out sparkles fit to blind the old Marquise, 
 and make that old fool of a Versannes see' a thousand 
 lights. He has long known better than to take all his 
 wife says for gospel but he tries hard to pretend that 
 he believes her. 'My dear,' he said, 'you must take 
 that to the police.' 'I'll send it to-morrow morning/ 
 says the charming Georgine, 'but I wished to show you 
 my good luck.' Of course nobody came forward to 
 claim the bracelet, and a month later Madame de Ver- 
 sannes appeared at the Cranfords' ball with a brilliant 
 diamond bracelet, worn like the Queen of Sheba's, high 
 up on her arm, near the shoulder, to hide the lack of 
 sleeve. This piece of finery, which drew everybody's 
 attention to the wearer, was the famous bracelet picked 
 up in the street. Clever of her ! wasn't it, now ? " 
 
 "Horrid! Unlikely! Impossible. . . . What do you 
 mean us to understand about it, Colonel? Could she 
 have . . . ?" 
 
 [5]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 Then the Colonel went on to demonstrate, with many 
 coarse insinuations, that that good Georgine, as he 
 familiarly called her, had done many more things than 
 people gave her credit for. And he went on to add: 
 "Surely, you must have heard of the row about her be- 
 tween Givrac and the Homme-Volant at the Cirque?" 
 
 "What, the man that wears stockinet all covered 
 with gold scales? Do tell us, Colonel!" 
 
 But here Madame de Nailles gave a dry little cough 
 which was meant to impose silence on the subject. She 
 was not a prude, but she disapproved of anything that 
 was bad form at her receptions. The Colonel's revela- 
 tions had to be made in a lower tone, while his hostess 
 endeavored to bring back the conversation to the charm- 
 ing reply made by M. Renan to the somewhat insipid 
 address of a member of the Academic . 
 
 "We sha'n't hear anything more now," said Colette, 
 with a sigh. "Did you understand it, Jacqueline?" 
 
 " Understand what ?" 
 
 "Why, that story about the bracelet?" 
 
 "No not all. The Colonel seemed to imply that 
 she had not picked it up, and indeed I don't see how 
 any one could have dropped in the street, in broad day- 
 light, a bracelet meant only to be worn at night a 
 bracelet worn near the shoulder." 
 
 "But if she did not pick it up she must have stolen 
 it." 
 
 "Stolen it?" cried Belle. "Stolen it! What! The 
 Marquise de Versannes? Why, she inherited the finest 
 diamonds hi Paris!" 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 [6]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Because mamma sometimes takes me to the Opera, 
 and her subscription day is the same as that of the 
 Marquise. People say a good deal of harm of her in 
 whispers. They say she is barely received now in so- 
 ciety, that people turn their backs on her, and so forth, 
 and so on. However, that did not hinder her from be- 
 ing superb the other evening at Polyeucte." 
 
 "So you only go to see Polyeucte?" said Jacqueline, 
 making a little face as if she despised that opera. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen it twice. Mamma lets me go to 
 Polyeucte and Guillaume Tell, and to the Prophete, but 
 she won't take me to see Faust and it is just Faust 
 that I want to see. Isn't it provoking that one can't see 
 everything, hear everything, understand everything? 
 You see, we could not half understand that story which 
 seemed to amuse the people so much in the other room. 
 Why did they send back the bracelet from the Prefec- 
 ture to Madame de Versannes if it was not hers?" 
 
 "Yes why?" said all the little girls, much puzzled. 
 
 Meantime, as the hour for closing the exhibition at 
 the neighboring hippodrome had arrived, visitors came 
 pouring into Madame de Nailles's reception tall, 
 graceful women, dressed with taste and elegance, as 
 befitted ladies who were interested in horsemanship. 
 The tone of the conversation changed. Nothing was 
 talked about but superb horses, leaps over ribbons and 
 other obstacles. The young girls interested themselves 
 in the spring toilettes, which they either praised or 
 criticised as they passed before their eyes. 
 
 "Oh! there is Madame Villegry," cried Jacqueline; 
 "how handsome she is! I should like one of these days 
 
 [7]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 to be that kind of beauty, so tall and slender. Her 
 waist measure is only twenty-one and two thirds inches. 
 The woman who makes her corsets and my mamma's 
 told us so. She brought us one of her corsets to look at, 
 a love of a corset, in brocatelle, all over many-colored 
 flowers. That material is much more distingue than 
 the old satin 
 
 "But what a queer idea it is to waste all that upon 
 a thing that nobody will ever look at," said Dolly, her 
 round eyes opening wider than before. 
 
 " Oh! it is just to please herself, I suppose. I under- 
 stand that! Besides, nothing is too good for such a fig- 
 ure. But what I admire most is her extraordinary hair." 
 
 "Which changes its color now and then," observed 
 the sharpest of the three Wermant sisters. "Extraor- 
 dinary is just the word for it. At present it is dark red. 
 Henna did that, I suppose. Raoul our brother 
 when he was in Africa saw Arab women who used 
 henna. They tied their heads up in a sort of poultice 
 made of little leaves, something like tea-leaves. In 
 twenty-four hours the hair will be dyed red, and will 
 stay red for a year or more. You can try it if you like. 
 I think it is disgusting." 
 
 "Oh! look, there is Madame de Sternay. I recog- 
 nized her by her perfume before I had even seen her. 
 What delightful things good perfumes are!" 
 
 "What is it? Is it heliotrope or jessamine?" asked 
 Yvonne d'Etaples, sniffing in the air. 
 
 "No it is only orris-root nothing but orris-root; 
 but she puts it everywhere about her in the hem of 
 her petticoat, in the lining of her dress. She lives, one 
 
 [8]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 might say, in the middle of a sachet. The thing that 
 will please me most when I am married will be to have 
 no limit to my perfumes. Till then I have to satisfy 
 myself with very little," sighed Jacqueline, drawing a 
 little bunch of violets from the loose folds of her blouse, 
 and inhaling their fragrance with delight. 
 
 "Tiens! here comes somebody who has to be con- 
 tented with much less," said Yvonne, as a young girl 
 joined their circle. She was small, awkward, timid, 
 and badly dressed. On seeing her Colette whispered: 
 "Oh! that tiresome Giselle. We sha'n't be able to talk 
 another word." 
 
 Jacqueline kissed Giselle de Monredon. They were 
 distant cousins, though they saw each other very sel- 
 dom. Giselle was an orphan, having lost both her 
 father and her mother, and was being educated in a 
 convent from which she was allowed to come out only 
 on great occasions. Her grandmother, whose ideas 
 were those of the old school, had placed her there. The 
 Easter holidays accounted for Giselle's unexpected 
 arrival. Wrapped in a large cloak which covered up 
 her convent uniform, she looked, as compared with the 
 gay girls around her, like a poor sombre night-moth, daz- 
 zled by the light, in company with other glittering crea- 
 tures of the insect race, fluttering with graceful move- 
 ments, transparent wings and shining corselets. 
 
 "Come and have some sandwiches," said Jacque- 
 line, and she drew Giselle to the tea-table, with the 
 kind intention apparently of making her feel more at 
 her ease. But she had another motive. She saw some 
 one who was very interesting to her coming at that mo- 
 
 [9]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 ment toward the table. That some one was a man 
 about forty, whose pointed black beard was becoming 
 slightly gray a man whom some people thought ugly, 
 chiefly because they had never seen his somewhat irreg- 
 ular features illumined by a smile which, spreading 
 from his lips to his eyes, lighted up his face and trans- 
 formed it. The smile of Hubert Marien was rare, 
 however. He was exclusive in his friendships, often 
 silent, always somewhat unapproachable. He seldom 
 troubled himself to please any one he did not care for. 
 In society he was not seen to advantage, because he 
 was extremely bored, for which reason he was seldom 
 to be seen at the Tuesday receptions of Madame de 
 Nailles; while, on other days, he frequented the house 
 as an intimate friend of the family. Jacqueline had 
 known him all her life, and for her he had always his 
 beautiful smile. He had petted her when she was little, 
 and had been much amused by the sort of adoration 
 she had no hesitation in showing that she felt for him. 
 He used to call her Mademoiselle ma femme, and M. de 
 Nailles would speak of him as "my daughter's future 
 husband." This joke had been kept up till the little 
 lady had reached her ninth year, when it ceased, prob- 
 ably by order of Madame de Nailles, who in matters 
 of propriety was very punctilious. Jacqueline, too, 
 became less familiar than she had been with the man 
 she called " my great painter." Indeed, in her heart 
 of hearts, she cherished a grudge against him. She 
 thought he presumed on the right he had assumed of 
 teasing her. The older she grew the more he treated 
 her as if she were a baby, and, in the little passages of 
 
 [10]
 
 arms that continually took place between them, Jacque- 
 line was bitterly conscious that she no longer had the 
 best of it as formerly. She was no longer as droll and 
 lively as she had been. She was easily disconcerted, 
 and took everything au serieux, and her wits became 
 paralyzed by an embarrassment that was new to her. 
 And, pained by the sort of sarcasm which Marien kept 
 up in all their intercourse, she was often ready to burst 
 into tears after talking to him. Yet she was never quite 
 satisfied unless he was present. She counted the days 
 from one Wednesday to another, for on Wednesdays he 
 always dined with them, and she greeted any oppor- 
 tunity of seeing him on other days as a great pleasure. 
 This week, for example, would be marked with a white 
 stone. She would have seen him twice. For half an 
 hour Marien had been enduring the bore of the recep- 
 tion, standing silent and self-absorbed in the midst of 
 the gay talk, which did not interest him. He wished to 
 escape, but was always kept from doing so by some 
 word or sign from Madame de Nailles. Jacqueline 
 had been thinking: "Oh! if he would only come and 
 talk to us!" He was now drawing near them, and an 
 instinct made her wish to rush up to him and tell him 
 what should she tell him? She did not know. A few 
 moments before so many things to tell him had been 
 passing through her brain. 
 
 What she said was: "Monsieur Marien, I recom- 
 mend to you these little spiced cakes." And, with some 
 awkwardness, because her hand was trembling, she 
 held out the plate to him. 
 
 "No, thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, affecting a
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 tone of great ceremony, "I prefer to take this glass of 
 punch, if you will permit me." 
 
 "The punch is cold, I fear; suppose we were to put 
 a little tea in it. Stay let me help you." 
 
 "A thousand thanks; but I like to attend to such 
 little cookeries myself. By the way, it seems to me that 
 Mademoiselle Giselle, in her character of an angel who 
 disapproves of the good things of this life, has not left 
 us much to eat at your table." 
 
 "Who I?" cried the poor schoolgirl, in a tone of 
 injured innocence and astonishment. 
 
 "Don't pay any attention to him," said Jacqueline, 
 as if taking her under her protection. "He is nothing 
 but a tease; what he says is only chaff. But I might as 
 well talk Greek to her," she added, shrugging her shoul- 
 ders. "In the convent they don't know what to make 
 of a joke. Only spare her at least, if you please, Mon- 
 sieur Marien." 
 
 "I know by report that Mademoiselle Giselle is 
 worthy of the most profound respect," continued the 
 pitiless painter. "I lay myself at her feet and at 
 yours. Now I am going to slip away in the English 
 fashion. Good-evening." 
 
 "Why do you go so soon? You can't do any more 
 work to-day." 
 
 "No, it has been a day lost that is true." 
 
 "That's polite! By the way " here Jacqueline be- 
 came very red and she spoke rapidly "what made you 
 just now stare at me so persistently?" 
 
 "I? Impossible that I could have permitted myself 
 to stare at you, Mademoiselle." 
 
 [12]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "That is just what you did, though. I thought you 
 had found something to find fault with. What could 
 it be ? I fancied there was something wrong with my 
 hair, something absurd that you were laughing at. 
 You always do laugh, you know." 
 
 "Wrong with your hair? It is always wrong. But 
 that is not your fault. You are not responsible for its 
 looking like a hedgehog's." 
 
 "Hedgehogs haven't any hair," said Jacqueline, 
 much hurt by the observation. 
 
 "True, they have only prickles, which remind me of 
 the susceptibility of your temper. I beg your pardon 
 I was looking at you critically. Being myself indulgent 
 and kind-hearted, I was only looking at you from an 
 artist's point of view as is always allowable in my pro- 
 fession. Remember, I see you very rarely by daylight. 
 I am obliged to work as long as the light allows me. 
 Well, in the light of this April sunshine I was saying to 
 myself excuse my boldness! that you had reached 
 the right age for a picture." 
 
 ' ' For a picture ? Were you thinking of painting me ? " 
 cried Jacqueline, radiant with pleasure. 
 
 "Hold a moment, please. Between a dream and its 
 ^, 'execution lies a great space. I was only imagining a 
 picture of you." 
 
 "But my portrait would be frightful." 
 
 "Possibly. But that would depend on the skill of 
 the painter." 
 
 "And yet a model should be I am so thin," said 
 Jacqueline, with confusion and discouragement. 
 'True; your limbs are like a grasshopper's,"
 
 BENTZON 
 
 "Oh! you mean my legs but my arms. ..." 
 
 "Your arms must be like your legs. But, sitting as 
 you were just now, I could see only your head, which is 
 better. So! one has to be accountable for looking at 
 you? Mademoiselle feels herself affronted if any one 
 stares at her! I will remember this in future. There, 
 now ! suppose, instead of quarrelling with me, you were 
 to go and cast yourself into the arms of your cousin 
 Fred." 
 
 "Fred! Fredd'Argy! Fred is at Brest." 
 
 "Where are your eyes, my dear child? He has just 
 come in with his mother." 
 
 And at that moment Madame de Nailles, with her 
 pure, clear voice a voice frequently compared to that 
 of Mademoiselle Reichemberg, called : 
 
 "Jacqueline!" 
 
 Jacqueline never crossed the imaginary line which 
 divided the two salons unless she was called upon to do 
 so. She was still summoned like a child to speak to 
 certain persons who took an especial interest in her, 
 and who were kind enough to wish to see her Ma- 
 dame d'Argy, for example, who had been the dearest 
 friend of her dead mother. The death of that mother, 
 who had been long replaced by a stepmother, could 
 hardly be said to be deeply regretted by Jacqueline. 
 She remembered her very indistinctly. The stories of 
 her she had heard from Modeste, her old nurse, prob- 
 ably served her instead of any actual memory. She 
 knew her only as a woman pale and in ill health, always 
 lying on a sofa. The little black frock that had been 
 made for her had been hardly worn out when a new
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 mamma, as gay and fresh as the other had been sick 
 and suffering, had come into the household like a ray 
 of sunshine. 
 
 After that time Madame d'Argy and Modeste were 
 the only people who spoke to her of the mother who 
 was gone. Madame d'Argy, indeed, came on certain 
 days to take her to visit the tomb, on which the child 
 read, as she prayed for the departed: 
 
 MARIE JACQUELINE ADELAIDE DE VALTLER 
 
 BARONNE DE NATLLES 
 DIED AGED TWENTY-SIX YEARS. 
 
 And such filial sentiment as she still retained, con- 
 cerning the unknown being who had been her mother, 
 was tinged by her association with this melancholy pil- 
 grimage which she was expected to perform at certain 
 intervals. Without exactly knowing the reason why, 
 Jacqueline was conscious of a certain hostility that ex- 
 isted between Madame d'Argy and her stepmother. 
 
 The intimate friend of the first Madame de Nailles 
 was a woman with neither elegance nor beauty. She 
 never had left off her widow's weeds, which she had 
 worn since she had lost her husband in early youth. In 
 the eyes of Jacqueline her sombre figure personified 
 austere, exacting Duty, a kind of duty not attractive to 
 her. That very day it seemed as if duty inconveniently 
 stepped in to break up a conversation that was deeply 
 interesting to her. The impatient gesture that she 
 made when her mother called her might have been in- 
 terpreted into : Bother Madame d'Argy ! 
 
 [15]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 "Jacqueline!" called again the silvery voice that had 
 first summoned her; and a moment after the young 
 girl found herself in the centre of a circle of grown 
 people, saying good-morning, making curtseys, and 
 kissing the withered hand of old Madame de Mon- 
 redon, as she had been taught to do from infancy. 
 Madame de Monredon was Giselle's grandmother. 
 Jacqueline had been instructed to call her "aunt;" 
 but in her heart she called her La Fee Grognon, while 
 Madame d'Argy, pointing to her son, said: "What do 
 you think, darling, of such a surprise ? He is home on 
 leave. We came here the first place naturally." 
 
 "It was very nice of you. How do you do, Fred?" 
 said Jacqueline, holding out her hand to a very young 
 man, in a jacket ornamented with gold lace, who stood 
 twisting his cap in his hand with some embarrassment : 
 "It is a long time since we have seen each other. But 
 it does not seem to me that you have grown a great 
 deal." 
 
 Fred blushed up to the roots of his hair. 
 
 "No one can say that of you, Jacqueline," observed 
 Madame d'Argy. 
 
 "No what a may-pole! isn't she?" said the Ba- 
 ronne, carelessly. 
 
 "If she realizes it," whispered Madame de Monre- 
 don, who was sitting beside Madame d'Argy on a 
 causeuse shaped like an S, "why does she persist in 
 dressing her like a child six years old? It is absurd!" 
 
 "Still, she can have no reason for keeping her thus 
 in order to make herself seem young. She is only a 
 stepmother." 
 
 [16]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Of course. But people might make comparisons. 
 Beauty in the bud sometimes blooms out unexpect- 
 edly when it is not welcome." 
 
 "Yes she is fading fast. Small women ought not to 
 grow stout." 
 
 "Anyhow, I have no patience with her for keeping 
 a girl of fifteen in short skirts." 
 
 "You are making her out older than she is." 
 
 "How is that? how is that? She is two years 
 younger than Giselle, who has just entered her eigh- 
 teenth year." 
 
 While the two ladies were exchanging these little re- 
 marks, the Baronne de Nailles was saying to the young 
 naval cadet: 
 
 "Monsieur Fred, we should be charmed to keep you 
 with us, but possibly you might like to see some of your 
 old friends. Jacqueline can take you to them. They 
 will be glad to see you." 
 
 "Tiens! that's true," said Jacqueline. "Dolly and 
 Belle are yonder. You remember Isabelle Ray, who 
 used to take dancing lessons with us." 
 
 "Of course I do," said Fred, following his cousin 
 with a feeling of regret that his sword was not knocking 
 against his legs, increasing his importance in the eyes of 
 all the ladies who were present. He was not, however, 
 sorry to leave their imposing circle. Above all, he was 
 glad to escape from the clear-sighted, critical eyes of 
 Madame de Nailles. On the other hand, to be sent 
 off to the girls' corner, after being insulted by being 
 told he had not grown, hurt his sense of self-impor- 
 tance. 
 
 2 [17]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 Meantime Jacqueline was taking him back to her 
 own corner, where he was greeted by two or three little 
 exclamations of surprise, shaking hands, however, as 
 his former playmates drew their skirts around them, 
 trying to make room for him to sit down. 
 
 "Young ladies," said Jacqueline, "I present to you 
 a bordachien a little middy from the practice-ship the 
 Borda." 
 
 They burst out laughing: "A bordachien! A middy 
 from the practice-ship!" they cried. 
 
 "I shall not be much longer on the practice-ship," 
 said the young man, with a gesture which seemed as if 
 his hand were feeling for the hilt of his sword, which 
 was not there, "for I am going very soon on my first 
 voyage as an ensign." 
 
 "Yes," explained Jacqueline, "he is going to be 
 transferred from the Borda to the Jean-Bart which, 
 by the way, is no longer the Jean-Bart, only people call 
 her so because they are used to it. Meantime you see 
 before you "C," the great "C," the famous "C," that 
 is, he is the pupil who stands highest on the roll of the 
 naval school at this moment." 
 
 There was a vague murmur of applause. Poor Fred 
 was indeed in need of some appreciation on the score 
 of merit, for he was not much to look upon, being at that 
 trying age when a young fellow's moustache is only a 
 light down, an age at which youths always look their 
 worst, and are awkward and unsociable because they 
 are timid. 
 
 "Then you are no longer an idle fellow," said Dolly, 
 rather teasingly. "People used to say that you went 
 
 [18]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 into the navy to get rid of your lessons. That I can 
 quite understand." 
 
 "Oh, he has passed many difficult exams.," cried 
 Giselle, coming to the rescue. 
 
 "I thought I had had enough of school," said Fred, 
 without making any defense, "and besides I had other 
 reasons for going into the navy." 
 
 His "other reasons" had been a wish to emancipate 
 himself from the excessive solicitude of his mother, who 
 kept him tied to her apron-strings like a little girl. He 
 was impatient to do something for himself, to become 
 a man as soon as possible. But he said nothing of all 
 this, and to escape further questions devoured three or 
 four little cakes that were offered him. Before taking 
 them he removed his gloves and displayed a pair of 
 chapped and horny hands. 
 
 "Why poor Fred!" cried Jacqueline, who remarked 
 them in a moment, "what kind of almond paste do 
 you use?" 
 
 Much annoyed, he replied, curtly: "We all have to 
 row, we have also to attend to the machinery. But that 
 is only while we are cadets. Of course, such appren- 
 ticeship is very hard. After that we shall get our stripes 
 and be ordered on foreign service, and expect promo- 
 tion." 
 
 "And glory," said Giselle, who found courage to 
 speak. 
 
 Fred thanked her with a look of gratitude. She, at 
 least, understood his profession. She entered into his 
 feelings far better than Jacqueline, who had been his 
 first confidante Jacqueline, to whom he had confided
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 his purposes, his ambition, and his day-dreams. He 
 thought Jacqueline was selfish. She seemed to care 
 only for herself. And yet, selfish or not selfish, she 
 pleased him better than all the other girls he knew a 
 thousand times more than gentle, sweet Giselle. 
 
 "Ah, glory, of course!" repeated Jacqueline. "I 
 understand how much that counts, but there is glory of 
 various kinds, and I know the kind that I prefer," she 
 added in a tone which seemed to imply that it was not 
 that of arms, or of perilous navigation. " We all know," 
 she went on, "that not every man can have genius, but 
 any sailor who has good luck can get to be an admiral." 
 
 "Let us hope you will be one soon, Monsieur Fred," 
 said Dolly. "You will have well deserved it, according 
 to the way you have distinguished yourself on board 
 the Borda." 
 
 This induced Fred to let them understand something 
 of life on board the practice-ship ; he told how the mas- 
 ters who resided on shore ascended by a ladder to the 
 gun-deck, which had been turned into a schoolroom; 
 how six cadets occupied the space intended for each 
 gun-carriage, where hammocks hung from hooks 
 served them instead of beds; how the chapel was in 
 a closet opened only on Sundays. He described the 
 gymnastic feats in the rigging, the practice in gunnery, 
 and many other things which, had they been well de- 
 scribed, would have been interesting; but Fred was 
 only a poor narrator. The conclusion the young ladies 
 seemed to reach unanimously after hearing his descrip- 
 tions, was discouraging. They cried almost with one 
 voice: 
 
 [20]
 
 "Think of any woman being willing to marry a 
 sailor." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Giselle, very promptly. 
 
 "Because, what's the use of a husband who is always 
 out of your reach, as it were, between water and sky ? 
 One would better be a widow. Widows, at any rate, 
 can marry again. But you, Giselle, don't understand 
 these things. You are going to be a nun." 
 
 "Had I been in your place, Fred," said Isabelle Ray, 
 "I should rather have gone into the cavalry school at 
 Saint Cyr. I should have wanted to be a good hunts- 
 man, had I been a man, and they say naval officers are 
 never good horsemen." 
 
 Poor Fred! He was not making much progress 
 among the young girls. Almost everything people talked 
 about outside his cadet life was unknown to him ; what 
 he could talk about seemed to have no interest for any 
 one, unless indeed it might interest Giselle, who was an 
 adept in the art of sympathetic listening, never having 
 herself anything to say. 
 
 Besides this, Fred was by no means at his ease in 
 talking to Jacqueline. They had been told not to 
 tutoyer each other, because they were getting too old 
 for such familiarity, and it was he, and not she, who 
 remembered this prohibition. Jacqueline perceived 
 this after a while, and burst out laughing: 
 
 "Tiens! You call me 'you,'" she cried, "and I 
 ought not to say 'thou' but 'you.' I forgot. It seems 
 so odd, when we have always been accustomed to 
 tutoyer each other." 
 
 "One ought to give it up after one's first com- 
 
 [21]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 munion," said the eldest Mademoiselle Wermant, 
 sententiously. "We ceased to tutoyer our boy cousins 
 after that. I am told nothing annoys a husband so 
 much as to see these little familiarities between his 
 wife and her cousins or her playmates." 
 
 Giselle looked very much astonished at this speech, 
 and her air of disapproval amused Belle and Yvonne 
 exceedingly. They began presently to talk of the 
 classes in which they were considered brilliant pupils, 
 and of their success in compositions. They said that 
 sometimes very difficult subjects were given out. A 
 week or two before, each had had to compose a letter 
 purporting to be from Dante in exile to a friend in Flor- 
 ence, describing Paris as it was in his time, especially 
 the manners and customs of its universities, ending 
 by some allusion to the state of matters between the 
 Guelphs and the Ghibellines. 
 
 " Good heavens! And could you do it ? " said Giselle, 
 whose knowledge of history was limited to what may 
 be found in school abridgments. 
 
 It was therefore a great satisfaction to her when Fred 
 declared that he never should have known how to set 
 about it. 
 
 "Oh! papa helped me a little," said Isabelle, whose 
 father wrote articles much appreciated by the public in 
 the Revue des Deux Mondes. " But he said at the same 
 time that it was horrid to give such crack-brained stuff 
 to us poor girls. Happily, our subject this week is much 
 nicer. We have to make comparisons between La 
 Tristesse d'Olympio, Souvenir, and Le Lac. That will 
 be something interesting." 
 
 [22]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "The Tristesse d'Olympio?" repeated Giselle, in a 
 tone of interrogation. 
 
 "You know, of course, that it is Victor Hugo's," said 
 Mademoiselle de Wermant, with a touch of pity. 
 
 Giselle answered with sincerity and humility, "I 
 only knew that Le Lac was by Lamartine." 
 
 "Well! she knows that much," whispered Belle to 
 Yvonne "just that much, anyhow." 
 
 While they were whispering and laughing, Jacque- 
 line recited, in a soft voice, and with feeling that did 
 credit to her instructor in elocution, Mademoiselle 
 X , of the Theatre Frangais: 
 
 Que le vent qui g^mit, le roseau qui soupire, 
 Que les parfums legers de ton air embaume", 
 Que tout ce qu'on entend, 1'on voit ou 1'on respire, 
 Tout disc: Us ont aime. 
 
 May the moan of the wind, the green rushes' soft sighing, 
 The fragrance that floats in the air you have moved, 
 May all heard, may all breathed, may all seen, seem but trying 
 To say: They have loved. 
 
 Then she added, after a pause: "Isn't that beau- 
 tiful?" 
 
 "How dares she say such words?" thought Giselle, 
 whose sense of propriety was outraged by this allusion 
 to love. Fred, too, looked askance and was not com- 
 fortable, for he thought that Jacqueline had too much 
 assurance for her age, but that, after all, she was be- 
 coming more and more charming. 
 
 At that moment Belle and Yvonne were summoned, 
 
 [23]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 and they departed, full of an intention to spread every- 
 where the news that Giselle, the little goose, had actu- 
 ally known that Le Lac had been written by Lamartine. 
 The Benedictine Sisters positively had acquired that 
 much knowledge. 
 
 These girls were not the only persons that day at the 
 reception who indulged in a little ill-natured talk after 
 going away. Mesdames d'Argy and de Monredon, on 
 their way to the Faubourg St. Germain, criticised 
 Madame de Nailles pretty freely. As they crossed the 
 Pare Monceau to reach their carriage, which was waiting 
 for them on the Boulevard Malesherbes, they made the 
 young people, Giselle and Fred, walk ahead, that they 
 might have an opportunity of expressing themselves 
 freely, the old dowager especially, whose toothless 
 mouth never lost an opportunity of smirching the char- 
 acter and the reputation of her neighbors. 
 
 "When I think of the pains my poor cousin de Nailles 
 took to impress upon us all that he was making what is 
 called a mariage raisonnable! Well, if a man wants a 
 wife who is going to set up her own notions, her own 
 customs, he had better marry a poor girl without for- 
 tune! This one will simply ruin him. My dear, I am 
 continually amazed at the way people are living whose 
 incomes I know to the last sou. What an example for 
 Jacqueline! Extravagance, fast living, elegant self- 
 indulgence. . . . Did you observe the Baronne's gown ? 
 of rough woolen stuff. She told some one it was the 
 last creation of Doucet, and you know what that im- 
 plies! His serge costs more than one of our velvet 
 gowns. . . . And then her artistic tastes, her bric-d,-
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 brae ! Her salon looks like a museum or a bazaar. I 
 grant you it makes a very pretty setting for her and all 
 her coquetries. But in my time respectable women 
 were contented with furniture covered with red or yel- 
 low silk damask furnished by their upholsterers. They 
 didn't go about trying to hunt up the impossible. On 
 ne cherche pas midi a quatorze heures. You hold, as I 
 do, to the old fashions, though you are. not nearly so 
 old, my dear Elise, and Jacqueline's mother thought as 
 we think. She would say that her daughter is being 
 very badly brought up. To be sure, all young creatures 
 nowadays are the same. Parents, on a plea of tender- 
 ness, keep them at home, where they get spoiled among 
 grown people, when they had much better have the 
 same kind of education that has succeeded so well with 
 Giselle; bolts on the garden-gates, wholesome seclu- 
 sion, the company of girls of their own age, a great reg- 
 ularity of life, nothing which stimulates either vanity or 
 imagination. That is the proper way to bring up girls 
 without notions, girls who will let themselves be mar- 
 ried without opposition, and are satisfied with the state 
 of life to which Providence may be pleased to call them. 
 For my part, I am enchanted with the ladies in the Rue 
 de Monsieur, and, what is more, Giselle is very happy 
 among them; to hear her talk you would suppose she 
 was quite ready to take the veil. Of course, that is a 
 mere passing fancy. But fancies of that sort are never 
 dangerous, they have nothing in common with those 
 that are passing nowadays through most girls' brains. 
 Having 'a day!' what a foolish notion: And then to 
 let little girls take part in it, even in a corner of the 
 
 [25]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 room. I'll wager that, though her skirts are half way up 
 her legs, and her hair is dressed like a baby's, that that 
 little de Nailles is less of a child than my granddaughter, 
 who has been brought up by the Benedictines. You 
 say that she probably does not understand all that goes 
 on around her. Perhaps not, but she breathes it in. 
 It's poison that's what it is!" 
 
 There was a good deal of truth in this harsh picture, 
 although it contained considerable exaggeration. 
 
 At this moment, when Madame de Monredon was 
 sitting in judgment on the education given to the little 
 girls brought up in the world, and on the ruinous 
 extravagance of their young stepmothers, Madame 
 de Nailles and Jacqueline their last visitors having 
 departed were resting themselves, leaning tenderly 
 against each other, on a sofa. Jacqueline's head lay 
 on her mother's lap. Her mother, without speaking, 
 was stroking the girl's dark hair. Jacqueline, too, was 
 silent, but from time to time she kissed the slender fin- 
 gers sparkling with rings, as they came within reach of 
 her lips. 
 
 When M. de Nailles, about dinner-time, surprised 
 them thus, he said, with satisfaction, as he had often 
 said before, that it would be hard to find a home scene 
 more charming, as they sat under the light of a lamp 
 with a pink shade. 
 
 That the stepmother and stepdaughter adored each 
 other was beyond a doubt. And yet, had any one been 
 able to look into their hearts at that moment, he would 
 have discovered with surprise that each was thinking 
 of something that she could not confide to the other. 
 
 [26]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Both were thinking of the same person. Madame de 
 Nailles was occupied with recollections, Jacqueline 
 with hope. She was absorbed in Machiavellian strat- 
 egy, how to realize a hope that had been formed that 
 very afternoon. 
 
 "What are you both thinking of, sitting there so qui- 
 etly?" said the Baron, stooping over them and kissing 
 first his wife and then his child. 
 
 "About nothing," said the wife, with the most inno- 
 cent of smiles. 
 
 "Oh! I am thinking," said Jacqueline, "of many 
 things. I have a secret, papa, that I want to tell you 
 when we are quite alone. Don't be jealous, dear 
 mamma. It is something about a surprise Oh, a 
 lovely surprise for you." 
 
 "Saint Clotilde's day my fete-day is still far off," 
 said Madame de Nailles, refastening, mother-like, the 
 ribbon that was intended to keep in order the rough 
 ripples of Jacqueline's unruly hair, "and usually your 
 whisperings begin as the day approaches my fete." 
 
 "Oh, dear! you will go and guess it!" cried Jacque- 
 line in alarm. "Oh! don't guess it, please." 
 
 "Well! I will do my best not to guess, then," said 
 the good-natured Clotilde, with a laugh. 
 
 "And I assure you, for my part, that I am discretion 
 itself," said M. de Nailles. 
 
 So saying, he drew his wife's arm within his own, 
 and the three passed gayly together into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 [27]
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A CLEVER STEPMOTHER 
 
 s 
 
 "O man took more pleasure than M. 
 de Nailles in finding himself in his 
 own home partly, perhaps, because 
 circumstances compelled him to be 
 very little there. The post of dep- 
 uty in the French Chamber is no 
 sinecure. He was not often an ora- 
 tor from the tribune, but he was 
 absorbed by work in the committees " Harnessed to 
 a lot of bothering reports," as Jacqueline used to say 
 to him. He had barely any time to give to those im- 
 portant duties of his position, by which, as is well 
 known, members of the Corps Legislatij are shamelessly 
 harassed by constituents, who, on pretence that they 
 have helped to place the interests of their district in 
 your hands, feel authorized to worry you with personal 
 matters, such as the choice of agricultural machines, 
 or a place to be found for a wet-nurse. 
 
 Besides his public duties, M. de Nailles was occupied 
 by financial speculations operations that were no 
 doubt made necessary by the style of living commented 
 on by his cousin, Madame de Monredon, who was as 
 stingy as she was bitter of tongue. The elegance that 
 she found fault with was, however, very far from being 
 
 [28]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 great when compared with the luxury of the present 
 day. Of course, the Baronne had to have her horses, 
 her opera-box, her fashionable frocks. To supply 
 these very moderate needs, which, however, she never 
 insisted upon, being, so far as words went, most simple 
 in her tastes, M. de Nailles, who had not the tempera- 
 ment which makes men find pleasure in hard work, 
 became more and more fatigued. His days were 
 passed in the Chamber, but he never neglected his 
 interest on the Bourse; in the evening he accompanied 
 his young wife into society, which, she always declared, 
 she did not care for, but which had claims upon her 
 nevertheless. It was therefore not surprising that M. 
 de Nailles' s face showed traces of the habitual fatigue 
 that was fast aging him ; his tall, thin form had acquired 
 a slight stoop; though only fifty he was evidently in 
 his declining years. He had once been a man of pleas- 
 ure, it was said, before he entered politics. He had 
 married his first wife late in life. She was a prudent 
 woman who feared to expose him to temptation, and 
 had kept him as far as possible away from Paris. 
 
 In the country, having nothing to do, he became 
 interested in agriculture, and in looking after his 
 estate at Grandchaux. He had been made a member 
 of the Conseil General, when unfortunately death too 
 early deprived him of the wise and gentle counsellor 
 for whom he felt, possibly not a very lively love, but 
 certainly a high esteem and affection. After he be- 
 came a widower he met in the Pyrenees, where, as he 
 was whiling away the time of seclusion proper after his 
 j a young lady who appeared to him exactly the 
 [29!
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 person he needed to bring up his little daughter be- 
 cause she was extremely attractive to himself. Of 
 course M. de Nailles found plenty of other reasons for 
 his choice, which he gave to the world and to himself 
 to justify his second marriage but this was the true 
 reason and the only one. His friends, however, all of 
 whom had urged on him the desirability of taking an- 
 other wife, in consideration of the age of Jacqueline, 
 raised many objections as soon as he announced his 
 intention of espousing Mademoiselle Clotilde Hecker, 
 eldest daughter of a man who had been, at one time, 
 a prefect under the Empire, but who had been turned 
 out of office by the Republican Government. He had 
 a large family and many debts; but M. de Nailles had 
 some answer always ready for the objections of his 
 family and friends. He was convinced that Mademoi- 
 selle Hecker, having no fortune, would be less exacting 
 than other women and more disposed to lead a quiet 
 life. 
 
 She had been almost a mother to her own young 
 brothers and sisters, which was a pledge for mother- 
 liness toward Jacqueline, etc., etc. Nevertheless, had 
 she not had eyes as blue as those of the beauties paint- 
 ed by Greuze, plenty of audacious wit, and a delicate 
 complexion, due to her Alsatian origin had she not 
 possessed a slender waist and a lovely figure, he might 
 have asked himself why a young lady who, in winter, 
 studied painting with the commendable intention of 
 making her own living by art, passed the summers at 
 all the watering-places of France and those of neigh- 
 boring countries, without any perceptible motive. 
 
 [30]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 But, thanks to the bandage love ties over the eyes of 
 men, he saw only what Mademoiselle Clotilde was 
 willing that he should see. In the first place he saw 
 the great desirability of a talent for painting which, 
 unlike music so often dangerous to married happi- 
 ness gives women who cultivate it sedentary interests. 
 And then he was attracted by the model daughter's 
 filial piety as he beheld her taking care of her mother, 
 who was the victim of an incurable disorder, which re- 
 quired her by turns to reside at Cauterets, or some- 
 times at Ems, sometimes at Aix in Savoy, and some- 
 times even at Trouville. The poor girl had assured 
 him that she asked no happier lot than to live eight 
 months of the year in the country, where she would 
 devote herself to teaching Jacqueline, for whom at first 
 sight she had taken a violent fancy (the attraction in- 
 deed was mutual). She assured him she would teach 
 her all she knew herself, and her diplomas proved how 
 well educated she had been. 
 
 Indeed, it seemed as if only prejudice could find any 
 objection to so prudent and reasonable a marriage, r 
 marriage contracted principally for the good of Jacque 
 line. 
 
 It came to pass, however, that the air of Grand 
 chaux, which is situated in the most unhealthful part 
 of Limouzin, proved particularly hurtful to the new 
 Madame de Nailles. She could not live a month on 
 her husband's property without falling into a state of 
 health which she attributed to malaria. M. de Nailles 
 was at first much concerned about the condition of 
 things which seemed likely to upset all his plans for
 
 THtfO BENTZON 
 
 retirement in the country, but, his wife having per- 
 suaded him that his position in the Conseil Central was 
 only a stepping-stone to a seat in the Corps Legislatif, 
 where his place ought to be, he presented himself to the 
 electors as a candidate, and was almost unanimously 
 elected deputy, the conservative vote being still all- 
 powerful in that part of the country. 
 
 His wife, it was said, had shown rare zeal and activity 
 at the time of the election, employing in her husband's 
 service all those little arts which enable her sex to suc- 
 ceed in politics, as well as in everything else they set 
 their minds to. No lady ever more completely turned 
 the heads of country electors. It was really Madame 
 de Nailles who took her seat hi the Left Centre of the 
 Chamber, in the person of her husband. 
 
 After that she returned to Limouzin only long 
 enough to keep up her popularity, though, with touch- 
 ing resignation, she frequently offered to spend the 
 summer at Grandchaux, even if the consequences 
 should be her death, like that of Pia in the Maremma. 
 Her husband, of course, peremptorily set his face 
 against such self-sacrifice. 
 
 The facilities for Jacqueline's education were in- 
 creased by their settling down as residents of Paris. 
 Madame de Nailles superintended the instruction of 
 her stepdaughter with motherly solicitude, seconded, 
 however, by a promeneuse, or walking-governess, which 
 left her free to fulfil her own engagements in the after- 
 noons. The walking-governess is a singular modern 
 institution, intended to supply the place of the too often 
 inconvenient daily governess of former times. The 
 
 [32]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 necessary qualifications of such a person are that she 
 should have sturdy legs, and such knowledge of some 
 foreign language as will enable her during their walks 
 to converse in it with her pupil. Fraulein Schult, who 
 came from one of the German cantons of Switzerland, 
 was an ideal promeneuse. She never was tired and 
 she was well-informed. The number of things that 
 could be learned from her during a walk was abso- 
 lutely incredible. 
 
 Madame de Nailles, therefore, after a time, gave 
 up to her, not without apparent regret, the duty of 
 accompanying Jacqueline, while she herself fulfilled 
 those duties to society which the most devoted of 
 mothers can not wholly avoid ; but the stepmother and 
 stepdaughter were always to be seen together at mass 
 at one o'clock; together they attended the Cours (that 
 system of classes now so much in vogue) and also the 
 weekly instruction given in the catechism; and if Ma- 
 dame de Nailles, when, at night, she told her husband 
 all she had been doing for Jacqueline during the day 
 (she never made any merit of her zeal for the child's 
 welfare), added: "I left Jacqueline in this place or 
 in that, where Mademoiselle Schult was to call for 
 her," M. de Nailles showed no disposition to ask 
 questions, for he well understood that his wife felt a 
 certain delicacy in telling him that she had been to pay 
 a brief visit to her own relatives, who, she knew, were 
 distasteful to him. He had, indeed, very soon dis- 
 cerned in them a love of intrigue, a desire to get the 
 most they could out of him, and a disagreeable pro- 
 pensity to parasitism. With the consummate tact she 
 3 [33]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 showed in everything she did, Madame de Nailles kept 
 her own family in the background, though she never 
 neglected them. She was always doing them little 
 services, but she knew well that there were certain 
 things about them that could not but be disagreeable 
 to her husband. M. de Nailles knew all this, too, and 
 respected his wife's affection for her family. He sel- 
 dom asked her where she had been during the day. 
 If he had she would have answered, with a sigh: "I 
 went to see my mother while Jacqueline was taking 
 her dancing-lesson, and before she went to her singing- 
 master." 
 
 That she was passionately attached to Jacqueline 
 was proved by the affection the little girl conceived for 
 her. " We two are friends," both mother and daughter 
 often said of each other. Even Modeste, old Modeste, 
 who had been at first indignant at seeing a stranger 
 take the place of her dead mistress, could not but 
 acknowledge that the usurper was no ordinary step- 
 mother. It might have been truly said that Madame de 
 Nailles had never scolded Jacqueline, and that Jacque- 
 line had never done anything contrary to the wishes 
 of Madame de Nailles. When anything went wrong 
 it was Fraulein Schult who was reproached first; if 
 there was any difficulty in the management of Jacque- 
 line, she alone received complaints. In the eyes of the 
 "two friends," Fraulein Schult was somehow to be 
 blamed for everything that went wrong in the family, 
 but between themselves an observer might have watched 
 in vain for the smallest cloud. Madame de Nailles, 
 when she was first married, could not make enough of 
 
 [34]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 the very ugly yet attractive little girl, whose tight black 
 curls and gypsy face made an admirable contrast to 
 her own more delicate style of beauty, which was that 
 of a blonde. She caressed Jacqueline, she dressed her 
 up, she took her about with her like a little dog, and 
 overwhelmed her with demonstrations of affection, 
 which served not only to show off her own graceful 
 attitudes, but gave spectators a high opinion of her 
 kindness of heart. 
 
 When from time to time some one, envious of her 
 happiness, pitied her for being childless, Madame de 
 Nailles would say: "What do you mean? I have one 
 daughter; she is enough for me." 
 
 It is a pity children grow so fast, and that little girls 
 who were once ugly sometimes develop into beautiful 
 young women. The time came when the model step- 
 mother began to wish that Jacqueline would only de- 
 velop morally, intellectually, and not physically. But 
 she showed nothing of this in her behavior, and re- 
 plied to any compliments addressed to her concerning 
 Jacqueline with as much maternal modesty as if the 
 dawning loveliness of her stepdaughter had been due 
 to herself. 
 
 "Her nose is rather too long dori't you think so? 
 And she will always be too dark, I fear." But she used 
 always to add, "She is good enough and pretty enough 
 to pass muster with any critic poor little pussy-cat!" 
 She became desirous to discover some tendency to ill- 
 health in the plant that was too ready to bloom into 
 beauty and perfection. She would have liked to be 
 able to assert that Jacqueline's health would not per- 
 
 [35]
 
 TH6O BENTZON 
 
 mit her to sit up late at night, that fashionable hours 
 would be injurious to her, that it would be undesirable 
 to let her go into society as long as she could be kept 
 from doing so. But Jacqueline persisted in nevei be- 
 ing ill, and was calculating with impatience how many 
 years it would be before she could go to her first ball 
 three or four possibly. Was Madame de Nailles in 
 three or four years to be reduced to the position of a 
 chaperon ? The young stepmother thought of such a 
 possibility with horror. Her anxiety on this subject, 
 however, as well as several other anxieties, was so well 
 concealed that even her husband suspected nothing. 
 
 The complete sympathy which existed between the 
 two beings he most loved made M. de Nailles very 
 happy. He had but one thing to complain of in his 
 wife, and that thing was very small. Since she had 
 married she had completely given up her painting. 
 He had no knowledge of art himself, and had therefore 
 given her credit for great artistic capacity. The fact 
 was that in her days of poverty she had never been 
 artist enough to make a living, and now that she was 
 rich she felt inclined to laugh at her own limited ability. 
 Her practice of art, she said, had only served to give 
 her a knowledge of outline and of color; a knowledge 
 she utilized in her dress and in the smallest details of 
 house decoration and furniture. Everything she wore, 
 everything that surrounded her, was arranged to per- 
 fection. She had a genius for decoration, for furniture, 
 for trifles, and brought her artistic knowledge to bear 
 even on the tying of a ribbon, or the arrangement of a 
 nosegay. 
 
 [36)
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "This is all I retain of your lessons," she said some- 
 times to Hubert Marien, when recalling to his memory 
 the days in which she sought his advice as to how to 
 prepare herself for the "struggle for life." 
 
 This phrase was amusing when it proceeded from 
 her lips. What! "struggle for life" with those little 
 delicate, soft, childlike hands? How absurd! She 
 laughed at the idea now, and all those who heard her 
 laughed with her; Marien laughed more than any one. 
 He, who had befriended her in her days of adversity, 
 seemed to retain for the Baroness in her prosperity the 
 same respectful and discreet devotion he had shown 
 her as Mademoiselle Hecker. He had sent a wonder- 
 ful portrait of her, as the wife of M. de Nailles, to the 
 Salon a portrait that the richer electors of Grand- 
 chaux, who had voted for her husband and who could 
 afford to travel, gazed at with satisfaction, congratulat- 
 ing themselves that they had a deputy who had married 
 so pretty a woman. It even seemed as if the beauty 
 of Madame de Nailles belonged in some sort to the 
 arrondissement, so proud were those who lived there 
 of having their share in her charms. 
 
 Another portrait that of M. de Nailles himself was 
 sent down to Limouzin from Paris, and all the peas- 
 ants in the country round were invited to come and 
 look at it. That also produced a very favorable im- 
 pression on the rustic public, and added to the popu- 
 larity of their deputy. Never had the proprietor of 
 Grandchaux looked so grave, so dignified, so majestic, 
 so absorbed in deep reflection, as he looked standing 
 beside a table covered with papers papers, no doubt, 
 
 [37]
 
 TfflfiO BENTZON 
 
 all having relation to local interests, important to the 
 public and to individuals. It was the very figure of a 
 statesman destined to high dignities. No one who 
 gazed on such a deputy could doubt that one day he 
 would be in the ministry. 
 
 It was by such real services that Marien endeavored 
 to repay the friendship and the kindness always await- 
 ing him in the small house in the Pare Monceau, where 
 we have just seen Jacqueline eagerly offering him some 
 spiced cakes. To complete what seemed due to the 
 household there only remained to paint the curiously 
 expressive features of the girl at whom he had been 
 looking that very day with more than ordinary atten- 
 tion. Once already, when Jacqueline was hardly out 
 of baby-clothes, the great painter had made an admira- 
 ble sketch of her tousled head, a sketch in which she 
 looked like a little imp of darkness, and this sketch 
 Madame de Nailles took pains should always be seen, 
 but it bore no resemblance to the slender young girl 
 who was on the eve of becoming, whatever might be 
 done to arrest her development, a beautiful young 
 woman. Jacqueline disliked to look at that picture. 
 It seemed to do her an injury by associating her with 
 her nursery. Probably that was the reason why she 
 had been so pleased to hear Hubert Marien say unex- 
 pectedly that she was now ready for the portrait which 
 had been often joked about, every one putting it off 
 to the period, always remote, when "the may-pole" 
 should have developed a pretty face and figure. 
 
 And now she was disquieted lest the idea of taking 
 her picture, which she felt was very flattering, should 
 
 [38]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 remain inoperative in the painter's brain. She wanted 
 it carried out at once, as soon as possible. Jacqueline 
 detested waiting, and for some reason, which she never 
 talked about, the years that seemed so short and swift 
 to her stepmother seemed to her to be terribly long. 
 Marien himself had said: "There is a great interval 
 between a dream and its execution." These words 
 had thrown cold water on her sudden joy. She wanted 
 to force him to keep his promise to paint her portrait 
 immediately. How to do this was the problem her 
 little head, reclining on Madame de Nailles's lap after 
 the departure of their visitors, had been endeavoring 
 to solve. 
 
 Should she communicate her wish to her indulgent 
 stepmother, who for the most part willed whatever 
 she wished her to do? A vague instinct an instinct 
 of some mysterious danger warned her that in this 
 case her father would be her better confidant. 
 
 [39]
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY 
 
 WEEK later M. de Nailles said to 
 Hubert Marien, as they were smok- 
 ing together in the conservatory, af- 
 ter the usual little family dinner on 
 Wednesday was over: 
 
 "Well! when would you like 
 Jacqueline to come to sit for her 
 picture?" 
 
 "What! are you thinking about that?" cried the 
 painter, letting his cigar fall in his astonishment. 
 
 "She told me that you had proposed to make her 
 portrait." 
 
 "The sly little minx!" thought Marien. "I only 
 spoke of painting it some day," he said, with embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 "Well! she would like that 'some day' to be now, 
 and she has a reason for wanting it at once, which, I 
 hope, will decide you to gratify her. The third of 
 June is Sainte-Clotilde's day, and she has taken it into 
 her head that she would like to give her mamma a 
 magnificent present a present that, of course, we shall 
 unite to give her. For some time past I have been 
 thinking of asking you to paint a portrait of my daugh- 
 ter," continued M. de Nailles, who had in fact had no
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 more wish for the portrait than he had had to be a 
 deputy, until it had been put into his head. But the 
 women of his household, little or big, could persuade 
 him into anything. 
 
 "I really don't think I have the time now," said 
 Marien. 
 
 "Bah! you have whole two months before you. 
 What can absorb you so entirely ? I know you have 
 your pictures ready for the Salon." 
 
 "Yes of course of course but are you sure that 
 Madame de Nailles would approve of it?" 
 
 "She will approve whatever I sanction," said M. de 
 Nailles, with as much assurance as if he had been 
 master in his domestic circle; "besides, we don't in- 
 tend to ask her. It is to be a surprise. Jacqueline is 
 looking forward to the pleasure it will give her. There 
 is something very touching to me in the affection of 
 that little thing for for her mother." M. de Nailles 
 usually hesitated a moment before saying that word, 
 as if he were afraid of transferring something still be- 
 longing to his dead wife to another that dead wife 
 he so seldom remembered in any other way. He 
 added, "She is so eager to give her pleasure." 
 
 Marien shook his head with an air of uncertainty. 
 
 "Are you sure that such a portrait would be really 
 acceptable to Madame de Nailles?" 
 
 "How can you doubt it?" said the Baron, with much 
 astonishment. "A portrait of her daughter! done by 
 a great master ? However, of course, if we are putting 
 you to any inconvenience if you would rather not 
 undertake it, you had better say so."
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 "No of course I will do it, if you wish it," said 
 Marien, quickly, who, although he was anxious to do 
 nothing to displease Madame de Nailles, was equally 
 desirous to stand well with her husband. "Yet I own 
 that all the mystery that must attend on what you pro- 
 pose may put me to some embarrassment. How do 
 you expect Jacqueline will be able to conceal " 
 
 "Oh! easily enough. She walks out every day with 
 Mademoiselle Schult. Well, Mademoiselle Schult will 
 bring her to your studio instead of taking her to the 
 Champs Elysees or to walk elsewhere." 
 
 "But every day there will be concealments, false- 
 hoods, deceptions. I think Madame de Nailles might 
 prefer to be asked for her permission." 
 
 "Ask for her permission when I have given mine? 
 Ah, fa! my dear Marien, am I, or am I not, the father 
 of Jacqueline ? I take upon myself the whole responsi- 
 bility." 
 
 "Then there is nothing more to be said. But do 
 you think that Jacqueline will keep the secret till the 
 picture is done?" 
 
 "You don't know little girls; they are all too glad to 
 have something of which they can make a mystery." 
 
 "When would you like us to begin?" 
 
 Marien had by this time said to himself that for him 
 to hold out longer might seem strange to M. de Nailles. 
 Besides, the matter, though in some respects it gave 
 him cause for anxiety, really excited an interest in him. 
 For some time past, though he had long known women 
 and knew very little of mere girls, he had had his sus- 
 picions that a drama was being enacted in Jacqueline's 
 
 [42]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 heart, a drama of which he himself was the hero. He 
 amused himself by watching it, though he did nothing 
 to promote it. He was an artist and a keen and pene- 
 trating observer; he employed psychology in the ser- 
 vice of his art, and probably to that might have been 
 attributed the individual character of his portraits a 
 quality to be found in an equal degree only in those of 
 Ricard. 
 
 What particularly interested him at this moment was 
 the assumed indifference of Jacqueline while her father 
 was conducting the negotiation which was of her sug- 
 gestion. When they returned to the salon after smok- 
 ing she pretended not to be the least anxious to know 
 the result of their conversation. She sat sewing near 
 the lamp, giving all her attention to the piece of lace 
 on which she was working. Her father made her a 
 sign which meant "He consents," and then Marien 
 saw that the needle in her fingers trembled, and a slight 
 color rose in her face but that was all. She did not 
 say a word. He could not know that for a week past 
 she had gone to church every time she took a walk, and 
 had offered a prayer and a candle that her wish might 
 be granted. How very anxious and excited she had 
 been all that week ! The famous composition of which 
 she had spoken to Giselle, the subject of which had so 
 astonished the young girl brought up by the Bene*- 
 dictine nuns, felt the inspiration of her emotion and 
 excitement. Jacqueline was in a frame of mind which 
 made reading those three masterpieces by three great 
 poets, and pondering the meaning of their words, very 
 dangerous. The poems did not affect her with the 
 
 [433
 
 BENTZON 
 
 melancholy they inspire in those who have "lived and 
 loved," but she was attracted by their tenderness and 
 their passion. Certain lines she applied to herself 
 certain others to another person. The very word love 
 so often repeated in the verses sent a thrill through all 
 her frame. She aspired to taste those "intoxicating 
 moments," those "swift delights," those "sublime 
 ecstasies," those "divine transports" all the beautiful 
 things, in short, of which the poems spoke, and which 
 were as yet unknown to her. How could she know 
 them? How could she, after an experience of sorrow, 
 which seemed to her to be itself enviable, retain such 
 sweet remembrances as the poets described ? 
 
 "Let us love love each other! Let us hasten to 
 enjoy the passing hour!" so sang the poet of Le Lac. 
 That passing hour of bliss she thought she had already 
 enjoyed. She was sure that for a long time past she 
 had loved. When had that love begun? She hardly 
 knew. But it would last as long as she might live. 
 One loves but once. 
 
 These personal emotions, mingling with the literary 
 enchantments of the poets, caused Jacqueline's pen to 
 fly over her paper without effort, and she produced a 
 composition so far superior to anything she usually 
 wrote that it left the lucubrations of her companions 
 far behind. M. Regis, the professor, said so to the 
 class. He was enthusiastic about it, and greatly sur- 
 prised. Belle, who had been always first in this kind 
 of composition, was far behind Jacqueline, and was so 
 greatly annoyed at her defeat that she would not speak 
 to her for a week. On the other hand Colette and 
 
 [44]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Dolly, who never had aspired to literary triumphs, 
 were moved to tears when the "Study on the compara- 
 tive merits of Three Poems, Le Lac, Souvenir, and 
 La Tristesse d'Olympio" signed " Mademoiselle de 
 Nailles," received the honor of being read aloud. This 
 reading was followed by a murmur of applause, mingled 
 with some hisses which may have proceeded from the 
 viper of jealousy. But the paper made a sensation 
 like that of some new scandal. Mothers and govern- 
 esses whispered together. Many thought that that 
 little de Nailles had expressed sentiments not proper at 
 her age. Some came to the conclusion that M. Regis 
 chose subjects for composition not suited to young 
 girls. A committee waited on the unlucky professor 
 to beg him to be more prudent for the future. He 
 even lost, in consequence of Jacqueline's success, one 
 of his pupils (the most stupid one, be it said, in the 
 class), whose mother took her away, saying, with indig- 
 nation, "One might as well risk the things they are 
 teaching at the Sorbonne!" 
 
 This literary incident greatly alarmed Madame de 
 Nailles! Of all things she dreaded that her daughter 
 should early become dreamy and romantic. But on 
 this point Jacqueline's behavior was calculated to re- 
 assure her. She laughed about her composition, she 
 frolicked like a six-year-old child; without any ap- 
 parent cause, she grew gayer and gayer as the time 
 approached for the execution of her plot. 
 
 The evening before the day fixed on for the first 
 sitting, Modeste, the elderly maid of the first Madame 
 de NaiUes, who loved her daughter x whom she had 
 
 Us]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 known from the moment of her birth, as if she had been 
 her own foster-child, arrived at the studio of Hubert 
 Marien in the Rue de Prony, bearing a box which 
 she said contained all that would be wanted by Made- 
 moiselle. Marien had the curiosity to look into it. 
 It contained a robe of oriental muslin, light as air, 
 diaphanous and so dazzlingly white that he re- 
 marked : 
 
 "She will look like a fly in milk in that thing." 
 
 "Oh!" replied Modeste, with a laugh of satisfac- 
 tion, "it is very becoming to her. I altered it to fit 
 her, for it is one of Madame's dresses. Mademoiselle 
 has nothing but short skirts, and she wanted to be 
 painted as a young lady." 
 
 "With the approval of her papa?" 
 
 "Yes, of course, Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron gave 
 his consent. But for that I certainly should not have 
 minded what the child said to me." 
 
 "Then," replied Marien, "I can say nothing," and 
 he made ready for his sitter the next day, by turning 
 two or three studies of the nude, which might have 
 shocked her, with their faces to the wall. 
 
 A foreign language can not be properly acquired 
 unless the learner has great opportunities for conver- 
 sation. It therefore became a fixed habit with Frau- 
 lein Schult and Jacqueline to keep up a lively stream 
 of talk during their walks, and their discourse was not 
 always about the rain, the fine weather, the things dis- 
 played in the shop-windows, nor the historical mon- 
 uments of Paris, which they visited conscientiously. 
 
 [46]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 What is near the heart is sure to come eventually to 
 the surface in continual t&e-a-tHe intercourse. Frau- 
 lein Schult, who was of a sentimental temperament, in 
 spite of her outward resemblance to a grenadier, was 
 very willing to allow her companion to draw from her 
 confessions relating to an intended husband, who was 
 awaiting her at Berne, and whose letters, both in prose 
 and verse, were her comfort in her exile. This future 
 husband was an apothecary, and the idea that he 
 pounded out verses as he pounded his drugs in a 
 mortar, and rolled out rhymes with his pills, some- 
 times inclined Jacqueline to laugh, but she listened 
 patiently to the plaintive outpourings of her prome- 
 neuse, because she wished to acquire a right to recip- 
 rocate by a few half-confidences of her own. In her 
 turn, therefore, she confided to Fraulein Schult 
 moved much as Midas had been, when for his own 
 relief he whispered to the reeds that if she were 
 sometimes idle, inattentive, "away off in the moon," 
 as her instructors told her by way of reproach, it was 
 caused by one ever-present idea, which, ever since she 
 had been able to think or feel, had taken possession of 
 her inmost being the idea of being loved some day 
 by somebody as she herself loved. 
 
 "Was that somebody a boy of her own age?" 
 Oh, fie ! mere boys still schoolboys could only be 
 looked upon as playfellows or comrades. Of course 
 she considered Fred Fred, for example! Frederic 
 d'Argy as a brother, but how different he was from 
 her ideal. Even young men of fashion she had seen 
 some of them on Tuesdays Raoul Wermant, the one 
 
 [47]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 who so distinguished himself as a leader in the german, 
 or Yvonne's brother, the officer of chasseurs, who had 
 gained the prize for horsemanship, and others besides 
 these seemed to her very commonplace by compari- 
 son. No! he whom she loved was a man in the 
 prime of life, well known to fame. She didn't care if 
 he had a few white hairs. 
 
 "Is he a person of rank?" asked Fraulein Schult, 
 much puzzled. 
 
 "Oh! if you -mean of noble birth, no, not at all. 
 But fame is so superior to birth! There are more 
 ways than one of acquiring an illustrious name, and 
 the name that a man makes for himself is the noblest 
 of all!" 
 
 Then Jacqueline begged Fraulein Schult to imagine 
 something like the passion of Bettina for Goethe 
 Fraulein Schult having told her that story simply with 
 a view of interesting her in German conversation 
 only the great man whose name she would not tell was 
 not nearly so old as Goethe, and she herself was much 
 less childish than Bettina. But, above all, it was his 
 genius that attracted her though his face, too, was very 
 pleasing. And she went on to describe his appearance 
 till suddenly she stopped, burning with indignation; 
 for she perceived that, notwithstanding the minuteness 
 of her description, what she said was conveying an 
 idea of ugliness and not one of the manly beauty she 
 intended to portray. 
 
 "He is not like that at all," she cried. "He has 
 such a beautiful smile a smile like no other I ever 
 
 saw. And his talk is so amusing and " here 
 
 [48]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Jacqueline lowered her voice as if afraid to be over- 
 heard, "and I do think I think, after all, he does 
 love me just a little." 
 
 On what could she have founded such a notion? 
 Good heaven! it was on something that had at first 
 deeply grieved her, a sudden coldness and reserve that 
 had come over his manner to her. Not long before she 
 had read an English novel (no others were allowed to 
 come into her hands). It was rather a stupid book, 
 with many tedious passages, but in it she was told how 
 the high-minded hero, not being able, for grave reasons, 
 to aspire to the hand of the heroine, had taken refuge 
 in an icy coldness, much as it cost him, and as soon 
 as possible had gone away. English novels are nothing 
 if not moral. 
 
 This story, not otherwise interesting, threw a gleam 
 of light on what, up to that time, had been inexplicable 
 to Jacqueline. He was above all things a man of 
 honor. He must have perceived that his presence 
 troubled her. He had possibly seen her when she 
 stole a half-burned cigarette which he had left upon 
 the table, a prize she had laid up with other relics 
 an old glove that he had lost, a bunch of violets he 
 had gathered for her in the country. Yes ! When she 
 came to think of it, she felt certain he must have seen 
 her furtively lay her hand upon that cigarette; that 
 cigarette had compromised her. Then it was he must 
 have said to himself that it was due to her parents, who 
 had always shown him kindness, to surmount an at- 
 tachment that could come to nothing nothing at 
 present. But when she should be old enough for him 
 4 [49]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 to ask her hand, would he dare? Might he not 
 rashly think himself too old ? She must seek out some 
 way to give him encouragement, to give him to under- 
 stand that she was not, after all, so far so very far 
 from being a young lady old enough to be married. 
 How difficult it all was! All the more difficult because 
 she was exceedingly afraid of him. 
 
 It is not surprising that Fraulein Schult, after listen- 
 ing day after day to such recitals, with all the alterna- 
 tions of hope and of discouragement which succeed- 
 ed one another in the mind of her precocious pupil, 
 guessed, the moment that Jacqueline came to her, in a 
 transport of joy, to ask her to go with her to the Rue 
 de Prony, that the hero of the mysterious love-story 
 was no other than Hubert Marien. 
 
 As soon as she understood this, she perceived that 
 she should be placed in a very false position. But she 
 thought to herself there was no possible way of getting 
 out of it, without giving a great deal too much impor- 
 tance to a very innocent piece of childish folly; she 
 therefore determined to say nothing about it, but to 
 keep a strict watch in the mean time. After all, M. 
 de Nailles himself had given her her orders. She was 
 to accompany Jacqueline, and do her crochet- work in 
 one corner of the studio as long as the sitting lasted. 
 
 All she could do was to obey. 
 
 "And above all not a word to mamma, whatever 
 she may ask you," said Jacqueline. 
 
 And her father added, with a laugh, "Not a word." 
 Fraulein Schult felt that she knew what was expected 
 of her. She was naturally compliant, and above all 
 
 [50]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 things she was anxious to get paid for as many hours of 
 her time as possible much like the driver of a fiacre, 
 because the more money she could make the sooner she 
 would be in a position to espouse her apothecary. 
 
 When Jacqueline, escorted by her Swiss duenna, 
 penetrated almost furtively into Marien's studio, her 
 heart beat as if she had a consciousness of doing some- 
 thing very wrong. In truth, she had pictured to herself 
 so many impossible scenes beforehand, had rehearsed 
 the probable questions and answers in so many strange 
 dialogues, had soothed her fancy with so many extrava- 
 gant ideas, that she had at last created, bit by bit, a 
 situation very different from the reality, and then threw 
 herself into it, body and soul. 
 
 The look of the atelier the first she had ever been in 
 in her life disappointed her. She had expected to 
 behold a gorgeous collection of bric-a-brac, according 
 to accounts she had heard of the studios of several 
 celebrated masters. That of Marien was remarkable 
 only for its vast dimensions and its abundance of light. 
 Studies and sketches hung on the walls, were piled one 
 over another in corners, were scattered about every- 
 where, attesting the incessant industry of the artist, 
 whose devotion to his calling was so great that his own 
 work never satisfied him. 
 
 Only some interesting casts from antique bronzes, 
 brought out into strong relief by a background of 
 tapestry, adorned this lofty hall, which had none of 
 that confusion of decorative objects, in the midst of 
 which some modern artists seem to pose themselves 
 rather than to labor.
 
 BENTZON 
 
 A fresh canvas stood upon an easel, all ready for the 
 sitter. 
 
 "If you please, we will lose no time," said Marien, 
 rather roughly, seeing that Jacqueline was about to 
 explore all the corners of his apartment, and that at 
 that moment, with the tips of her fingers, she was 
 drawing aside the covering he had cast over his Death 
 of Savonarola, the picture he was then at work upon. 
 It was not the least of his grudges against Jacqueline 
 for insisting on having her portrait painted that it 
 obliged him to lay aside this really great work, that he 
 might paint a likeness. 
 
 "In ten minutes I shall be ready," said Jacqueline, 
 obediently taking off her hat. 
 
 "Why can't you stay as you are? That jacket suits 
 you. Let us begin immediately." 
 
 "No, indeed ! What a horrid suggestion ! " she cried, 
 running up to the box which was half open. ' ' You'll see 
 how much better I can look in a moment or two." 
 
 "I put no faith in your fancies about your toilette. 
 I certainly don't promise to accept them." 
 
 Nevertheless, he left her alone with her Bernese 
 governess, saying: "Call me when you are ready, I 
 shall be in the next room." 
 
 A quarter of an hour, and more, passed, and no 
 signal had been given. Marien, getting out of patience, 
 knocked on the door. 
 
 "Have you nearly done beautifying yourself?" he 
 asked, in a tone of irony. 
 
 "Just done," replied a low voice, which trembled. 
 
 He went in, and to the great amusement of Fraulein 
 
 [52]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Schult, who was not too preoccupied to notice every- 
 thing, he stood confounded petrified, as a man might 
 be by some work of magic. What had become of 
 Jacqueline? What had she in common with that 
 dazzling vision? Had she been touched by some 
 fairy's wand? Or, to accomplish such a transforma- 
 tion, had nothing been needed but the substitution of 
 a woman's dress, fitted to her person, for the short 
 skirts and loose waists cut in a boyish fashion, which 
 had made the little girl seem hardly to belong to any 
 sex, an indefinite being, condemned, as it were, to 
 childishness? How tall, and slender, and graceful she 
 looked in that long gown, the folds of which fell from 
 her waist in flowing lines, a waist as round and flexible 
 as the branch of a willow; what elegance there was in 
 her modest corsage, which displayed for the first time 
 her lovely arms and neck, half afraid of their own 
 exposure. She still was not robust, but the leanness 
 that she herself had owned to was not brought into 
 prominence by any bone or angle, her dark skin was 
 soft and polished, the color of ancient statues which 
 have been slightly tinted yellow by exposure to the sun. 
 This girl, a Parisienne, seemed formed on the model 
 of a figurine of Tanagra. Greek, too, was her small 
 head, crowned only by her usual braid of hair, which 
 she had simply gathered up so as to show the nape of 
 her neck, which was perhaps the most beautiful thing 
 in all her beautiful person. 
 
 "Well! what do you think of me ?" she said to Mar- 
 ien, with a searching glance to see how she impressed 
 him a glance strangely like that of a grown woman. 
 
 [53]
 
 THtfO BENTZON 
 
 "Well! I can't get over it! Why have you be- 
 dizened yourself in that fashion?" he asked, with an 
 affectation of brusquerie, as he tried to recover his 
 power of speech. 
 
 "Then you don't like me?" she murmured, in a low 
 voice. Tears came into her eyes; her lips trembled. 
 
 "I don't see Jacqueline." 
 
 "No I should hope not but I am better than 
 Jacqueline, am I not?" 
 
 "I am accustomed to Jacqueline. This new ac- 
 quaintance disconcerts me. Give me time to get used 
 to her. But once again let me ask, what possessed 
 you to disguise yourself?" 
 
 "I am not disguised. I am disguised when I am 
 forced to wear those things, which do not suit me," 
 said Jacqueline, pointing to her gray jacket and plaid 
 skirt which were hung up on a hat-rack. " Oh, I know 
 why mamma keeps me like that she is afraid I should 
 get too fond of dress before I have finished my educa- 
 tion, and that my mind may be diverted from serious 
 subjects. It is no doubt all intended for my good, 
 but I should not lose much time if I turned up my 
 hair like this, and what harm could there be in length- 
 ening my skirts an inch or two? My picture will 
 show her that I am improved by such little changes, 
 and perhaps it will induce her to let me go to the Bal 
 Blanc that Madame d'Etaples is going to give on 
 Yvonne's birthday. Mamma declined for me, saying 
 I was not fit to wear a low-necked corsage, but you see 
 she was mistaken." 
 
 "Rather," said Marien, smiling in spite of himself. 
 
 [54]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Yes wasn't she?" she went on, delighted at his 
 look. "Of course, I have bones, but they don't show 
 like the great hollows under the collar-bones that 
 Dolly shows, for instance but Dolly looks stouter 
 than I because her face is so round. Well! Dolly is 
 going to Madame d'Etaples's ball." 
 
 "I grant," said Marien, devoting all his attention to 
 the preparation of his palette, that she might not see 
 him laugh, "I grant that you have bones yes, many 
 bones but they are not much seen because they are 
 too well placed to be obtrusive." 
 
 "I am glad of that," said Jacqueline, delighted. 
 
 "But let me ask you one question. Where did you 
 pick up that queer gown ? It seems to me that I have 
 seen it somewhere." 
 
 "No doubt you have," replied Jacqueline, who had 
 quite recovered from her first shock, and was now 
 ready to talk; "it is the dress mamma had made some 
 time ago when she acted in a comedy." 
 
 "So I thought," growled Marien, biting his lips. 
 
 The dress recalled to his mind many personal recol- 
 lections, and for one instant he paused. Madame de 
 Nailles, among other talents, possessed that of amateur 
 acting. On one occasion, several years before, she 
 had asked his advice concerning what dress she should 
 wear in a little play of Scribe's, which was to be given 
 at the house of Madame d'Avrigny the house in all 
 Paris most addicted to private theatricals. This re- 
 production of a forgotten play, with its characters at- 
 tired in the costume of the period in which the play 
 was placed, had had great success, a success due 
 
 [55]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 largely to the excellence of the costumes. In the comic 
 parts the dressing had been purposely exaggerated, 
 but Madame de Nailles, who played the part of a 
 great coquette, would not have been dressed in char- 
 acter had she not tried to make herself as bewitching 
 as possible. 
 
 Marien had shown her pictures of the beauties of 
 1840, painted by Dubufe, and she had decided on a 
 white gauze embroidered with gold, in which, on that 
 memorable evening, she had captured more than one 
 heart, and which had had its influence on the life and 
 destiny of Marien. This might have been seen in the 
 vague glance of indignation with which he now re- 
 garded it. 
 
 "Never," he thought, "was it half so pretty when 
 worn by Madame de Nailles as by her stepdaughter." 
 
 Jacqueline meantime went on talking. 
 
 "You must know I was rather perplexed what to 
 do almost all mamma's gowns made me look horribly 
 too old; Modeste tried them on me one after another. 
 We burst out laughing, they seemed so absurd. And 
 then we were afraid mamma might chance to want the 
 one I took. This old thing it was not likely she would 
 ask for. She had worn it only once, and then put it 
 away. The gauze is a little yellow from lying by, 
 don't you think so? But we asked my father, who 
 said it was all right, that I should look less dark in it, 
 and that the dress was of no particular date, which 
 was always an advantage. These Grecian dresses are 
 always in the fashion. Ah! four years ago mamma 
 was much more slender than she is now. But we have 
 
 [56}
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 taken it in oh! we took it in a great deal under the 
 arms, but we had to let it down. Would you believe 
 it ? I am taller than mamma but you can hardly see 
 the seam, it is concealed by the gold embroidery." 
 
 "No matter for that. We shall only take a three- 
 quarters' length," said Marien. 
 
 "Oh, what a pity! No one will see I have a long 
 skirt on. But I shall be decolletee, at any rate. I shall 
 wear a comb. No one would know the picture for me 
 nobody! You yourself hardly knew me did you?" 
 
 "Not at first sight. You are much altered." 
 
 "Mamma will be amazed," said Jacqueline, clasping 
 her hands. "It was a good idea!" 
 
 "Amazed, I do not doubt," said Marien, somewhat 
 anxiously. "But suppose we take our pose Stay! 
 keep just as you are. Your hands before you, hanging 
 down so. Your fingers loosely clasped that's it. 
 Turn your head a little. What a lovely neck! how 
 well her head is set upon it!" he cried, involuntarily. 
 
 Jacqueline glanced at Fraulein Schult, who was at 
 the farther end of the studio, busy with her crochet. 
 "You see," said the look, "that he has found out I am 
 pretty that I am worth something all the rest will 
 soon happen." 
 
 And, while Marien was sketching in the graceful 
 figure that posed before him, Jacqueline's imagination 
 was investing it with the white robe of a bride. She 
 had a vision of the painter growing more and more 
 resolved to ask her hand in marriage as the portrait 
 grew beneath his brush; of course, her father would 
 say at first: "You are mad you must wait. I shall 
 
 [57]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 not let Jacqueline marry till she is seventeen." But 
 long engagements, she had heard, had great delights, 
 though in France they are not the fashion. At last, 
 after being long entreated, she was sure that M. and 
 Madame de Nailles would end by giving their consent 
 they were so fond of Marien. Standing there, 
 dreaming this dream, which gave her face an expres- 
 sion of extreme happiness, Jacqueline made a most 
 admirable model. She had not felt in the least fatigued 
 when Marien at last said to her, apologetically: "You 
 must be ready to drop I forgot you were not made of 
 wood; we will go on to-morrow." 
 
 Jacqueline, having put on her gray jacket with as 
 much contempt for it as Cinderella may have felt for 
 her rags after her successes at the ball, departed with 
 the delightful sensation of having made a bold first 
 step, and being eager to make another. 
 
 Thus it was with all her sittings, though some left 
 her anxious and unhappy, as for instance when Marien, 
 absorbed in his work, had not paused, except to say, 
 "Turn your head a little you are losing the pose" 
 Or else, "Now you may rest for to-day." 
 
 On such occasions she would watch him anxiously 
 as he painted swiftly, his brush making great splashes 
 on the canvas, his dark features wearing a scowl, his 
 chin on his breast, a deep frown upon his forehead, 
 on which the hair grew low. It was evident that at 
 such times he had no thought of pleasing her. Little 
 did she suspect that he was saying to himself: "Fool 
 that I am ! A man of my age to take pleasure in seeing 
 that little head filled with follies and fancies of which 
 
 [58]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 I am the object. But can one let one be ever so old 
 always act or think reasonably ? You are mad, Marien ! 
 A child of fourteen! Bah! they make her out to be 
 fourteen but she is fifteen and was not that the age 
 of Juliet ? But, you old gray beard, you are not Romeo ! 
 Ma foil I am in a pretty scrape. It ought to teach 
 me not to play with fire at my age." 
 
 Those words "at my age" were the refrain to all the 
 reflections of Hubert Marien. He had seen enough in 
 his relations with women to have no doubt about 
 Jacqueline's feelings, of which indeed he had watched 
 the rise and progress from the time she had first begun 
 to conceive a passion for him, with a mixture of amuse- 
 ment and conceit. The most cautious of men are not 
 insensible to flattery, whatever form it may take. To 
 be fallen in love with by a child was no doubt absurd 
 a thing to be laughed at but Jacqueline seemed no 
 longer a child, since for him she had uncovered her 
 young shoulders and arranged her dark hair on her 
 head with the effect of a queenly diadem. Not only 
 had her dawning loveliness been revealed to him alone, 
 but to him it seemed that he had helped to make her 
 lovely. The innocent tenderness she felt for him had 
 accomplished this miracle. Why should he refuse to 
 inhale an incense so pure, so genuine ? How could he 
 help being sensible to its fragrance ? Would it not be 
 in his power to put an end to the whole affair whenever 
 he pleased? But till then might he not bask in it, as 
 one does in a warm ray of spring sunshine? He put 
 aside, therefore, all scruples. And when he did this 
 Jacqueline with rapture saw the painter's face, no 
 
 [59]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 longer with its scowl, but softened by some secret 
 influence, the lines smoothed from his brow, while the 
 beautiful smile which had fascinated so many women 
 passed like a ray of light over his expressive mobile 
 features; then she would once more fancy that he was 
 making love to her, and indeed he said many things, 
 which, without rousing in himself any scruples of con- 
 science, or alarming the propriety of Fraulein Schult, 
 were well calculated to delude a girl who had had no 
 experience, and who was charmed by the illusions of a 
 love-affair, as she might have been by a fairy-story. 
 
 It is true that sometimes, when he fancied he might 
 have gone too far, Marien would grow sarcastic, or 
 stay silent for a time. But this change of behavior 
 produced on Jacqueline only the same effect that the 
 caprices of a coquette produce upon a very young 
 admirer. She grew anxious, she wanted to find out 
 the reason, and finally found some explanation or ex- 
 cuse for him that coincided with her fancies. 
 
 The thing that reassured her in such cases was her 
 picture. If she could seem to him as beautiful as he 
 had made her look on canvas she was sure that he must 
 love her. 
 
 "Is this really I? Are you sure?" she said to 
 Marien with a laugh of delight. "It seems to me 
 that you have made me too handsome." 
 
 "I have hardly done you justice," he replied. "It 
 is not my fault if you are more beautiful than seems 
 natural, like the beauties in the keepsakes. By the 
 way, I hold those English things in horror. What do 
 you say of them?" 
 
 [60]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Then Jacqueline undertook to defend the keepsake 
 beauties with animation, declaring that no one but a 
 hopelessly realistic painter would refuse to do justice 
 to those charming monstrosities. 
 
 "Good heavens!" thought Marien, "if she is adding 
 a quick wit to her other charms that will put the 
 finishing stroke to me." 
 
 When the portrait was sufficiently advanced, M. de 
 Nailles came to the studio to judge of the likeness. 
 He was delighted: "Only, my friend, I think," he cried 
 to Marien, endeavoring to soften his one objection to 
 the picture, "that you have given her a look how can 
 I put it? an expression very charming no doubt, but 
 which is not that of a child of her age. You know what 
 I mean. It is something tender intense profound, 
 too feminine. It may come to her some day, perhaps 
 but hitherto Jacqueline's expression has been gener- 
 ally that of a merry, mischievous child." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" cried the young girl, stung by the 
 insult. 
 
 "You may possibly be right," Marien hastened to 
 reply, "it was probably the fatigue of posing that gave 
 her that expression." 
 
 "Oh!" repeated Jacqueline, more shocked than ever. 
 
 "I can alter it," said the painter, much amused by 
 her extreme despair. But Marien thought that Jacque- 
 line had not in the least that precocious air which her 
 father attributed to her, when standing before him she 
 gave herself up to thoughts the current of which he 
 followed easily, watching on her candid face its changes 
 of expression. How could he have painted her other 
 
 [61]
 
 THtiO BENTZON 
 
 than she appeared to him? Was what he saw an 
 apparition or was it a work of magic ? 
 
 Several times during the sittings M. de Nailles made 
 his appearance in the studio, and after greatly praising 
 the work, persisted in his objection that it made Jacque- 
 line too old. But since the painter saw her thus they 
 must accept his judgment. It was no doubt an effect 
 of the grown-up costume that she had had a fancy to 
 put on. 
 
 "After all," he said to Jacqueline, "it is of not much 
 consequence ; you will grow up to it some of these days. 
 And I pay you my compliments in advance on your 
 appearance in the future." 
 
 She felt like choking with rage. "Oh! is it right," 
 she thought, "for parents to persist in keeping a young 
 girl forever in her cradle, so to speak?" 
 
 [62]
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A DANGEROUS MODEL 
 
 'IME passed too quickly to please 
 Jacqueline. Her portrait was fin- 
 ished at last, notwithstanding the wil- 
 lingness Marien had shown or so it 
 seemed to her to retouch it unnec- 
 essarily that she might again and 
 again come back to his atelier. But 
 it was done at last. She glided into 
 that dear atelier for the last time, her heart big with 
 regret, with no hope that she would ever again put on 
 the fairy robe which had, she thought, transfigured her 
 till she was no longer little Jacqueline. 
 
 "I want you only for one moment, and I need only 
 your face," said Marien. "I want to change a line 
 I hardly know what to call it, at the corner of your 
 mouth. Your father is right ; your mouth is too grave. 
 Think of something amusing of the Bal Blanc at 
 Madame d'Etaples, or merely, if you like, of the satis- 
 faction it will give you to be done with these everlasting 
 sittings to be no longer obliged to bear the burden of 
 a secret, in short to get rid of your portrait-painter." 
 
 She made him no answer, not daring to trust her 
 voice. 
 
 "Come! now, on the contrary you are tightening 
 
 [63]
 
 THfeO BENTZON 
 
 your lips," said Marien, continuing to play with her as 
 a cat plays with a mouse provided there ever was a 
 cat who, while playing with its mouse, had no intention 
 of crunching it. "You are not merry, you are sad. 
 That is not at all becoming to you." 
 
 "Why do you attribute to me your own thoughts? 
 It is you who will be glad to get rid of all this trouble." 
 
 Fraulein Schult, who, while patiently adding stitch 
 after stitch to the long strip of her crochet- work, was 
 often much amused by the dialogues between sitter 
 and painter, pricked up her ears to hear what a French- 
 man would say to what was evidently intended to pro- 
 voke a compliment. 
 
 "On the contrary, I shall miss you very much," said 
 Marien, quite simply; "I have grown accustomed to 
 see you here. You have become one of the familiar 
 objects of my studio. Your absence will create a void." 
 
 "About as much as if this or that were gone," said 
 Jacqueline, in a hurt tone, pointing first to a Japanese 
 bronze and then to an Etruscan vase; "with only this 
 difference, that you care least for the living object." 
 
 "You are bitter, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Because you make me such provoking answers, 
 Monsieur. My feeling is different," she went on im- 
 petuously, "I could pass my whole life watching you 
 paint." 
 
 "You would get tired of it probably in the long 
 run." 
 
 "Never!" she cried, blushing a deep red. 
 
 "And you would have to put up with my pipe that 
 big pipe yonder a horror." 
 
 [64]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "I should like it," she cried, with conviction. 
 
 "But you would not like my bad temper. If you 
 knew how ill I can behave sometimes! I can scold, I 
 can become unbearable, when this, for example," here 
 he pointed with his mahlstick to the Savonarola, "does 
 not please me." 
 
 "But it is beautiful so beautiful!" 
 
 "It is detestable. I shall have to go back some day 
 and renew my impressions of Florence see once more 
 the Piazze of the Signora and San Marco and then I 
 shall begin my picture all over again. Let us go to- 
 gether will you?" 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, fervently, "think of seeing Italy! 
 and with you!" 
 
 "It might not be so great a pleasure as you think. 
 Nothing is such a bore as to travel with people who are 
 pervaded by one idea, and my idee fixe is my picture 
 my great Dominican. He has taken complete posses- 
 sion of me he overshadows me. I can think of noth- 
 ing but him." 
 
 "Oh! but you think of me sometimes, I suppose," 
 said Jacqueline, softly, "for I share your time with 
 him." 
 
 "I think of you to blame you for taking me away 
 from the fifteenth century," replied Hubert Marien, 
 half seriously. " Ouf ! There! it is done at last. That 
 dimple I never could manage I have got in for better or 
 for worse. Now you may fly off. I set you at liberty 
 you poor little thing!" 
 
 She seemed in no hurry to profit by his permission. 
 She stood perfectly still in the middle of the studio, 
 5 [65]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 "Do you think I have posed well, faithfully, and 
 with docility all these weeks?" she asked at last. 
 
 "I will give you a certificate to that effect, if you like. 
 No one could have done better." 
 
 "And if the certificate is not all I want, will you give 
 me some other present?" 
 
 "A beautiful portrait what can you want 
 more?" 
 
 "The picture is for mamma. I ask a favor on my 
 own account." 
 
 "I refuse it beforehand. But you can tell me what it 
 is, all the same." 
 
 "Well, then the only part of your house that I have 
 ever been in is this atelier. You can imagine I have a 
 curiosity to see the rest." 
 
 "I see! you threaten me with a domiciliary visit 
 without warning. Well! certainly, if that would give 
 you any amusement. But my house contains nothing 
 wonderful. I tell you that beforehand." 
 
 "One likes to know how one's friends look at home 
 in their own setting, and I have only seen you here at 
 work in your atelier" 
 
 "The best point of view, believe me. But I am ready 
 to do your bidding. Do you wish to see where I eat 
 my dinner?" asked Marien, as he took her down the 
 staircase leading to his dining-room." 
 
 Fraulein Schult would have liked to go with them 
 it was, besides, her duty. But she had not been asked 
 to fulfil it. She hesitated a moment, and in that mo- 
 ment Jacqueline had disappeared. After considera- 
 tion, the promeneuse went on with her crochet, with a 
 
 [66]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 shrug of her shoulders which meant: "She can't come 
 to much harm." 
 
 Seated in the studio, she heard the sound of their 
 voices on the floor below. Jacqueline was lingering in 
 the fencing-room where Marien was in the habit of 
 counteracting by athletic exercises the effects of a too 
 sedentary life. She was amusing herself by fingering 
 the dumb-bells and the foils; she lingered long before 
 some precious suits of armor. Then she was taken up 
 into a small room, communicating with the atelier, 
 where there was a fine collection of drawings by the 
 old masters. "My only luxury," said Marien. 
 
 Mademoiselle Schult, getting impatient, began to roll 
 up yards and yards of crochet, and coughed, by way of 
 a signal, but remembering how disagreeable it would 
 have been to herself to be interrupted in a tete-a-tete 
 with her apothecary, she thought it not worth while to 
 disturb them in these last moments. M. de Nailles's 
 orders had been that she was to sit in the atelier. So 
 she continued to sit there, doing what she had been told 
 to do without any qualms of conscience. 
 
 When Marien had shown Jacqueline all his drawings 
 he asked her: "Are you satisfied?" 
 
 But Jacqueline's hand was already on the portiere 
 which separated the little room from Marien's bed- 
 chamber. 
 
 "Oh! J beg pardon," she exclaimed, pausing on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "One would think you would like to see me asleep," 
 said Marien with some little embarrassment. 
 
 "I never should have thought your bedroom would 
 
 [67]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 have been so pretty. Why, it is as elegant as a lady's 
 chamber," said Jacqueline, slipping into it as she spoke, 
 with an exciting consciousness of doing something she 
 ought not to do. 
 
 "What an insult, when I thought all my tastes were 
 simple and severe," he replied; but he had not followed 
 her into the chamber, withheld by an impulse of mod- 
 esty men sometimes feel, when innocence is led into 
 audacity through ignorance. 
 
 "What lovely flowers you have!" said Jacqueline, 
 from within. "Don't they make your head ache?" 
 
 "I take them out at night." 
 
 "I did not know that men liked, as we do, to be sur- 
 rounded by flowers. Won't you give me one?" 
 
 "All, if you like." 
 
 "Oh! one pink will be enough for me." 
 
 "Then take it," said Marien; her curiosity alarmed 
 him, and he was anxious to get her away. 
 
 "Would it not be nicer if you gave it me yourself?" 
 she replied, with reproach in her tones. 
 
 "Here is one, Mademoiselle. And now I must tell 
 you that I want to dress. I have to go out imme- 
 diately." 
 
 She pinned the pink into her bodice so high that she 
 could inhale its perfume. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. Thank you, and good-by," 
 she said, extending her hand to him with a sigh. 
 
 "Au revoir" 
 
 "Yes au revoir at home but that will not be like 
 here." 
 
 As she stood there before him there came into her 
 
 [68]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 eyes a strange expression, to which, without exactly 
 knowing why, he replied by pressing his lips fer- 
 vently on the little hand he was still holding in his 
 own. 
 
 Very often since her infancy he had kissed her before 
 witnesses, but this time she gave a little cry, and turned 
 as white as the flower whose petals were touching her 
 cheek. 
 
 Marien started back alarmed. 
 
 "Good-by," he said in a tone that he endeavored to 
 make careless but in vain. 
 
 Though she was much agitated herself she failed not 
 to remark his emotion, and on the threshold of the 
 atelier, she blew a kiss back to him from the tips of her 
 gloved fingers, without speaking or smiling. Then 
 she went back to Fraulein Schult, who was still sitting 
 in the place where she had left her, and said: "Let 
 us go." 
 
 The next time Madame de Nailles saw her step- 
 daughter she was dazzled by a radiant look in her 
 young face. 
 
 "What has happened to you?" she asked, "you look 
 triumphant." 
 
 "Yes I have good reason to triumph," said Jacque- 
 line. "I think that I have won a victory." 
 
 " How so ? Over yourself ? " 
 
 "No, indeed victories over one's self give us the 
 comfort of a good conscience, but they do not make us 
 gay as I am." 
 
 "Then tell me " 
 
 "No no! I can not tell you yet. I must be silent 
 
 [69]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 two days more," said Jacqueline, throwing herself into 
 hex mother's arms. 
 
 Madame de Nailles asked no more questions, but 
 she looked at her stepdaughter with an air of great sur- 
 prise. For some weeks past she had had no pleasure in 
 looking at Jacqueline. She began to be aware that 
 near her, at her side, an exquisite butterfly was about 
 for the first time to spread its wings wings of a radiant 
 loveliness, which, when they fluttered in the air, would 
 turn all eyes away from other butterflies, which had 
 lost some of their freshness during the summer. 
 
 A difficult task was before her. How could she keep 
 this too precocious insect in its chrysalis state? How 
 could she shut it up in its dark cocoon and retard its 
 transformation ? 
 
 "Jacqueline," she said, and the tones of her voice 
 were less soft than those in which she usually addressed 
 her, "it seems to me that you are wasting your time a 
 great deal. You hardly practise at all; you do almost 
 nothing at the cours. I don't know what can be 
 distracting your attention from your lessons, but I 
 have received complaints which should make a great 
 girl like you ashamed of herself. Do you know 
 what I am beginning to think? That Madame de 
 Monredon's system of education has done better than 
 mine." 
 
 "Oh! mamma, you can't be thinking of sending me 
 to a convent!" cried Jacqueline, in tones of comic 
 despair. 
 
 "I did not say that but I really think it might be 
 good for you to make a retreat where your cousin
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Giselle is, instead of plunging into follies which in- 
 terrupt your progress." 
 
 "Do you call Madame d'Etaples's bal blanc a 
 folly?" 
 
 "You certainly will not go to it that is settled," said 
 the young stepmother, dryly.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SURPRISES 
 
 N all other ways Madame de Nailles 
 did her best to assist in the success of 
 the surprise. On the second of June, 
 the eve of Ste.-Clotilde's day, she 
 went out, leaving every opportunity 
 for the grand plot to mature. Had 
 she not absented herself in like man- 
 ner the year before at the same date- 
 thus enabling an upholsterer to drape artistically her 
 little salon with beautiful thick silk tapestries which 
 had just been imported from the East? Her idea was 
 that this year she might find a certain lacquered screen 
 which she coveted. The Baroness belonged to her 
 period; she liked Japanese things. But, alas! the 
 charming object that awaited her, with a curtain hung 
 over it to prolong the suspense, had nothing Japanese 
 about it whatever. Madame de Nailles received the 
 good wishes of her family, responded to them with all 
 proper cordiality, and then was dragged up joyously to 
 a picture hanging on the wall of her room, but still con- 
 cealed under the cloth that covered it. 
 
 "How good of you!" she said, with all confidence to 
 her husband. 
 
 "It is a picture by Marien! A portrait by Marienl 
 A likeness of Jacqueline!" 
 
 [7*1
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 And he uncovered the masterpiece of the great artist, 
 expecting to be joyous in the joy with which she would 
 receive it. But something strange occurred. Madame 
 de Nailles sprang back a step or two, stretching out her 
 arms as if repelling an apparition, her face was dis- 
 torted, her head was turned away; then she dropped 
 into the nearest seat and burst into tears. 
 
 "Mamma! dear little mamma! what is it?" cried 
 Jacqueline, springing forward to kiss her. 
 
 Madame de Nailles disengaged herself angrily from 
 her embrace. 
 
 "Let me alone!" she cried, "let me alone! How 
 dared you ? 
 
 And impetuously, hardly restraining a gesture of 
 horror and hate, she rushed into her own chamber. 
 Thither her husband followed her, anxious and bewil- 
 dered, and there he witnessed a nervous attack which 
 ended in a torrent of reproaches. 
 
 Was it possible that he had not seen the impropriety 
 of those sittings to Marien ? Oh, yes! No doubt he was 
 an old friend of the family, but that did not prevent all 
 these deceptions, all these disguises, and all the other 
 follies which he had sanctioned he Jacqueline's 
 father! from being very improper. Did he wish to 
 take from her all authority over his child ? a girl who 
 was already too much disposed to emancipate herself. 
 Her own efforts had all been directed to curb this 
 alarming propensity yes, alarming alarming for the 
 future. And all in vain! There was no use in saying 
 more. Mon Dieu! had he no trust in her devotion to 
 his child, in her prudence and her foresight, that he 
 
 [73]
 
 THtfO BENTZON 
 
 must thwart her thus ? And she had always imagined 
 that for ten years she had faithfully fulfilled a mother's 
 duties! What ingratitude from every one! Mademoi- 
 selle Schult should be sent away at once. Jacqueline 
 should go to a convent. They would break off all inter- 
 course with Marien. They had conspired against her 
 every one. 
 
 And then she wept more bitterly than ever tears of 
 rage, salt tears which rubbed the powder off her cheeks 
 and disfigured the face that had remained beautiful by 
 her power of will and self-control. But now the dis- 
 order of her nerves got the better of precautions. The 
 blonde angel, whose beauty was on the wane, was 
 transformed into a fury. Her six-and-thirty years were 
 fully apparent, her complexion appeared slightly 
 blotched, all her defects were obtrusive in contrast with 
 the precocious development of beauty in Jacqueline. 
 She was firmly resolved that her stepdaughter's obtru- 
 sive womanhood should remain in obscurity a very 
 much longer time, under pretence that Jacqueline was 
 still a child. She was a child, at any rate! The por- 
 trait was a lie! an imposture! an affront! an out- 
 rage! 
 
 Meantime M. de Nailles, almost beside himself, fan- 
 cied at first that his wife was going mad, but in the midst 
 of her sobs and reproaches he managed to discover that 
 he had somehow done her wrong, and when, with a 
 broken voice, she cried, "You no longer love me!" he 
 did not know what to do to prove how bitterly he re- 
 pented having grieved her. He stammered, he made 
 excuses, he owned that he had been to blame, that he 
 
 [74]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 had been very stupid, and he begged her pardon. As 
 to the portrait, it should be taken from the salon, where, 
 if seen, it might become a pretext for foolish compli- 
 ments to Jacqueline. Why not send it at once to 
 Grandchaux? In short, he would do anything she 
 wished, provided she would leave off crying. 
 
 But Madame de Nailles continued to weep. Her 
 husband was forced at last to leave her and to return to 
 Jacqueline, who stood petrified in the salon. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "your mamma is right. We have 
 made a deplorable mistake in what we have done. 
 Besides, you must know that this unlucky picture is not 
 in the least like you. Marien has made some use of 
 your features to paint a fancy portrait so we will let 
 nobody see it. They might laugh at you." 
 
 In this way he hoped to repair the evil he had done 
 in flattering his daughter's vanity, and promoting that 
 dangerous spirit cf independence, denounced to him 
 a few minutes before, but of which, up to that time, he 
 had never heard. 
 
 Jacqueline, in her turn, began to sob. 
 
 Mademoiselle Schult had cause, too, to wipe her 
 eyes, pretending a more or less sincere repentance for 
 her share in the deception. Vigorously cross-questioned 
 by Madame de Nailles, who called upon her to tell all 
 she knew, under pain of being dismissed immediately, 
 she saw but one way of retaining her situation, which 
 was to deliver up Jacqueline, bound hand and foot, to 
 the anger of her stepmother, by telling all she knew 
 of the childish romance of which she had been the 
 confidante. As a reward she was permitted (as she 
 
 [75]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 had foreseen) to retain her place in the character of 
 a spy. 
 
 It was a sad Ste.-Clotilde's day that year. Marien, 
 who came in the evening, heard with surprise that the 
 Baroness was indisposed and could see no one. For 
 twelve days after this he continued in disgrace, being 
 refused admittance when he called. Those twelve days 
 were days of anguish for Jacqueline. To see Marien 
 no longer, to be treated with coldness by her father, to 
 see in the blue eyes of her stepmother eyes so soft and 
 tender when they looked upon her hitherto only a 
 harsh, mistrustful glare, almost a look of hatred, was 
 a punishment greater than she could bear. What had 
 she done to deserve punishment? Of what was she 
 accused ? She spoke of her wretchedness to Fraulein 
 Schult, who, perfidiously, day after day, drew from her 
 something to report to Madame de Nailles. That lady 
 was somewhat consoled, while suffering tortures of 
 jealousy, to know that the girl to whom these sufferings 
 were due was paying dearly for her fault and was very 
 unhappy. 
 
 On the twelfth day something occurred which, though 
 it made no noise in the household, had very serious con- 
 sequences. The effect it produced on Jacqueline was 
 decisive and deplorable. The poor child, after going 
 through all the states of mind endured by those who 
 suffer under unmerited disgrace revolt, indignation, 
 sulkiness, silent obstinacy felt unable to bear it 
 longer. She resolved to humble herself, hoping that by 
 so doing the wall of ice that had arisen between her 
 stepmother and herself might be cast down. By this 
 
 [76]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 time she cared less to know of what fault she was sup- 
 posed to be guilty than to be taken back into favor 
 as before. What must she do to obtain forgiveness? 
 Explanations are usually worthless; besides, none 
 might be granted her. She remembered that when she 
 was a small child she had obtained immediate oblivion 
 of any fault by throwing herself impulsively into the 
 arms of her little mamma, and asking her to forget what- 
 ever she had done to displease her, for she had not done 
 it on purpose. She would do the same thing now. 
 Putting aside all pride and obstinacy, she would go to 
 this mamma, who, for some days, had seemed so dif- 
 ferent. She would smother her in kisses. She might 
 possibly be repelled at first. She would not mind it. 
 She was sure that in the end she would be forgiven. 
 
 No sooner was this resolution formed than she has- 
 tened to put it into execution. It was the time of day 
 when Madame de Nailles was usually alone. Jacque- 
 line went to her bedchamber, but she was not there, 
 and a moment after she stood on the threshold of the 
 little salon. There she stopped short, not quite certain 
 how she should proceed, asking herself what would be 
 her reception. 
 
 "How shall I do it?" she thought. "How had I 
 better do it?" 
 
 "Bah!" she answered these doubts. "It will be 
 very easy. I will go in on tiptoe, so that she can't hear 
 me. I will slip behind her chair, and I will hug her 
 suddenly, so tight, so tenderly, and kiss her till she tells 
 me that all has been forgiven." 
 
 As she thought thus Jacqueline noiselessly opened the 
 
 [77]
 
 TH6O BENTZON 
 
 door of the salon, over which, on the inner side, hung a 
 thick plush portiere. But as she was about to lift it, the 
 sound of a voice within made her stand motionless. 
 She recognized the tones of Marien. He was pleading, 
 imploring, interrupted now and then by the sharp and 
 still angry voice of her mamma. They were not speaking 
 above their breath, but if she listened she could hear 
 them, and, without any scruples of conscience, she did 
 listen intently, anxious to see her way through the dark 
 fog in which, for twelve days, she had wandered. 
 
 "I do not go quite so far as that," said Madame de 
 Nailles, dryly. "It is enough forme that she produced 
 an illusion of such beauty upon you. Now I know 
 what to expect " 
 
 "That is nonsense," replied Marien "mere fool- 
 ishness. You jealous! jealous of a baby whom I knew 
 when she wore white pinafores, who has grown up 
 under my very eyes? But, so far as I am concerned, 
 she exists no longer. She is not, she never will be in 
 my eyes, a woman. I shall think of her as playing with 
 her doll, eating sugar-plums, and so on." 
 
 Jacqueline grew faint. She shivered and leaned 
 against the door-post. 
 
 "One would not suppose so, to judge by the picture 
 with which she has inspired you. You may say what 
 you like, but I know that in all this there was a set 
 purpose to insult me." 
 
 "Clotilde!" 
 
 "In the first place, on no pretext ought you to have 
 been induced to paint her portrait." 
 
 "Do you think so? Consider, had I refused, the 
 
 [78]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 danger of awakening suspicion? I accepted the com- 
 mission most unwillingly, much put out by it, as you 
 may suppose. But you are making too much of an 
 imaginary fault. Consign the wretched picture to the 
 barn, if you like. We will never say another word 
 about so foolish a matter. You promise me to forget 
 it, won't you? . . . Dear! you will promise me?" he 
 added, after a pause. 
 
 Madame de Nailles sighed and replied: "If not she 
 it will be some one else. I am very unhappy. ... I am 
 weak and contemptible. ..." 
 
 "Clotilde!" replied Marien, in an accent that went 
 to Jacqueline's heart like a knife. 
 
 She fancied that after this she heard the sound of a 
 kiss, and, with her cheeks aflame and her head burning, 
 she rushed away. She understood little of what she 
 had overheard. She only realized that he had given 
 her up, that he had turned her into ridicule, that he 
 had said "Clotilde!" to her mother, that he had called 
 her dear she! the woman she had so adored, so ven- 
 erated, her best friend, her father's wife, her mother by 
 adoption! Everything in this world seemed to be giv- 
 ing way under her feet. The world was full of false- 
 hood and of treason, and life, so bad, so cruel, was no 
 longer what she had supposed it to be. It had broken 
 its promise to herself, it had made her bad bad for- 
 ever. She loved no one, she believed in no one. She 
 wished she were dead. 
 
 How she reached her own room in this state Jacque- 
 line never knew. She was aware at last of being on her 
 knees beside her bed, with her face hidden in the bed- 
 
 [79]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 clothes. She was biting them to stifle her desire to 
 scream. Her hands were clenched convulsively. 
 
 "Mamma!" she cried, "mamma!" 
 
 Was this a reproach addressed to her she had so long 
 called by that name? Or was it an appeal, vibrating 
 with remorse, to her real mother, so long forgotten in 
 favor of this false idol, her rival, her enemy ? 
 
 Undoubtedly, Jacqueline was too innocent, too igno- 
 rant to guess the real truth from what she had over- 
 heard. But she had learned enough to be no longer 
 the pure-minded young girl of a few hours before. It 
 seemed to her as if a fetid swamp now lay before her, 
 barring her entrance into life. Vague as her percep- 
 tions were, this swamp before her seemed more deep, 
 more dark, more dreadful from uncertainty, and 
 Jacqueline felt that thenceforward she could make no 
 step in life without risk of falling into it. To whom 
 now could she open her heart in confidence that 
 heart bleeding and bruised as if it had been trampled on. 
 as if some one had crushed it ? The thing that she now 
 knew was not like her own little personal secrets, such 
 as she had imprudently confided to Fraulein Schult. 
 The words that she had overheard she could repeat to 
 no one. She must carry them in her heart, like the 
 barb of an arrow in a secret wound, where they would 
 fester and grow more painful day by day. 
 
 "But, above all," she said at length, rising from her 
 knees, "let me show proper pride." 
 
 She bathed her fevered face in cold water, then she 
 walked up to her mirror. As she gazed at herself with 
 a strange interest, trying to see whether the entire 
 
 [80]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 change so suddenly accomplished in herself had left its 
 visible traces on her features, she seemed to see some- 
 thing in her eyes that spoke of the clairvoyance of 
 despair. She smiled at herself, to see whether the new 
 Jacqueline could play the part, which whether she 
 would or not was now assigned to her. What a sad 
 smile it was! 
 
 "I have lost everything," she said, "I have lost every- 
 thing!" And she remembered, as one remembers 
 something in the far-off long ago, how that very morn- 
 ing, when she awoke, her first thought had been: 
 "Shall I see him to-day?" Each day she passed with- 
 out seeing him had seemed to her a lost day, and she 
 had accustomed herself to go to sleep thinking of him, 
 remembering all he had said to her, and how he had 
 looked at her. Of course, sometimes she had been un- 
 happy, but what a difference it seemed between such 
 vague unhappiness and what she now experienced? 
 And then, when she was sad, she could always find a 
 refuge in that dear mamma in that Clotilde whom she 
 vowed she would never kiss again, except with such 
 kisses as might be necessary to avoid suspicion. Kisses 
 of that kind were worth nothing. Quite the contrary! 
 Could she kiss her father now without a pang? Her 
 father! He had gone wholly over to the side of that 
 other in this affair. She had seen him in one moment 
 turn against herself. No! no one was left her! . . . 
 If she could only lay her head in Modeste's lap and be 
 soothed while she crooned her old songs as in the nur- 
 sery! But, whatever Marien or any one else might 
 choose to say, she was no longer a baby. The bitter 
 6 [81]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 sense of her isolation arose in her. She could hardly 
 breathe. Suddenly she pressed her lips upon the glass 
 which reflected her own image, so sad, so pale, so deso- 
 late. She put the pity for herself into a long, long, fer- 
 vent kiss, which seemed to say: "Yes, I am all alone 
 alone forever." Then, in a spirit of revenge, she opened 
 what seemed a safety-valve, preventing her from giving 
 way to any other emotion. 
 
 She rushed for a little box which she had converted 
 into a sort of reliquary. She took out of it the half- 
 burned cigarette, the old glove, the withered violets, 
 and a visiting-card with his name, on which three un- 
 important lines had been written. She insulted these 
 keepsakes, she tore them with her nails, she trampled 
 them underfoot, she reduced them to fragments; she 
 left nothing whatever of them, except a pile of shreds, 
 which at last she set fire to. She had a feeling as if she 
 were employed in executing two great culprits, who de- 
 served cruel tortures at her hands; and, with them, she 
 slew now and forever the foolish fancy she had called 
 her love. By a strange association of ideas, the famous 
 composition, so praised by M. Regis, came back to her 
 memory, and she cried : 
 
 "Je ne veux me souvenir. . . . me souvenir de rienl 
 If I remember, I shall be more unhappy. All has been 
 a dream. His look was a dream, his pressure of my 
 hand, his kiss on the last day, all all were dreams. 
 He was making a fool of me when he gave me that pink 
 which is now in this pile of ashes. He was laughing 
 when he told me I was more beautiful than was 
 natural. Never have I been never shall I be in his 
 
 [82]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 eyes more than the baby he remembers playing with 
 her doll." 
 
 And unconsciously, as Jacqueline said these words, 
 she imitated the careless accent with which she had 
 heard them fall from the lips of the artist. And she 
 would have again to meet him ! If she had had thunder 
 and lightning at her command, as she had had the 
 match with which she had set fire to the memorials of 
 her juvenile folly, Marien would have been annihilated 
 on the spot. She was at that moment a murderess at 
 heart. But the dinner-bell rang. The young fury gave 
 a last glance at the adornments of her pretty bedcham- 
 ber, so elegant, so original all blue and pink, with a 
 couch covered with silk embroidered with flowers. She 
 seemed to say to them all: "Keep my secret. It is a 
 sad one. Be careful: keep it safely." The cupids on 
 the clock, the little book-rest on a velvet stand, the pic- 
 ture of the Virgin that hung over her bed, with rosaries 
 and palms entwined about it, the photographs of her 
 girl-friends standing on her writing-table in pretty 
 frames of old-fashioned silk all seemed to see her 
 depart with a look of sympathy. 
 
 She went down to the dining-room, resolved to prove 
 that she would not submit to punishment. The best 
 way to brave Madame de Nailles was, she thought, to 
 affect great calmness and indifference, aye, even, if she 
 could, some gayety. But the task before her was more 
 difficult than she had expected. Apparently, as a proof 
 of reconciliation, Marien had been kept to dinner. To 
 see him so soon again after his words of outrage was 
 more than she could bear. For one moment the earth 
 
 [83]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 seemed to sink under her feet ; she roused her pride by 
 an heroic effort, and that sustained her. She exchanged 
 with the artist, as she always did, a friendly "Good- 
 evening!" and ate her dinner, though it nearly choked 
 her. 
 
 Madame de Nailles had red eyes; and Jacqueline 
 made the reflection that women who are thirty-five 
 should never weep. She knew that her face had not 
 been made ugly by her tears, and this gave her a per- 
 verse satisfaction in the midst of her misery. Of 
 Marien she thought: "He sits there as if he had been 
 put en penitence." No doubt he could not endure 
 scenes, and the one he had just passed through must 
 have given him the downcast look which Jacqueline 
 noticed with contempt. 
 
 What she did not know was that his depression had 
 more than one cause. He felt and felt with shame 
 and with discouragement that the fetters of a connec- 
 tion which had long since ceased to charm had been 
 fastened on his wrists tighter than ever; and he thought : 
 "I shall lose all my energy, I shall lose even my talent! 
 While I wear these chains I shall see ever before me- 
 an! tortures of Tantalus! the vision of a new love, 
 fresh as the dawn which beckons to me as it passes be- 
 fore my sight, which lays on me the light touch of a 
 caress, while I am forced to see it glide away, to let it 
 vanish, disappear forever! And alas! that is not all. 
 If I have deceived an inexperienced heart by words 
 spoken or deeds done in a moment of weakness or 
 temptation, can I flatter myself that I have acted like 
 an honest man?" 
 
 [84]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 This is what Marien was really thinking, while 
 Jacqueline looked at him with an expression she strove 
 to make indifferent, but which he interpreted, though she 
 knew it not : " You have done me all the harm you can." 
 
 M. de Nailles meantime went on talking, with little 
 response from his wife or his guest, about some vehe- 
 ment discussion of a new law going on just then in the 
 Chamber, and he became so interested in his own dis- 
 course that he did not remark the constraint of the 
 others. 
 
 Marien at last, tired of responding in monosyllables 
 to his remarks, said abruptly, a short time before des- 
 sert was placed upon the table, something about the 
 probability of his soon going to Italy. 
 
 "A pilgrimage of art to Florence!" cried the Baron, 
 turning at once from politics. "That's good. But wait 
 a little let it be after the rising of the Chamber. We 
 will follow your steps. It has been the desire of my 
 wife's life a little jaunt to Italy. Has it not, Clotilde ? 
 So we will all go in September or October. What say 
 you?" 
 
 "In September or October, whichever suits you," 
 said Marien, with despair. 
 
 Not one month of liberty! Why couldn't they leave 
 him to his Savonarola ! Must he drag about a ball and 
 chain like a galley-slave ? 
 
 Clotilde rewarded M. de Nailles with a smile the 
 first smile she had given him since their quarrel about 
 Jacqueline. 
 
 "My wife has got over her displeasure," he said to 
 himself, delightedly. 
 
 [85]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 Jacqueline, on her part, well remembered the day 
 when Hubert had spoken to her for the first time of his 
 intended journey, and how he had added, in a tone 
 which she now knew to be badinage, but which then, 
 alas! she had believed serious: "Suppose we go 
 together!" 
 
 And her impulse to shed tears became so great, that 
 when they left the dinner-table she escaped to her own 
 room, under pretence of a headache. 
 
 "Yes you are looking wretchedly," said her step- 
 mother. And, turning to M. de Nailles, she added: 
 "Don't you think, man ami, she is as yellow as a 
 quince!" Marien dared not press the hand which 
 she, who had been his little friend for years, offered him 
 as usual, but this time with repugnance. 
 
 "You are suffering, my poor Jacqueline!" he ven- 
 tured to say. 
 
 "Oh! not much," she answered, with a glance at 
 once haughty and defiant, "to-morrow I shall be quite 
 well again." 
 
 And, saying this, she had the courage to laugh. 
 
 But she was not quite well the next day; and for 
 many days after she was forced to stay in bed. The 
 doctor who came to see her talked about "low fever," 
 attributed it to too rapid growth, and prescribed sea- 
 bathing for her that summer. The fever, which was 
 not very severe, was of great service to Jacqueline. It 
 enabled her to recover in quiet from the effects of a 
 bitter deception. 
 
 Madame de Nailles was not sufficiently uneasy about 
 her to be always at her bedside. Usually the sick girl 
 
 [86]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 stayed alone, with her window-curtains closed, lying 
 there in the soft half-light that was soothing to her 
 nerves. The silence was broken at intervals by the 
 voice of. Modeste, who would come and offer her her 
 medicine. When Jacqueline had taken it, she would 
 shut her eyes, and resume, half asleep, her sad reflec- 
 tions. These were always the same. What could be the 
 tie between her stepmother and Marien ? 
 
 She tried to recall all the proofs of friendship she 
 had seen pass between them, but all had taken place 
 openly. Nothing that she could remember seemed sus- 
 picious. So she thought at first, but as she thought 
 more, lying, feverish, upon her bed, several things, 
 little noticed at the time, were recalled to her remem- 
 brance. They might mean nothing, or they might 
 mean much. In the latter case, Jacqueline could not 
 understand them very well. But she knew he had 
 called her "Clotilde," that he had even dared to say 
 "thou" to her in private these were things she knew 
 of her own knowledge. Her pulse beat quicker as she 
 thought of them; her head burned. In that studio, 
 where she had passed so many happy hours, had 
 Marien and her stepmother ever met as lovers ? 
 
 Her stepmother and Marien! She could not under- 
 stand what it meant. Must she apply to them a dread- 
 ful word that she had picked up in the history books, 
 where it had been associated with such women as Mar- 
 garet of Burgundy, Isabeau of Bavaria, Anne Boleyn, 
 and other princesses of very evil reputation ? She had 
 looked it out in the dictionary, where the meaning given 
 was: "To be unfaithful to conjugal vows." Even then 
 
 [87]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 she could not understand precisely the meaning of adul- 
 tery, and she set herself to solve it during the long lonely 
 days when she was convalescent. When she was able 
 to walk from one room to another, she wandered in a 
 loose dressing-gown, whose long, lank folds showed 
 that she had grown taller and thinner during her illness, 
 into the room that held the books, and went boldly up 
 to the bookcase, the key of which had been left in the 
 lock, for everybody had entire confidence in Jacque- 
 line's scrupulous honesty. Never before had she broken 
 a promise ; she knew that a well-brought-up young girl 
 ought to read only such books as were put into her 
 hands. The idea of taking a volume from those 
 shelves had no more occurred to her than the idea of 
 taking money out of somebody's purse; that is, up to 
 this moment it had not occurred to her to do so; but 
 now that she had lost all respect for those in authority 
 over her, Jacqueline considered herself released from 
 any obligation to obey them. She therefore made use 
 of the first opportunity that presented itself to take 
 down a novel of George Sand, which she had heard 
 spoken of as a very dangerous book, not doubting it 
 would throw some light on the subject that absorbed 
 her. But she shut up the volume in a rage when she 
 found that it had nothing but excuses to offer for the 
 fall of a married woman. After that, and guided only 
 by chance, she read a number of other novels, most of 
 which were of antediluvian date, thus accounting, she 
 supposed, for their sentiments, which she found old- 
 fashioned. We should be wrong, however, if we sup- 
 posed that Jacqueline's crude judgment of these books 
 
 [88]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 had nothing in common with true criticism. Her only 
 object, however, in reading all this sentimental prose 
 was to discover, as formerly she had found in poetry, 
 something that applied to her own case; but she soon 
 discovered that all the sentimental heroines in the so- 
 called bad books were persons who had had bad hus- 
 bands; besides, they were either widows or old women 
 at least thirty years old ! It was astounding ! There 
 was nothing absolutely nothing about young girls, 
 except instances in which they renounced their hopes of 
 happiness. What an injustice! Among these victims 
 the two that most attracted her sympathy were Ma- 
 dame de Camors and Renee Mauperin. But what 
 horrors surrounded them! What a varied assortment 
 of deceptions, treacheries, and mysteries, lay hidden 
 under the outward decency and respectability of what 
 men called "the world!" Her young head became a 
 stage on which strange plays were acted. What one 
 reads is good or bad for us, according to the frame of 
 mind in which we read it according as we discover in 
 a volume healing for the sickness of our souls or the 
 contrary. In view of the circumstances in which she 
 found herself, what Jacqueline absorbed from these 
 books was poison. 
 
 When, after the physical and moral crisis through 
 which she had passed, Jacqueline resumed the life of 
 every day, she had in her sad eyes, around which for 
 some time past had been dark circles, an expression of 
 anxiety such as the first contact with a knowledge of 
 evil might have put into Eve's eyes after she had 
 plucked the apple. Her investigations had very im- 
 
 [89]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 perfectly enlightened her. She was as much perplexed 
 as ever, with some false ideas besides. When she was 
 well again, however, she continued weak and languid ; 
 she felt somehow as if she had come back to her old 
 surroundings from some place far away. Everything 
 about her now seemed sad and unfamiliar, though 
 outwardly nothing was altered. Her parents had ap- 
 parently forgotten the unhappy episode of the picture. 
 It had been sent away to Grandchaux, which was tan- 
 tamount to its being buried. Hubert Marien had re- 
 sumed his habits of intimacy in the family. From that 
 time forth he took less and less notice of Jacqueline 
 whether it were that he owed her a grudge for all the 
 annoyance she had been the means of bringing upon 
 him, or whether he feared to burn himself in the flame 
 which had once scorched him more than he admitted 
 to himself, who can say? Perhaps he was only acting 
 in obedience to orders. 
 
 [90]
 
 A CONVENT FLOWER 
 
 IE of Jacqueline's first walks, after 
 she had recovered, was to see her 
 cousin Giselle at her convent. She 
 did not seek this friend's society 
 when she was happy and in a humor 
 for amusement, for she thought her 
 a little straightlaced, or, as she said, 
 too like a nun; but nobody could 
 condole or sympathize with a friend in trouble like 
 Giselle. It seemed as if nature herself had intended 
 her for a Sister of Charity a Gray Sister, as Jacqueline 
 would sometimes call her, making fun of her somewhat 
 dull intellect, which had been benumbed, rather than 
 stimulated, by the education she had received. 
 
 The Benedictine Convent is situated in a dull street 
 on the left bank of the Seine, all gardens and hdtels 
 that is, detached houses. Grass sprouted here and 
 there among the cobblestones. There were no street- 
 lamps and no policemen. Profound silence reigned 
 there. The petals of an acacia, which peeped timidly 
 over its high wall, dropped, like flakes of snow, on the 
 few pedestrians who passed by it in the springtime. 
 The enormous porte-cochere gave entrance into a square 
 
 [91]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 courtyard, on one side of which was the chapel, on 
 the other, the door that led into the convent. Here 
 Jacqueline presented herself, accompanied by her old 
 nurse, Modeste. She had not yet resumed her German 
 lessons, and was striving to put off as long as possible 
 any intercourse with Fraulein Schult, who had known 
 of her foolish fancy, and who might perhaps renew the 
 odious subject. Walking with Modeste, on the con- 
 trary, seemed like going back to the days of her child- 
 hood, the remembrance of which soothed her like a 
 recollection of happiness and peace, now very far away; 
 it was a reminiscence of the far-off limbo in which her 
 young soul, pure and white, had floated, without rap- 
 ture, but without any great grief or pain. 
 
 The porteress showed them into the parlor. There 
 they found several pupils who were talking to members 
 of their families, from whom they were separated by 
 a grille, whose black bars gave to those within the 
 appearance of captives, and made rather a barrier to 
 eager demonstrations of affection, though they did not 
 hinder the reception of good things to eat. 
 
 "Tiens! I have brought you some chocolate," said 
 Jacqueline to Giselle, as soon as her cousin appeared, 
 looking far prettier in her black cloth frock than when 
 she wore an ordinary walking-costume. Her fair hair 
 was drawn back a la Chinoise from a white forehead 
 resembling that of a German Madonna; it was one 
 of those foreheads, slightly and delicately curved, 
 which phrenologists tell us indicate reflection and en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 But Giselle, without thanking Jacqueline for the 
 
 [92]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 chocolate, exclaimed at once: "Mm Dieu! What has 
 been the matter with you?" 
 
 She spoke rather louder than usual, it being under- 
 stood that conversations were to be carried on in a 
 low tone, so as not to interfere with those of other 
 persons. She added: "I find you so altered." 
 
 "Yes I have been ill," said Jacqueline, carelessly, 
 "sorrow has made me ill," she added, in a whisper, 
 looking to see whether the nun, who was discreetly 
 keeping watch, walking to and fro behind the grille, 
 might chance to be listening. "Oh, ask me no ques- 
 tions! I must never tell you but for me, you must 
 know the happiness of my life is at an end is at an 
 end " 
 
 She felt herself to be very interesting while she was 
 speaking thus; her sorrows were somewhat assuaged. 
 There was undoubtedly a certain pleasure in letting 
 some one look down into the unfathomable, mysterious 
 depths of a suffering soul. 
 
 She had expected much curiosity on the part of 
 Giselle, and had resolved beforehand to give her no 
 answers; but Giselle only sighed, and said, softly: 
 
 "Ah my poor darling! I, too, am very unhappy. 
 If you only knew " 
 
 "How? Good heavens! what can have happened 
 to you here?" 
 
 "Here? oh! nothing, of course; but this year I am 
 to leave the convent and I think I can guess what will 
 then be before me." 
 
 Here, seeing that the nun who was keeping guard 
 was listening, Giselle, with great presence of mind,
 
 BENTZON 
 
 spoke louder on indifferent subjects till she had passed 
 out of earshot, then she rapidly poured her secret into 
 Jacqueline's ear. 
 
 From a few words that had passed between her 
 grandmother and Madame d'Argy, she had found out 
 that Madame de Monredon intended to marry her. 
 
 "But that need not make you unhappy," said 
 Jacqueline, "unless he is really distasteful to you." 
 
 "That is what I am not sure about perhaps he is 
 not the one I think. But I hardly know why I have 
 a dread, a great dread, that it is one of our neighbors 
 in the country. Grandmamma has several times 
 spoken in my presence of the advantage of uniting our 
 two estates they touch each other oh! I know her 
 ideas! she wants a man well-born, one who has a 
 position in the world some one, as she says, who 
 knows something of life that is, I suppose, some one 
 no longer young, and who has not much hair on his 
 head like Monsieur de Talbrun." 
 
 "Is he very ugly this Monsieur de Talbrun?" 
 
 "He's not ugly and not handsome. But, just 
 think! he is thirty-four!" 
 
 Jacqueline blushed, seeing in this speech a reflection 
 on her own taste in such matters. 
 
 "That's twice my age," sighed Giselle. 
 
 " Of course that would be dreadful if he were to stay 
 always twice your age for instance, if you were now 
 thirty-five, he would be seventy, and a hundred and 
 twenty when you reached your sixtieth year but really 
 to be twice your age now will only make him seven- 
 teen years older than yourself." 
 
 [94]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 In the midst of this chatter, which was beginning to 
 attract the notice of the nun, they broke off with a 
 laugh, but it was only one of those laughs au bout des 
 tivres, uttered by persons who have made up their 
 minds to be unhappy. Then Giselle went on: 
 
 "I know nothing about him, you understand but 
 he frightens me. I tremble to think of taking his arm, 
 of talking to him, of being his wife. Just think even 
 of saying thou to him!" 
 
 "But married people don't say thou to each other 
 nowadays," said Jacqueline, "it is considered vulgar." 
 
 "But I shall have to call him by his Christian 
 name!" 
 
 "What is Monsieur de Talbrun's Christian name?" 
 
 "Oscar." 
 
 "Humph! That is not a "ery pretty name, but you 
 could get over the difficulty you could say mon ami. 
 After all, your sorrows are less than mine." 
 
 "Poor Jacqueline!" said Giselle, her soft hazel eyes 
 moist with sympathy. 
 
 "I have lost at one blow all my illusions, and I have 
 made a horrible discovery, that it would be wicked to 
 tell to any one you understand not even to my con- 
 fessor." 
 
 " Heavens ! but you could tell your mother ! " 
 
 "You forget, I have no mother," replied Jacqueline 
 in a tone which frightened her friend: "I had a dear 
 mamma once, but she would enter less than any one 
 into my sorrows; and as to my father it would make 
 things worse to speak to him," she added, clasping 
 her hands. " Have you ever read any novels, Giselle ? " 
 
 [95]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 "Hem!" said the discreet voice of the nun, by way 
 of warning. 
 
 "Two or three by Walter Scott." 
 
 "Oh! then you can imagine nothing like what I 
 could tell you How horrid that nun is, she stops 
 always as she comes near us! Why can't she do as 
 Modeste does, and leave us to talk by ourselves?" 
 
 It seemed indeed as if the Argus in a black veil had 
 overheard part of this conversation, not perhaps the 
 griefs of Jacqueline, which were not very intelligible, 
 but some of the words spoken by Giselle, for, drawing 
 near her, she said, gently: "We, too, shall all grieve to 
 lose you, my dearest child; but remember one can serve 
 God anywhere, and save one's soul in the world as 
 well as in a convent." And she passed on, giving a 
 kind smile to Jacqueline, whom she knew, having seen 
 her several times in the convent parlor, and whom she 
 thought a nice girl, notwithstanding what she called 
 her "fly-away airs" "the airs they acquire from mod- 
 ern education," she said to herself, with a sigh. 
 
 "Those poor ladies would have us think of nothing 
 but a future life," said Jacqueline, shrugging her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "We ought to think of it first of all," said Giselle, 
 who had become serious. "Sometimes I think my 
 place should have been among these ladies who have 
 brought me up. They are so good, and they seem to 
 be so happy. Besides, do you know, I stand less in 
 awe of them than I do of my grandmother. When 
 grandmamma orders me I never shall dare to object, 
 even if But you must think me very selfish, my poor 
 
 [96]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Jacqueline! I am talking only of myself. Do you 
 know what you ought to do as you go away? You 
 should go into the chapel, and pray with all your heart 
 for me, that I may be brought in safety through my 
 troubles about which I have told you, and I will do 
 the same for yours, about which you have not told me. 
 An exchange of prayers is the best foundation for a 
 friendship," she added; for Giselle had many little 
 convent maxims at her fingers' ends, to which, when 
 she uttered them, her sincerity of look and tone gave 
 a personal meaning. 
 
 "You are right," said Jacqueline, much moved. 
 "It has done me good to see you. Take this choco- 
 late." 
 
 "And you must take this," said Giselle, giving her 
 a little illuminated card, with sacred words and sym- 
 bols. 
 
 "Adieu, dearest say, have you ever detested any 
 one?" 
 
 "Never!" cried Giselle, with horror. 
 
 "Well! I do detest detest You are right, I 
 will go into the chapel. I need some exorcism." 
 
 And laughing at her use of this last word the same 
 little mirthless laugh that she had uttered before 
 Jacqueline went away, followed by the admiring 
 glances of the other girls, who from behind the bars 
 of their cage noted the brilliant plumage of this bird 
 who was at liberty. She crossed the courtyard, and, 
 followed by Modeste, entered the chapel, where she 
 sank upon her knees. The mystic half-light of the 
 place, tinged purple by its passage through the stained- 
 7 [97]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 windows, seemed to enlarge the little chancel, parted 
 in two by a double grille, behind which the nuns could 
 hear the service without being seen. 
 
 The silence was so deep that the low murmur of a 
 prayer could now and then be heard. The worship- 
 ers might have fancied themselves a hundred leagues 
 from all the noises of the world, which seemed to die 
 out when they reached the convent walls. 
 
 Jacqueline read, and re-read mechanically, the words 
 printed in letters of gold on the little card Giselle had 
 given her. It was a symbolical picture, and very ugly; 
 but the words were: "Oh! that I had wings like a 
 dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest." 
 
 "Wings!" she repeated, with vague aspiration. The 
 aspiration seemed to disengage her from herself, and 
 from this earth, which had nothing more to offer her. 
 Ah! how far away was now the time when she had 
 entered churches, full of happiness and hope, to offer 
 a candle that her prayer might be granted, which she 
 felt sure it would be! All was vanity! As she gazed 
 at the grille, behind which so many women, whose 
 worldly lives had been cut short, now lived, safe from 
 the sorrows and temptations of this world, Jacqueline 
 seemed for the first time to understand why Giselle 
 regretted that she might not share forever the blessed 
 peace enjoyed in the convent. A torpor stole over her, 
 caused by the dimness, the faint odor of the incense, 
 and the solemn silence. She imagined herself in the 
 act of giving up the world. She saw herself in a veil, 
 with her eyes raised to Heaven, very pale, standing 
 behind the grille. She would have to cut off her hair. 
 
 [98]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 That seemed hard, but she would make the sacrifice. 
 She would accept anything, provided the ungrateful 
 pair, whom she would not name, could feel sorrow for 
 her loss maybe even remorse. Full of these ideas, 
 which certainly had little in common with the feelings 
 of those who seek to forgive those who trespass against 
 them, Jacqueline continued to imagine herself a Bene- 
 dictine sister, under the soothing influence of her sur- 
 roundings, just as she had mistaken the effects of 
 physical weakness when she was ill for a desire to die. 
 Such feelings were the result of a void which the whole 
 universe, as she thought, never could fill, but it was 
 really a temporary vacuum, like that caused by the 
 loss of a first tooth. These teeth come out with the 
 first jar, and nature intends them to be speedily re- 
 placed by others, much more permanent; but children 
 cry when they are pulled out, and fancy they are in 
 very tight. Perhaps they suffer, after all, nearly as 
 much as they think they do. 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" said Modeste, touching her on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "I was content to be here," answered Jacqueline, 
 with a sigh. "Do you know, Modeste," she went on, 
 when they got out of doors, "that I have almost made 
 up my mind to be a nun. What do you say to that?" 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" cried the old nurse, much startled. 
 
 "Life is so hard," replied her young mistress. 
 
 "Not for you, anyhow. It would be a sin to say 
 so." 
 
 "Ah! Modeste, we so little know the real truth of 
 things we can see only appearances. Don't you think 
 
 [99]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 that a linen band over my forehead would be very 
 becoming to me? I should look like Saint Theresa." 
 
 "And what would be the good of your looking like 
 Saint Theresa, when there would be nobody to tell you 
 so?" said Modeste, with the practical good-sense that 
 never forsook her. "You would be beautiful for 
 yourself alone. You would not even be allowed a 
 looking-glass. Just talk about that fancy to Mon- 
 sieur we should soon see what he would say to such 
 a notion." 
 
 M. de Nailles, having just left the Chamber, was 
 crossing the Pont de la Concorde on foot at this mo- 
 ment. His daughter ran up to him, and caught him 
 by the arm. They walked homeward talking of very 
 different things from bolts and bars. The Baron, who 
 was a weak man, thought in his heart that he had been 
 too severe with his daughter for some time past. As 
 he recalled what had taken place, the anger of Ma- 
 dame de Nailles in the matter of the picture seemed to 
 him to have been extreme and unnecessary. Jacque- 
 line was just at an age when young girls are apt to 
 be nervous and impressionable; they had been wrong 
 to be rough with one who was so sensitive. His 
 wife was quite of his opinion, she acknowledged (not 
 wishing him to think too much on the subject) that 
 she had been too quick-tempered. 
 
 "Yes," she had said, frankly, "I am jealous; I want 
 things to myself. I own I was angry when I thought 
 that Jacqueline was about to throw off my authority, 
 and hurt when I found she was capable of keeping 
 up a concealment when I believed she was so open 
 
 [100]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 always with me. My behavior was foolish, I acknowl- 
 edge. But what can we do? Neither of us can go 
 and ask her pardon ? " 
 
 "Of course not," said the father, "all we can do is 
 to treat her with a little more consideration for the 
 future; and, with your permission, I shall use her 
 illness as an excuse for spoiling her a little." 
 
 "You have carte blanche, my dear, I agree to every- 
 thing." So M. de Nailles, with his daughter's arm in 
 his, began to spoil her, as he had intended. 
 
 "You are still rather pale," he said, "but sea-bathing 
 will change all that. Would you like to go to the sea- 
 side next month?" 
 
 Jacqueline answered with a little incredulous smile : 
 
 "Oh, certainly, papa." 
 
 "You don't seem very sure about it. In the first 
 place, where shall we go? Your mamma seems to 
 fancy Houlgate?" 
 
 "Of course we must do what she wishes," replied 
 Jacqueline, rather bitterly. 
 
 "But, little daughter, what would you like? What 
 do you say to Treport?" 
 
 "I should like Treport very much, because there we 
 should be near Madame d'Argy." 
 
 Jacqueline had felt much drawn to Madame d'Argy 
 since her troubles, for she had been the nearest friend 
 of her own mother her own dead mother, too long 
 forgotten. The chateau of Madame d'Argy, called 
 Lizerolles, was only two miles from Treport, in a 
 charming situation on the road to St. Vale"ry. 
 
 "That's the very thing, then!" said M. de Nailles. 
 [101]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 "Fred is going to spend a month at Lizerolles with his 
 mother. You might ride on horseback with him. He 
 is going to enjoy a holiday, poor fellow! before he has 
 to be sent off on long and distant voyages." 
 
 "I don't know how to ride," said Jacqueline, still 
 in the tone of a victim. 
 
 "The doctor thinks riding would be good for you, 
 and you have time enough yet to take some lessons. 
 Mademoiselle Schult could take you nine or ten times 
 to the riding-school. And I will go with you the first 
 time," added M. de Nailles, in despair at not having 
 been able to please her. "To-day we will go to Black- 
 fern's and order a habit a riding-habit! Can I do 
 more?" 
 
 At this, as if by magic, whether she would or not, 
 the lines of sadness and sullenness disappeared from 
 Jacqueline's face; her eyes sparkled. She gave one 
 more proof, that to every Parisienne worthy of the 
 name, the two pleasures in riding are, first to have a 
 perfectly fitting habit, secondly, to have the oppor- 
 tunity of showing how pretty she can be after a new 
 fashion. 
 
 "Shall we go to Blackfern's now?" 
 
 "This very moment, if you wish it." 
 
 "You really mean Blackfern ? Yvonne's habit came 
 from Blackfern's!" Yvonne d'Etaples was the in- 
 carnation of chic of fashionable elegance in Jacque- 
 line's eyes. Her heart beat with pleasure when she 
 thought how Belle and Dolly would envy her when 
 she told them: "I have a myrtle-green riding-habit, 
 just like Yvonne's." She danced rather than walked 
 
 [102]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 as they went together to Blackfern's. A habit was 
 much nicer than a long gown. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later they were in the waiting- 
 room, where the last creations of the great ladies' 
 tailor, were displayed upon lay figures, among sales- 
 women and essayeuses, the very prettiest that could be 
 found in England or the Batignolles, chosen because 
 they showed off to perfection anything that could be 
 put upon their shoulders, from the ugliest to the most 
 extravagant. Deceived by the unusual elegance of 
 these beautiful figures, ladies who are neither young 
 nor well-shaped allow themselves to be beguiled and 
 cajoled into buying things not suited to them. Very 
 seldom does a hunchbacked dowager hesitate to put 
 upon her shoulders the garment that draped so charm- 
 ingly those of the living statue hired to parade be- 
 fore her. Jacqueline could not help laughing as she 
 watched this way of hunting larks; and thought the 
 mirror might have warned them, like a scarecrow, 
 rather than have tempted them into the snare. 
 
 The head tailor of the establishment made them 
 wait long enough to allow the pretty showgirls to ac- 
 complish their work of temptation. They fascinated 
 Jacqueline's father by their graces and their glances, 
 while at the same time they warbled into his daughter's 
 ear, with a slightly foreign accent: "That would be so 
 becoming to Mademoiselle." 
 
 For ladies going to the seaside there were things of 
 the most exquisite simplicity: this white fur, trimmed 
 with white velvet, for instance; that jacket like the 
 uniform of a naval officer with a cap to match "All 
 
 [103]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 to please Fred," said Jacqueline, laughing. M. de 
 Nailles, while they waited for the tailor, chose two 
 costumes quite as original as those of Mademoiselle 
 d'Etaples, which delighted Jacqueline all the more, 
 because she thought it probable they would displease 
 her stepmother. At last the magnificent personage, his 
 face adorned with luxuriant whiskers, appeared with 
 the bow of a great artist or a diplomatist ; took Jacque- 
 line's measure as if he were fulfilling some important 
 function, said a few brief words to his secretary, and 
 then disappeared; the group of English beauties say- 
 ing in chorus that Mademoiselle might come back that 
 day week and try it on. 
 
 Accordingly, a week later Jacqueline, seated on the 
 wooden horse used for this purpose, had the satisfac- 
 tion of assuring herself that her habit, fitting marvel- 
 lously to her bust, showed not a wrinkle, any more 
 than a gant de Suede shows on the hand ; it was closely 
 fitted to a figure not yet fully developed, but which the 
 creator of the chef-d'oeuvre deigned to declare was 
 faultless. Usually, he said, he recommended his cus- 
 tomers to wear a certain corset of a special cut, with 
 elastic material over the hips covered by satin that 
 matched the riding-habit, but at Mademoiselle's age, 
 and so supple as she was, the corset was not necessary. 
 In short, the habit was fashioned to perfection, and 
 fitted like her skin to her little flexible figure. In her 
 close-fitting petticoat, her riding-trousers and nothing 
 else, Jacqueline felt herself half naked, though she was 
 buttoned up to her throat. She had taken an attitude 
 on her wooden horse such as might have been envied 
 
 [104!
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 by an accomplished equestrienne, her elbows held well 
 back, her shoulders down, her chest expanded, her 
 right leg over the pommel, her left foot in the stirrup, 
 and never after did any real gallop give her the same 
 delight as this imaginary ride on an imaginary horse, 
 she looking at herself with entire satisfaction all the 
 time in an enormous cheval-glass. 
 
 [105]
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE BLUE BAND 
 
 [OVE, like any other human malady, 
 should be treated according to the 
 age and temperament of the sufferer. 
 Madame de Nailles, who was a very 
 keen observer, especially where her 
 own interests were concerned, lent 
 herself with the best possible grace 
 to everything that might amuse and 
 distract Jacqueline, of whom she had by this time 
 grown afraid. Not that she now dreaded her as a 
 rival. The attitude of coldness and reserve that the 
 young girl had adopted in her intercourse with Marien, 
 her stepmother could see, was no evidence of coquetry. 
 She showed, in her behavior to the friend of the family, 
 a freedom from embarrassment which was new to her, 
 and a frigidity which could not possibly have been 
 assumed so persistently. No! what struck Madame 
 de Nailles was the suddenness of this transformation. 
 Jacqueline evidently took no further interest in Marien ; 
 she had apparently no longer any affection for herself 
 she, who had been once her dear little mamma, 
 whom she had loved so tenderly, now felt herself to be 
 considered only as a stepmother. Fraulein Schult, too, 
 received no more confidences. What did it all mean ? 
 
 [106]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Had Jacqueline, through any means, discovered a 
 secret, which, in her hands, might be turned into a 
 most dangerous weapon? She had a way of saying 
 before the guilty pair: "Poor papa!" with an air of 
 pity, as she kissed him, which made Madame de 
 Nailles's flesh creep, and sometimes she would amuse 
 herself by making ambiguous remarks which shot 
 arrows of suspicion into a heart already afraid. "I 
 feel sure," thought the Baroness, "that she has found 
 out everything. But, no! it seems impossible. How 
 can I discover what she knows?" 
 
 Jacqueline's revenge consisted in leaving her step- 
 mother in doubt. She more than suspected, not with- 
 out cause, that Fraulein Schult was false to her, and 
 had the wit to baffle all the clever questions of her 
 promeneuse. 
 
 "My worship of a man of genius a great artist? 
 Oh! that has all come to an end since I have found 
 out that his devotion belongs to an elderly lady with 
 a fair complexion and light hair. I am only sorry 
 for him." 
 
 Jacqueline had great hopes that these cruel words 
 would be reported as they were to her stepmother, 
 and, of course, they did not mitigate the Baroness's 
 uneasiness. Madame de Nailles revenged herself for 
 this insult by dismissing the innocent echo of the im- 
 pertinence of course, under some plausible pretext. 
 She felt it necessary also to be very cautious how she 
 treated the enemy whom she was forced to shelter 
 under her own roof. Her policy a policy imposed 
 on her by force of circumstances was one of great 
 
 [107]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 indulgence and consideration, so that Jacqueline, soon 
 feeling that she was for the present under no control, 
 took the bit between her teeth. No other impression 
 can adequately convey an idea of the sort of fury with 
 which she plunged into pleasure and excitement, a 
 state of mind which apparently, without any transition, 
 succeeded her late melancholy. She had done with 
 sentiment, she thought, forever. She meant to be 
 practical and positive, a little Parisienne, and "in the 
 swim." There were plenty of examples among those 
 she knew that she could follow. Berthe, Helene, and 
 Claire Wermant were excellent leaders in that sort of 
 thing. Those three daughters of the agent de change 
 were at this time at Treport, in charge of a governess, 
 who let them do whatever they pleased, subject only 
 to be scolded by their father, who came down every 
 Saturday to Treport, on that train that was called the 
 train des maris. They had made friends with two or 
 three American girls, who were called "fast," and 
 Jacqueline was soon enrolled in the ranks of that gay 
 company. 
 
 The cure that was begun on the wooden horse at 
 Blackfern's was completed on the sea-shore. 
 
 The girls with whom she now associated were nine 
 or ten little imps of Satan, who, with their hair flying 
 in the wind and their caps over one ear, made the quiet 
 beach ring with their boy-like gayety. They were 
 called "the Blue Band," because of a sort of uniform 
 that they adopted. We speak of them intentionally as 
 masculine, and not feminine, because what is mascu- 
 line best suited their appearance and behavior, for, 
 
 [108]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 though all could flirt like coquettes of experience, they 
 were more like boys than girls, if judged by their age 
 and their costume. 
 
 These Blues lived close to one another on that 
 avenue that is edged with chdlets, cottages, and villas, 
 whose lower floors are abundantly provided with great 
 glass windows, which seem to let the ocean into their 
 very rooms, as well as to lay bare everything that passes 
 in them to the public eye, as frankly as if their inmates 
 bivouacked in the open street. Nothing was private; 
 neither the meals, nor the coming and going of visi- 
 tors. It must be said, however, that the inhabitants 
 of these glass houses were very seldom at home. Bath- 
 ing, and croquet, or tennis, at low water, on the sands, 
 searching for shells, fishing with nets, dances at the 
 Casino, little family dances alternating with concerts, 
 to which even children went till nine o'clock, would 
 seem enough to fill up the days of these young people, 
 but they had also to make boating excursions to Cayeux, 
 Crotoy, and Hourdel, besides riding parties in the beau- 
 tiful country that surrounded the Chateau of Lizerolles, 
 where they usually dismounted on their return. 
 
 At Lizerolles they were received by Madame d'Argy, 
 who was delighted that they provided safe amusement 
 for her son, who appeared in the midst of this group of 
 half-grown girls like a young cock among the hens of 
 his harem. Frederic d'Argy, the young naval officer, 
 who was enjoying his holiday, as M. de Nailles had 
 said, was enjoying it exceedingly. How often, long 
 after, on board the ship Flore, as he paced the silent 
 quarter-deck x far from any opportunity of flirting, did
 
 BENTZON 
 
 he recall the forms and faces of these young girls, some 
 dark, some fair, some rosy half-women and half- 
 children, who made much of him, and scolded him, 
 and teased him, and contended for his attentions, 
 while no better could be had, on purpose to tease one 
 another. Oh! what a delightful time he had had! 
 They did not leave him to himself one moment. He 
 had to lift them into their saddles, to assist them as 
 they clambered over the rocks, to superintend their 
 attempts at swimming, to dance with them all by turns, 
 and to look after them in the difficult character of 
 Mentor, for he was older than they, and were they not 
 entrusted to his care? What a serious responsibility! 
 Had not Mentor even found himself too often timid 
 and excited when one little firm foot was placed in his 
 hand, when his arm was round one little waist, when 
 he could render her as a cavalier a thousand little 
 services, or accept with gladness the role of her con- 
 soler. He did everything he could think of to please 
 them, finding all of them charming, though Jacqueline 
 never ceased to be the one he preferred, a preference 
 which she might easily have inferred from the poor 
 lad's unusual timidity and awkwardness when he was 
 brought into contact with her. But she paid no atten- 
 tion to his devotion, accepting himself and all he did 
 for her as, in some sort, her personal property. 
 
 He was of no consequence, he did not count; what 
 was he but her comrade and former playfellow ? 
 
 Happily for Fred, he took pleasure in the familiarity 
 with which she treated him a familiarity which, had 
 he known it, was not flattering. He was in the seventh 
 
 [no]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 heaven for a whole fortnight, during which he was tne 
 recipient of more dried flowers and bows of ribbon than 
 he ever got in all the rest of his life the American 
 girls were very fond of giving keepsakes but then his 
 star waned. He was no longer the only one. The 
 grown-up brother of the Wermants came to Trport 
 Raoul, with his air of a young man about town a 
 boulevardier, with his jacket cut in the latest fashion, 
 with his cockle-shell of a boat, which he managed as 
 well on salt water as on fresh, sculling with his arms 
 bare, a cigarette in his mouth, a monocle in his eye, 
 and a pith-helmet, such as is worn in India. The 
 young ladies used to gather on the sands to watch him 
 as he struck the water with the broad blade of his 
 scull, near enough for them to see and to admire his 
 nautical ability. They thought all his jokes amusing, 
 and they delighted in his way of seizing his partner 
 for a waltz and bearing her off as if she were a prize, 
 hardly allowing her to touch the floor. 
 
 Fred thought him, with his stock of old jokes, very 
 ill-mannered. He laughed at his sculling, and had a 
 great mind to strike him after he saw him waltzing 
 with Jacqueline. But he had to acknowledge the gen- 
 eral appreciation felt for the fellow whom he called 
 vulgar. 
 
 Raoul Wermant did not stay long at Treport. He 
 had only come to see his sisters on his way to Dieppe, 
 where he expected to meet a certain Leah Skip, an 
 actress from the Nouveautes. If he kept her waiting, 
 however, for some days, it was because he was loath 
 to leave the handsome Madame de Villegry, who was 
 
 [in]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 living near her friend Madame de Nailles, recruiting 
 herself after the fatigues of the winter season. Such 
 being the situation, the young girls of the Blue Band 
 might have tried in vain to make any impression upon 
 him. But the hatred with which he inspired Fred 
 found some relief in the composition of fragments of 
 melancholy verse, which the young midshipman hid 
 under his mattresses. It is not an uncommon thing 
 for naval men to combine a love of the sea with a love 
 of poetry. Fred's verses were not good, but they were 
 full of dejection. The poor fellow compared Raoul 
 Wermant to Faust, and himself to Siebel. He spoke 
 of 
 
 The youth whose eyes were brimming with salt tears, 
 Whose heart was troubled by a thousand fears, 
 Poor slighted lover! since in his heavy heart 
 All his illusions perish and depart. 
 
 Again, he wrote of Siebel: 
 
 O Siebel! thine is but the common fate! 
 They told thee Fortune upon youth would wait; 
 'Tis false when love's in question and you may 
 
 Here he enumerated all the proofs of tenderness 
 possible for a woman to give her lover, and then he 
 added: 
 
 You may know all, poor Siebel! all, some day, 
 When weary of this life and all its dreams, 
 You learn to know it is not what it seems; 
 When there is nothing that can cheer you more, 
 All that remains is fondly to adore! 
 
 [112]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 And after trying in vain to find a rhyme for lover, 
 he cried: 
 
 Oh! tell me if one grief exceeds another 
 Is not this worst, to feel mere friendship moves 
 To cruel kindness the dear girl he loves? 
 
 Fred's mother surprised him one night while he was 
 watering with his tears the ink he was putting to so 
 sorry a use. She had been aware that he sat up late 
 at night his sleeplessness was not the insomnia of 
 genius for she had seen the glare of light from his 
 little lamp burning later than the usual bedtime of the 
 chdteau, in one of the turret chambers at Lizerolles. 
 
 In vain Fred denied that he was doing anything, in 
 vain he tried to put his papers out of sight ; his mother 
 was so persuasive that at last he owned everything to 
 her, and in addition to the comfort he derived from 
 his confession, he gained a certain satisfaction to his 
 amour-propre, for Madame d'Argy thought the verses 
 beautiful. A mother's geese are always swans. But 
 it was only when she said, "I don't see why you should 
 not marry your Jacqueline such a thing is not by any 
 means impossible," and promised to do all in her power 
 to insure his happiness, that Fred felt how dearly he 
 loved his mother. Oh, a thousand times more than he 
 had ever supposed he loved her! However, he had not 
 yet done with the agonies that lie in wait for lovers. 
 
 Madame de Monredon arrived one day at the Hotel 
 de la Plage, accompanied by her granddaughter, whom 
 she had taken away from the convent before the be- 
 ginning of the holidays. Since she had fully arranged 
 8 H
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 the marriage with M. de Talbrun, it seemed important 
 that Giselle should acquire some liveliness, and recruit 
 her health, before the fatal wedding-day arrived. M. 
 de Talbrun liked ladies to be always well and always 
 lively, and it was her duty to see that Giselle accom- 
 modated herself to his taste; sea-bathing, life in the 
 open air, and merry companions, were the things she 
 needed to make her a little less thin, to give her tone, 
 and to take some of her convent stiffness out of her. 
 Besides, she could have free intercourse with her 
 intended husband, thanks to the greater freedom of 
 manners permitted at the sea-side. Such were the 
 ideas of Madame de Monredon. 
 
 Poor Giselle! In vain they dressed her in fine 
 clothes, in vain they talked to her and scolded her 
 from morning till night, she continued to be the little 
 convent-bred schoolgirl she had always been; with 
 downcast eyes, pale as a flower that has known no 
 sunlight, and timid to a point of suffering. M. de 
 Talbrun frightened her as much as ever, and she had 
 looked forward to the comfort of weeping in the arms 
 of Jacqueline, who, the last time she had seen her, 
 had been herself so unhappy. But what was her 
 astonishment to find the young girl, who, a few weeks 
 before, had made her such tragic confidences through 
 the grille in the convent parlor, transformed into a 
 creature bent on excitement and amusement. When 
 she attempted to allude to the subject on which Jacque- 
 line had spoken to her at the convent, and to ask her 
 what it was that had then made her so unhappy, 
 Jacqueline cried: "Oh! my dear, I have forgotten 
 
 ["4]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 all about it!" But there was exaggeration in this 
 profession of forgetfulness, and she hurriedly drew 
 Giselle back to the game of croquet, where they were 
 joined by M. de Talbrun. 
 
 The future husband of Giselle was a stout young 
 fellow, short and thick-set, with broad shoulders, a large 
 flat face, and strong jaws, ornamented with an enor- 
 mous pair of whiskers, which partly compensated him 
 for a loss of hair. He had never done anything but 
 shoot and hunt over his property nine months in the 
 year, and spend the other three months in Paris, where 
 the Jockey Club and ballet-dancers sufficed for his 
 amusement. He did not pretend to be a man whose 
 bachelor life had been altogether blameless, but he 
 considered himself to be a "correct" man, according 
 to what he understood by that expression, which im- 
 plied neither talents, virtues, nor good manners; 
 nevertheless, all the Blue Band agreed that he was 
 a finished type of gentlemanhood. Even Raoul's 
 sisters had to confess, with a certain disgust, that, 
 whatever people may say, in our own day the aris- 
 tocracy of wealth has to lower its flag before the 
 authentic quarterings of the old noblesse. They se- 
 cretly envied Giselle because she was going to be a 
 grande dame, while all the while they asserted that 
 old-fashioned distinctions had no longer any meaning. 
 Nevertheless, they looked forward to the day when 
 they, too, might take their places in the Faubourg 
 St. Germain. One may purchase that luxury with 
 a fortune of eight hundred thousand francs. 
 
 The croquet-ground, which was under water at high 
 ["5]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 tide, was a long stretch of sand that fringed the shingle. 
 Two parties were formed, in which care was taken to 
 make both sides as nearly equal as possible, after which 
 the game began, with screams, with laughter, a little 
 cheating and some disputes, as is the usual custom. 
 All this appeared to amuse Oscar de Talbrun exceed- 
 ingly. For the first time during his wooing he was 
 not bored. The Misses Sparks Kate and Nora by 
 their "high spirits" agreeably reminded him of one or 
 two excursions he had made in past days into Bohe- 
 mian society. 
 
 He formed the highest opinion of Jacqueline when 
 he saw how her still short skirts showed pretty striped 
 silk stockings, and how her well-shaped foot was 
 planted firmly on a blue ball, when she was preparing 
 to roquer the red one. The way in which he fixed his 
 eyes upon her gave great offense to Fred, and did it 
 not alarm and shock Giselle ? No ! Giselle looked on 
 calmly at the fun and talk around her, as unmoved 
 as the stump of a tree, spoiling the game sometimes by 
 her ignorance or her awkwardness, well satisfied that 
 M. de Talbrun should leave her alone. Talking with 
 him was very distasteful to her. 
 
 "You have been more stupid than usual," had been 
 what her grandmother had never failed to say to her 
 in Paris after one of his visits, which he alternated 
 with bouquets. But at Treport no one seemed to 
 mind her being stupid, and indeed M. de Talbrun 
 hardly thought of her existence, up to the moment 
 when they were all nearly caught by the first wave 
 that came rolling in over the croquet-ground, when 
 
 [116]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 all the girls took flight, flushed, animated, and with 
 lively gesticulation, while the gentlemen followed 
 with the box into which had been hastily flung hoops, 
 balls, and mallets. 
 
 On their way Count Oscar condescendingly ex- 
 plained to Fred, as to a novice, that the only good 
 thing about croquet was that it brought men and 
 girls together. He was himself very good at games, 
 he said, having remarkably firm muscles and excep- 
 tionally sharp sight; but he went on to add that he 
 had not been able to show what he could do that day. 
 The wet sand did not make so good a croquet-ground 
 as the one he had had made in his park! It is a good 
 thing to know one's ground in all circumstances, but 
 especially in playing croquet. Then, dexterously pass- 
 ing from the game to the players, he went on to say, 
 under cover of giving Fred a warning, that a man need 
 not fear going too far with those girls from America 
 they had known how to flirt from the time they were 
 born. They could look out for themselves, they had 
 talons and beaks; but up to a certain point they were 
 very easy to get on with. Those other players were 
 queer little things; the three sisters Wermant were not 
 wanting in chic, but, hang it! the sweetest flower of 
 them all, to his mind, was the tall one, the dark one- 
 unripe fruit in perfection! "And a year or two hence," 
 added M. de Talbrun, with all the self-confidence of 
 an expert, "every one will be talking about her in the 
 world of society." 
 
 Poor Fred kept silent, trying to curb his wrath. 
 But the blood mounted to his temples as he listened to 
 
 ["7]
 
 THfeO BENTZON 
 
 these remarks, poured into his ear by a man of thirty- 
 five, between puffs of his cigar, because there was 
 nobody else to whom he could make them. But they 
 seemed to Fred very ill-mannered and ill-timed. If 
 he had not dreaded making himself absurd, he would 
 gladly have stood forth as the champion of the Sparks, 
 the Wermants, and all the other members of the Blue 
 Band, so that he might give vent to the anger raging 
 in his heart on hearing that odious compliment to 
 Jacqueline. Why was he not old enough to marry 
 her? What right had that detestable Talbrun to take 
 notice of any girl but his fiancee ? If he himself could 
 marry now, his choice would soon be made! No 
 doubt, later as his mother had said to him. But 
 would Jacqueline wait ? Everybody was beginning to 
 admire her. Somebody would carry her off some- 
 body would cut him out while he was away at sea. 
 Oh, horrible thought for a young lover! 
 
 That night, at the Casino, while dancing a quadrille 
 with Giselle, he could not refrain from saying to her, 
 "Don't you object to Monsieur de Talbrun's dancing 
 so much with Jacqueline?" 
 
 "Who? I?" she cried, astonished, "I don't see 
 why he should not." And then, with a faint laugh, 
 she added: "Oh, if she would only take him and 
 keep him!" 
 
 But Madame de Monredon kept a sharp eye upon 
 M. de Talbrun. "It seems to me," she said, looking 
 fixedly into the face of her future grandson-in-law, 
 "that you really take pleasure in making children 
 skip about with you." 
 
 [118]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "So I do," he replied, frankly and good-humoredly. 
 "It makes me feel young again." 
 
 And Madame de Monredon was satisfied. She was 
 ready to admit that most men marry women who 
 have not particularly enchanted them, and she had 
 brought up Giselle with all those passive qualities, 
 which, together with a large fortune, usually suit best 
 with a mariage de convenance. 
 
 Meantime Jacqueline piqued herself upon her 
 worldly wisdom, which she looked upon as equal to 
 Madame de Monredon's, since the terrible event 
 which had filled her mind with doubts. She thought 
 M. de Talbrun would do well enough for a husband, 
 and she took care to say so to Giselle. 
 
 "It is a fact," she told her, with all the self-confi- 
 dence of large experience, "that men who are very 
 fascinating always remain bachelors. That is proba- 
 bly why Monsieur de Cymier, Madame de Villegry's 
 handsome cousin, does not think of marrying." 
 
 She was mistaken. The Comte de Cymier, a satel- 
 lite who revolved around that star of beauty, Madame 
 de Villegry, had been by degrees brought round by 
 that lady herself to thoughts of matrimony. 
 
 Madame de Villegry, notwithstanding her profuse 
 use of henna and many cosmetics, which was always 
 the first thing to strike those who saw her, prided her- 
 self on being uncompromised as to her moral character. 
 There are some women who, because they stop short 
 of actual vice, consider themselves irreproachable. 
 They are willing, so to speak, to hang out the bush, 
 but keep no tavern. In former times an appearance 
 
 [119]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 of evil was avoided in order to cover evil deeds, but 
 at present there are those who, under the cover of 
 being only "fast," risk the appearance of evil. 
 
 Madame de Villegry was what is sometimes called 
 a " prof essional beauty." She devoted many hours 
 daily to her toilette, she liked to have a crowd of admir- 
 ers around her. But when one of them became too 
 troublesome, she got rid of him by persuading him to 
 marry. She had before this proposed several young 
 girls to Gerard de Cymier, each one plainer and more 
 insignificant than the others. It was to tell his dear 
 friend that the one she had last suggested was posi- 
 tively too ugly for him, that the young attache to an 
 embassy had come down to the sea-side to visit her. 
 
 The day after his arrival he was sitting on the shin- 
 gle at Madame de Villegry's feet, both much amused 
 by the grotesque spectacle presented by the bathers, 
 who exhibited themselves in all degrees of ugliness 
 and deformity. Of course Madame de Villegry did 
 not bathe, being, as she said, too nervous. She was 
 sitting under a large parasol and enjoying her own 
 superiority over those wretched, amphibious creatures 
 who waddled on the sands before her, comparing 
 
 Madame X to a seal and Mademoiselle Z to 
 
 the skeleton of a cuttle-fish. 
 
 "Well! it was that kind of thing you wished me to 
 marry," said M. de Cymier, in a tone of resentment. 
 
 "But, my poor friend, what would you have? All 
 young girls are like that. They improve when they 
 are married." 
 
 "If one could only be sure."
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "One is never sure of anything, especially anything 
 relating to young girls. One can not say that they do 
 more than exist till they are married. A husband has 
 to make whatever he chooses out of them. You are 
 quite capable of making what you choose of your wife. 
 Take the risk, then." 
 
 "I could educate her as to morals though, I must 
 say, I am not much used to that kind of instruction; 
 but you will permit me to think that, as to person, 
 I should at least wish to see a rough sketch of what 
 I may expect in my wife before my marriage." 
 
 At that moment, a girl who had been bathing came 
 out of the water a few yards from them; the elegant 
 outline of her slender figure, clad in a bathing-suit of 
 white flannel, which clung to her closely, was thrown 
 into strong relief by the clear blue background of a 
 summer sky. 
 
 "Tiens! but she is pretty!" cried Gerard, breaking 
 off what he was saying: "And she is the first pretty 
 one I have seen!" 
 
 Madame de Villegry took up her tortoiseshell opera- 
 glasses, which were fastened to her waist, but already 
 the young girl, over whose shoulders an attentive ser- 
 vant had flung a wrapper a peignoir -eponge had run 
 along the board-walk and stopped before her, with a 
 gay "Good-morning!" 
 
 "Jacqueline!" said Madame de Villegry. "Well, 
 my dear child, did you find the water pleasant?" 
 
 "Delightful!" said the young girl, giving a rapid 
 glance at M. de Cymier, who had risen. 
 
 He was looking at her with evident admiration, an
 
 BENTZON 
 
 admiration at which she felt much flattered. She was 
 closely wrapped in her soft, snow-white peignoir, bor- 
 dered with red, above which rose her lovely neck and 
 head. She was trying to catch, on the point of one 
 little foot, one of her bathing shoes, which had slipped 
 from her. The foot which, when well shod, M. de 
 Talbrun, through his eyeglass, had so much admired, 
 was still prettier without shoe or stocking. It was so 
 perfectly formed, so white, with a little pink tinge here 
 and there, and it was set upon so delicate an ankle! 
 M. de Cymier looked first at the foot, and then his 
 glance passed upward over all the rest of the young 
 figure, which could be seen clearly under the clinging 
 folds of the wet drapery. Her form could be discerned 
 from head to foot, though nothing was uncovered but 
 the pretty little arm which held together with a careless 
 grace the folds of her raiment. The eye of the ex- 
 perienced observer ran rapidly over the outline of her 
 figure, till it reached the dark head and the brown 
 hair, which rippled in little curls over her forehead. 
 Her complexion, slightly golden, was not protected by 
 one of those absurd hats which many bathers place on 
 top of oiled silk caps which fit them closely. Neither 
 was the precaution of oiled silk wanted to protect the 
 thick and curling hair, now sprinkled with great drops 
 that shone like pearls and diamonds. The water, in- 
 stead of plastering her hair upon her temples, had 
 made it more curly and more fleecy, as it hung over 
 her dark eyebrows, which, very near together at the 
 nose, gave to her eyes a peculiar, slightly oblique ex- 
 pression. Her teeth were dazzling, and were displayed 
 
 [122]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 by the smile which parted her lips lips which were, 
 if anything, too red for her pale complexion. She 
 closed her eyelids now and then to shade her eyes from 
 the too blinding sunlight. Those eyes were not black, 
 but that hazel which has golden streaks. Though only 
 half open, they had quickly taken in the fact that the 
 young man sitting beside Madame de Villegry was 
 very handsome. 
 
 As she went on with a swift step to her bathing- 
 house, she drew out two long pins from her back hair, 
 shaking it and letting it fall down her back with a 
 slightly impatient and imperious gesture; she wished, 
 probably, that it might dry more quickly. 
 
 "The devil!" said M. de Cymier, watching her till 
 she disappeared into the bathing-house. "I never 
 should have thought that it was all her own! There 
 is nothing wanting in her. That is a young creature 
 it is pleasant to see." 
 
 "Yes," said Madame de Villegry, quietly, "she will 
 be very good-looking when she is eighteen." 
 
 "Is she nearly eighteen?" 
 
 "She is and she is not, for time passes so quickly. 
 A girl goes to sleep a child, and wakes up old enough 
 to be married. Would you like to be informed, with- 
 out loss of time, as to her fortune?" 
 
 "Oh! I should not care much about her dot. I look 
 out first for other things." 
 
 "I know, of course; but Jacqueline de Nailles comes 
 of a very good family." 
 
 "Is she the daughter of the deputy?" 
 
 "Yes, his only daughter. He has a pretty house in 
 [123]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 the Pare Monceau and a chateau of some importance 
 in the Haute- Vienne." 
 
 "Very good; but, I repeat, I am not mercenary. 
 Of course, if I should marry, I should like, for my 
 wife's sake, to live as well as a married man as I have 
 lived as a bachelor." 
 
 "Which means that you would be satisfied with a 
 fortune equal to your own. I should have thought you 
 might have asked more. It is true that if you have 
 been suddenly thunderstruck that may alter your cal- 
 culations for it was very sudden, was it not? Venus 
 rising from the sea!" 
 
 "Please don't exaggerate! But you are not so cruel, 
 seeing you are always urging me to marry, as to wish 
 me to take a wife who looks like a fright or a horror." 
 
 "Heaven preserve me from any such wish! I should 
 be very glad if my little friend Jacqueline were destined 
 to work your reformation." 
 
 "I defy the most careful parent to find anything 
 against me at this moment, unless it be a pla tonic 
 devotion. The youth of Mademoiselle de Nailles is an 
 advantage, for I might indulge myself in that till we 
 were married, and then I should settle down and leave 
 Paris, where nothing keeps me but 
 
 "But a foolish fancy," laughed Madame de Villegry. 
 "However, in return for your madrigal, accept the ad- 
 vice of a friend. The Nailles seem to me to be pros- 
 perous, but everybody in society appears so, and one 
 never knows what may happen any day. You would 
 not do amiss ft, before you go on, you were to talk with 
 Wermant, the agent de change, who has a considerable 
 
 [124]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 knowledge of the business affairs of Jacqueline's father. 
 He could tell you about them better than I can." 
 
 "Wermant is at Treport, is he not? I thought I 
 saw him 
 
 "Yes, he is here till Monday. You have twenty- 
 four hours." 
 
 "Do you really think I am in such a hurry?" 
 
 "Will you take a bet that by this time to-morrow 
 you will not know exactly the amount of her dot and 
 the extent of her expectations?" 
 
 "You would lose. I have something else to think of 
 now and always." 
 
 "What?" she said, carelessly. 
 
 "You have forbidden me ever to mention it." 
 
 Silence ensued. Then Madame de Villegry said, 
 smiling : 
 
 "I suppose you would like me to present you this 
 evening to my friends the De Nailles?" 
 
 And in fact they all met that evening at the Casino, 
 and Jacqueline, in a gown of scarlet foulard, which 
 would have been too trying for any other girl, seemed 
 to M. de Cymier as pretty as she had been in her bath- 
 ing-costume. Her hair was not dressed high, but it was 
 gathered loosely together and confined by a ribbon of 
 the same color as her gown, and she wore a little sailor 
 hat besides. In this costume she had been called by 
 M. de Talbrun the "Fra Diavolo of the Seas," and she 
 never better supported that part, by liveliness and 
 audacity, than she did that evening, when she made 
 a conquest that was envied wildly envied by the 
 three Demoiselles Wermant and the two Misses Sparks, 
 
 In*]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 for the handsome Gerard, after his first waltz with 
 Madame de Villegry, asked no one to be his partner 
 but Mademoiselle de Nailles. 
 
 The girls whom he neglected had not even Fred to 
 fall back upon, for Fred, the night before, had received 
 orders to join his ship. He had taken leave of Jacque- 
 line with a pang in his heart which he could hardly 
 hide, but to which no keen emotion on her part seemed 
 to respond. However, at least, he was spared the un- 
 happiness of seeing the star of De Cymier rising above 
 the horizon. 
 
 "If he could only see me," thought Jacqueline, waltz- 
 ing in triumph with M. de Cymier. "If he could only 
 see me I should be avenged." 
 
 But he was not Fred. She was not giving him a 
 thought. It was the last flash of resentment and 
 hatred that came to her in that moment of triumph, 
 adding to it a touch of exquisite enjoyment. 
 
 Thus she performed the obsequies of her first love! 
 
 Not long after this M. de Nailles said to his wife: 
 
 "Do you know, my dear, that our little Jacqueline 
 is very much admired ? Her success has been extraor- 
 dinary. It is not likely she will die an old maid." 
 
 The Baronne assented rather reluctantly. 
 
 "Wermant was speaking to me the other day," went 
 on M. de Nailles. "It seems that that young Count 
 de Cymier, who is always hanging around you, by the 
 way, has been making inquiries of him, in a manner 
 that looks as it it had some meaning, as to what is our 
 fortune, our position. But really, such a match seems 
 too good to be true." 
 
 [126]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Why so ? " said the Baronne. " I know more about 
 it than you do, from Blanche de Villegry. She gave 
 me to understand that her cousin was much struck by 
 Jacqueline at first sight, and ever since she does noth- 
 ing but talk to me of M. de Cymier of his birth, his 
 fortune, his abilities the charming young fellow 
 seems gifted with everything. He could be Secretary 
 of Legation, if he liked to quit Paris. In the meantime 
 attach^ to an Embassy looks very well on a card. 
 Attach^ to the Ministry of the Foreign Affairs does not 
 seem so good. Jacqueline would be a countess, pos- 
 sibly an ambassadress. What would you think of 
 that!" 
 
 Madame de Nailles, who understood policy much 
 better than her husband, had suddenly become a con- 
 vert to opportunism, and had made a change of base. 
 Not being able to devise a plan by which to suppress 
 her young rival, she had begun to think that her best 
 way to get rid of her would be by promoting her mar- 
 riage. The little girl was fast developing into a woman 
 a woman who would certainly not consent quietly 
 to be set aside. Well, then, it would be best to dispose 
 of her in so natural a way. When Jacqueline's slender 
 and graceful figure and the freshness of her bloom were 
 no longer brought into close comparison with her own 
 charms, she felt she should appear much younger, and 
 should recover some of her prestige; people would be 
 less likely to remark her increasing stoutness, or the 
 red spots on her face, increased by the salt air which 
 was so favorable to young girls' complexions. Yes, 
 Jacqueline must be married; that was the resolution 
 
 [127]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 to which Madame de Nailles had come after several 
 nights of sleeplessness. It was her fixed idea, replac- 
 ing in her brain that other fixed idea which, willingly 
 or unwillingly, she saw she must give up the idea of 
 keeping her stepdaughter in the shade. 
 
 "Countess! Ambassadress!" repeated M. de Nailles, 
 with rather a melancholy smile. "You are going too 
 fast, my dear Clotilde. I don't doubt that Wermant 
 gave the best possible account of our situation; but 
 when it comes to saying what I could give her as a dot, 
 I am very much afraid. We should have, in that case, 
 to fall back on Fred, for I have not told you everything. 
 This morning Madame d'Argy, who has done nothing 
 but weep since her boy went away, and who, she says, 
 never will get accustomed to the life of misery and 
 anxiety she will lead as a sailor's mother, exclaimed, as 
 she was talking to me: "Ah! there is but one way of 
 keeping him at Lizerolles, of having him live there as 
 the D'Argys have lived before him, quietly, like a good 
 landlord, and that would be to give him your daughter; 
 with her he would be entirely satisfied." 
 
 "Ah! so that is the reason why she asked whether 
 Jacqueline might not stay with her when we go to 
 Italy! She wishes to court her by proxy. But I don't 
 think she will succeed. Monsieur de Cymier has the 
 best chance." 
 
 "Do you suppose the child suspects 
 
 "That he admires her? My dear friend, we have 
 to do with a very sharp-sighted young person. Noth- 
 ing escapes the observation of Mademoiselle votre 
 f$e." 
 
 [128]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 And Madame de Nailles, in her turn, smiled some- 
 what bitterly. 
 
 "Well," said Jacqueline's father, after a few mo- 
 ments' reflection, "it may be as well that she should 
 weigh for and against a match before deciding. She 
 may spend several years that are difficult and danger- 
 ous trying to find out what she wants and to make up 
 her mind." 
 
 "Several years?" 
 
 "Hang it! You would not marry off Jacqueline at 
 once?" 
 
 "Bah! many a girl, practically not as old as she, is 
 married at sixteen or seventeen." 
 
 "Why! I fancied you thought so differently!" 
 
 "Our ways of thinking are sometimes altered by 
 events, especially when they are founded upon sincere 
 and disinterested affection." 
 
 "Like that of good parents, such as we are," added 
 M. de Nailles, ending her sentence with an expression 
 of grateful emotion. 
 
 For one moment the Baronne paled under this 
 compliment. 
 
 "What did you say to Madame d'Argy?" she hast- 
 ened to ask. 
 
 "I said we must give the young fellow's beard tune 
 to grow." 
 
 "Yes, that was right. I prefer Monsieur de Cymier 
 a hundred times over. Still, if nothing better offers 
 a bird in the hand, you know " 
 
 Madame de Nailles finished her sentence by a wave 
 of her fan. 
 
 9 t I2 9]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 "Oh! our bird in the hand is not to be despised. 
 A very handsome estate 
 
 "Where Jacqueline would be bored to death. I 
 should rather see her radiant at some foreign court. 
 Let me manage it. Let me bring her out. Give me 
 carte blanche and let me have some society this win- 
 ter." 
 
 Madame de Nailles, whether she knew it or not 
 probably she did, for she had great skill in reading the 
 thoughts of others was acting precisely in accordance 
 with the wishes or the will of Jacqueline, who, having 
 found much enjoyment in the dances at the Casino, 
 had made up her mind that she meant to come 
 out into society before any of her young compan- 
 ions. 
 
 "I shall not have to beg and implore her," she said 
 to herself, anticipating the objections of her step- 
 mother. "I shall only have politely to let her suspect 
 that such a thing may have occurred as having had a 
 listener at a door. I paid dearly enough for this hold 
 over her. I have no scruple in using it." 
 
 Madame de Nailles was not mistaken in her step- 
 daughter; she was very far advanced beyond her age, 
 thanks to the cruel wrong that had been done her by 
 the loss of her trust in her elders and her respect for 
 them. Her heart had had its past, though she was 
 still hardly more than a child a sad past, though its 
 pain was being rapidly effaced. She now thought 
 about it only at intervals. Time and circumstances 
 were operating on her as they act upon us generally; 
 only in her case more quickly than usual, which pro- 
 
 [130]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 duced in her character and feelings phenomena that 
 might have seemed curious to an observer. She was 
 something of a woman, something of a child, some- 
 thing of a philosopher. At night, when she was danc- 
 ing with Wermant, or Cymier, or even Talbrun, or on 
 horseback, an exercise which all the Blues were wild 
 about, she was an audacious flirt, a girl up to anything; 
 and in the morning, at low tide, she might be seen, 
 with her legs and feet bare, among the children, of 
 whom there were many on the sands, digging ditches, 
 making ramparts, constructing towers and fortifications 
 in wet sand, herself as much amused as if she had 
 been one of the babies themselves. There was scream- 
 ing and jumping, and rushing out of reach of the waves 
 which came up ready to overthrow the most compli- 
 cated labors of the little architects, rough romping of 
 all kinds, enough to amaze and disconcert a lover. 
 But no one could have guessed at the thoughts which, 
 in the midst of all this fun and frolic, were passing 
 through the too early ripened mind of Jacqueline. 
 She was thinking that many things to which we attach 
 great value and importance in this world are as easily 
 swept away as the sand barriers raised against the sea 
 by childish hands; that everywhere there must be flux 
 and reflux, that the beach the children had so dug up 
 would soon become smooth as a mirror, ready for other 
 little ones to dig it over again, tempting them to work, 
 and yet discouraging their industry. Her heart, she 
 thought, was like the sand, ready for new impressions. 
 The elegant form of M. de Cymier slightly overshad- 
 owed it, distinct among other shadows more confused.
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 And Jacqueline said to herself with a smile, exactly 
 what her father and Madame de Nailles had said to 
 each other: 
 
 ' ' Countess ! who knows ? Ambassadress ! Perhaps 
 some day " 
 
 [132]
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A PUZZLING CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 [UT I can not see any reason why we 
 should not take Jacqueline with us to 
 Italy. She is just of an age to profit 
 by it." 
 
 These words were spoken by M. 
 de Nailles after a long silence at the 
 breakfast-table. They startled his 
 hearers like a bomb. 
 Jacqueline waited to hear what would come next, 
 fixing a keen look upon her stepmother. Their eyes 
 met like the flash of two swords. 
 
 The eyes of the one said: "Now, let us hear what 
 you will answer!" while the other strove to maintain 
 that calmness which comes to some people in a moment 
 of danger. The Baroness grew a little pale, and then 
 said, in her softest tones: 
 
 "You are quite right, mon ami, but Jacqueline, I 
 think, prefers to stay." 
 "I decidedly prefer to stay," said Jacqueline. 
 Her adversary, much relieved by this response, 
 could not repress a sigh. 
 
 "It seems singular," said M. de Nailles. 
 "What! that I prefer to pass a month or six weeks 
 with Madame d'Argy ? Besides, Giselle is going to be 
 married during that time."
 
 BENTZON 
 
 "They might put it off until we come back, I should 
 suppose." 
 
 "Oh! I don't think they would," cried the Baroness. 
 "Madame de Monredon is so selfish. She was offended 
 to think we should talk of going away on the eve of an 
 event she considers so important. Besides, she has so 
 little regard for me that I should think her more likely 
 to hasten the wedding-day rather than retard it, if it 
 were only for the pleasure of giving us a lesson." 
 
 "I am sorry. I should have been glad to be, as she 
 wished, one of Giselle's witnesses, but people don't 
 take my position into consideration. If I do not take 
 advantage of the recess 
 
 "Besides," interrupted Jacqueline, carelessly, "your 
 journey must coincide with that of Monsieur Marien." 
 
 She had the pleasure of seeing her stepmother again 
 slightly change color. Madame de Nailles was pour- 
 ing out for herself a cup of tea with singular care and 
 attention. 
 
 "Of course," said M. de Nailles. His daughter 
 pitied him, and cried, with an increasing wish to annoy 
 her stepmother: "Mamma, don't you see that your 
 teapot has no tea in it ? Yes," she went on, "it must be 
 delightful to travel in Italy in company with a great 
 artist who would explain everything; but then one 
 would be expected to visit all the picture-galleries, and 
 I hate pictures, since 
 
 She paused and again looked meaningly at her step- 
 mother, whose soft blue eyes showed anguish of spirit, 
 and seemed to say: "Oh, what a cruel hold she has 
 upon me!" Jacqueline continued, carelessly: 
 
 [i34]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Picture-galleries I don't care for I like nature a 
 hundred times better. Some day I should like to take 
 a journey to suit myself, my own journey! Oh, papa, 
 may I ? A journey on foot with you in the Tyrol ? " 
 
 Madame de Nailles was no great walker. 
 
 "Both of us, just you and I alone, with our alpen- 
 stocks in our hands it would be lovely! But Italy and 
 painters " 
 
 Here, with a boyish flourish of her hands, she seemed 
 to send that classic land to Jericho ! 
 
 "Do promise me, papa!" 
 
 "Before asking a reward, you must deserve it," said 
 her father, severely, who saw something was wrong. 
 
 During her stay at Lizerolles, which her perverseness, 
 her resentment, and a repugnance founded on instincts 
 of delicacy, had made her prefer to a journey to Italy, 
 Jacqueline, having nothing better to do, took it into her 
 head to write to her friend Fred. The young man re- 
 ceived three letters at three different ports in the 
 Mediterranean and in the West Indies, whose names 
 were long associated in his mind with delightful and 
 cruel recollections. When the first was handed to him 
 with one from his mother, whose letters always awaited 
 him at every stopping-place, the blood flew to his face, 
 his heart beat violently, he could have cried aloud but 
 for the necessity of self-command in the presence of 
 his comrades, who had already remarked in whispers to 
 each other, and with envy, on the pink envelope, which 
 exhaled Voder di femina. He hid his treasure quickly, 
 and carried it to a spot where he could be alone ; then 
 he kissed the bold, pointed handwriting that he recog-
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 nized at once, though never before had it written his 
 address. He kissed, too, more than once, the pink 
 seal with a J on it, whose slender elegance reminded 
 him of its owner. Hardly did he dare to break the seal ; 
 then forgetting altogether, as we might be sure, his 
 mother's letter, which he knew beforehand was full of 
 good advice and expressions of affection, he eagerly 
 read this, which he had not expected to receive: 
 
 "LIZEROLLES, October, 5, 188 
 
 "MY DEAR FRED: 
 
 "Your mother thinks you would be pleased to receive a letter 
 from me, and I hope you will be. You need not answer this if 
 you do not care to do so. You will notice, par parenthese, that 
 I take this opportunity of saying you and not thou to you. It is 
 easier to change the familiar mode of address in writing than in 
 speaking, and when we meet again the habit will have become 
 confirmed. But, as I write, it will require great attention, and 
 I can not promise to keep to it to the end. Half an hour's chat 
 with an old friend will also help me to pass the time, which I own 
 seems rather long, as it is passed by your sweet, dear mother and 
 myself at Lizerolles. Oh, if you were only here it would be dif- 
 ferent! In the first place, we should talk less of a certain Fred, 
 which would be one great advantage. You must know that you 
 are the subject of our discourse from morning to night; we talk 
 only of the dangers of the seas, the future prospects of a seaman, 
 and all the rest of it. If the wind is a little higher than usual, 
 your mother begins to cry; she is sure you are battling with a 
 tempest. If any fishing-boat is wrecked, we talk of nothing but 
 shipwrecks; and I am asked to join in another novena, in addi- 
 tion to those with which we must have already wearied Notre 
 Dame de Tre*port. Every evening we spread out the map : ' See, 
 Jacqueline, he must be here now no, he is almost there,' and 
 lines of red ink are traced from one port to another, and little 
 crosses are made to show the places where we hope you will get
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 your letters 'Poor boy, poor, dear boy!' In short, notwith- 
 standing all the affectionate interest I take in you, this is sometimes 
 too much for me. In fact, I think I must be very fond of thee 
 not to have grown positively to hate thee for all this fuss. There ! 
 In this last sentence, instead of saying you, I have said thee I That 
 ought to gild the pill for you! 
 
 We do not go very frequently to visit Tre'port, except to 
 invoke for you the protection of Heaven, and I like it just as 
 well, for since the last fortnight in September, which was very 
 rainy, the beach is dismal so different from what it was in the 
 summer. The town looks gloomy under a cloudy sky with its 
 blackened old brick houses! We are better off at Lizerolles, 
 whose autumnal beauties you know so well that I will say nothing 
 about them. Oh, Fred, how often I regret that I am not a boy! 
 I could take your gun and go shooting in the swamps, where there 
 are clouds of ducks now. I feel sure that if you were in my place, 
 you could kill time without killing game; but I am at the end of 
 my small resources when I have played a little on the piano to 
 amuse your mother and have read her the Gazette de France. In 
 the evening we read a translation of some English novel. There 
 are neighbors, of course, old fogies who stay all the year round 
 in Picardy but, tell me, don't you find them sometimes a little 
 too respectable? My greatest comfort is in your dog, who loves 
 me as much as if I were his master, though I can not take him out 
 shooting. While I write he is lying on the hem of my gown and 
 makes a little noise, as much as to tell me that I recall you to his 
 remembrance. Yet you are not to suppose that I am suffering 
 from ennui, or am ungrateful, nor above all must you imagine 
 that I have ceased to love your excellent mother with all my 
 heart. I love her, on the contrary, more than ever since I passed 
 this winter through a great, great sorrow a sorrow which is now 
 only a sad remembrance, but which has changed for me the face 
 of everything in this world. Yes, since I have suffered myself, 
 I understand your mother. I admire her, I love her more than 
 ever. 
 
 How happy you are, my dear Fred, to have such a sweet mother, 
 
 [137]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 a real mother who never thinks about her face, or her figure, 
 or her age, but only of the success of her son ; a dear little mother 
 in a plain black gown, and with pretty gray hair, who has the 
 manners and the toilette that just suit her, who somehow always 
 seems to say: 'I care. for nothing but that which affects my son.' 
 Such mothers are rare, believe me. Those that I know, the 
 mothers of my friends, are for the most part trying to appear as 
 young as their daughters nay, prettier, and of course more 
 elegant. When they have sons they make them wear jackets 
 a I'anglaise and turn-down collars, up to the age when I wore 
 short skirts. Have you noticed that nowadays in Paris there 
 are only ladies who are young, or who are trying to make them- 
 selves appear so ? Up to the last moment they powder and paint, 
 and try to make themselves different from what age has made 
 them. If their hair was black it grows blacker if red, it is more 
 red. But there is no longer any gray hair in Paris it is out of 
 fashion. That is the reason why I think your mother's pretty 
 silver curls so lovely and distinguts. I kiss them every night for 
 you, after I have kissed them for myself. 
 
 "Have a good voyage, come back soon, and take care of your- 
 self, dear Fred." 
 
 The young sailor read this letter over and over again. 
 The more he read it the more it puzzled him. Most 
 certainly he felt that Jacqueline gave him a great proof 
 of confidence when she spoke to him of some mysterious 
 unhappiness, an unhappiness of which it was evident 
 her stepmother was the cause. He could see that much; 
 but he was infinitely far from suspecting the nature of 
 the woes to which she alluded. Poor Jacqueline! He 
 pitied her without knowing what for, with a great out- 
 burst of sympathy, and an honest desire to do anything 
 in the world to make her happy. Was it really possible 
 that she could have been enduring any grief that sum- 
 
 [138]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 mer when she had seemed so madly gay, so ready for 
 a little flirtation ? Young girls must be very skilful in 
 concealing their inmost feelings! When he was un- 
 happy he had it out by himself, he took refuge in soli- 
 tude, he wanted to be done with existence. Everybody 
 knew when anything went wrong with him. Why could 
 not Jacqueline have let him know more plainly what it 
 was that troubled her, and why could she not have 
 shown a little tenderness toward him, instead of assum- 
 ing, even when she said the kindest things to him, her 
 air of mockery ? And then, though she might pretend 
 not to find Lizerolles stupid, he could see that she was 
 bored there. Yet why had she chosen to stay at Liz- 
 erolles rather than go to Italy ? 
 
 Alas! how that little pink letter made him reflect and 
 guess, and turn things over in his mind, and wish him- 
 self at the devil that little pink letter which he carried 
 day and night on his breast and made it crackle as it lay 
 there, when he laid his hand on the satin folds so near 
 his heart ! It had an odor of sweet violets which seemed 
 to him to overpower the smell of pitch and of salt water, 
 to fill the air, to perfume everything. 
 
 "That young fellow has the instincts of a sailor," 
 said his superior officers when they saw him standing 
 in attitudes which they thought denoted observation, 
 though with him it was only reverie. He would stand 
 with his eyes fixed upon some distant point, whence he 
 fancied he could see emerging from the waves a small, 
 brown, shining head, with long hair streaming behind, 
 the head of a girl swimming, a girl he knew so well. 
 
 "One can see that he takes an interest in nautical
 
 THO BENTZON 
 
 phenomena, that he is heart and soul in his profession, 
 that he cares for nothing else. Oh, he'll make a sailor! 
 We may be sure of that!" 
 
 Fred sent his young friend and cousin, by way of re- 
 ply, a big packet of manuscript, the leaves of which 
 were of all sizes, over which he had poured forth tor- 
 rents of poetry, amorous and descriptive, under the 
 title: At Sea. 
 
 Never would he have dared to show her this if the 
 ocean had not lain between them. He was frightened 
 when his packet had been sent. His only comfort was 
 in the thought that he had hypocritically asked Jacque- 
 line for her literary opinion of his verses; but she could 
 not fail, he thought, to understand. 
 
 Long before an answer could have been expected, he 
 got another letter, sky-blue this time, much longer than 
 the first, giving him an account of Giselle's wedding. 
 
 " Your mother and I went together to Normandy, where the 
 marriage was to take place after the manner of old times, ' in the 
 fashion of the Middle Ages,' as our friends the Wermants said to 
 me, who might perhaps not have laughed at it had they been 
 invited. Madame de Monredon is all for old customs, and she 
 had made it a great point that the wedding should not take place 
 in Paris. Had I been Giselle, I should not have liked it. I 
 know nothing more elegant or more solemn than the entrance of 
 a bridal party into the Madeleine, but we shall have to be content 
 with Saint- Augustin. Still, the toilettes, as they pass up the aisle, 
 even there, are very effective, and the decoration of the tall, high 
 altar is magnificent. Toe! Toe! First come the beadles with 
 their halberds, then the loud notes of the organ, then the wide 
 doors are thrown open, making a noise as they turn on their great 
 hinges, letting the noise of carriages outside be heard in the church; 
 
 [140]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 and then comes the bride in a ray of sunshine. I could wish for 
 nothing more. A grand wedding in the country is much more 
 quiet, but it is old-fashioned. In the little village church the 
 guests were, very much crowded, and outside there was a great 
 mob of country folk. Carpets had been laid down over the dilapi- 
 dated pavement, composed principally of tombstones. The rough 
 walls were hung with scarlet. All the clergy of the neighborhood 
 were present. A Monsignor related to the Talbruns pro- 
 nounced the nuptial benediction ; his address was a panegyric on 
 the two families. He gave us to understand that if he did not go 
 back quite as far as the Crusades, it was only because time was 
 wanting. 
 
 Madame de Monredon was all-glorious, of course. She certainly 
 looked like an old vulture, in a pelisse of gray velvet, with a chin- 
 chilla boa round her long, bare neck, and her big beak, with mar- 
 abouts overshadowing it, of the same color. Monsieur de Talbrun 
 well ! Monsieur de Talbrun was very bald, as bald as he could 
 be. To make up for the want of hair on his head, he has plenty of 
 it on his hands. It is horrid, and it makes him look like an animal. 
 You have no idea how queer he looked when he sat down, with his 
 big, pink head just peeping over the back of the crimson velvet 
 chair, which was, however, almost as tall as he is. He is short, 
 you may remember. As to our poor Giselle, the prettiest persons 
 sometimes look badly as brides, and those who are not pretty look 
 ugly. Do you recollect that picture by Velasquez, is it not? 
 of a fair little Infanta stiffly swathed in cloth of gold, as becomes 
 her dignity, and looking crushed by it? Giselle's gown was of 
 Point d'Alencon, old family lace as yellow as ancient parchment, 
 but of inestimable value. Her long corsage, made in the fashion 
 of Anne of Austria, looked on her like a cuirass, and she dragged 
 after her, somewhat awkwardly, a very long train, which impeded 
 her movement as she walked. A lace veil, as hereditary and 
 time-worn as the gown, but which had been worn by all the Monre- 
 dons at their weddings, the present dowager's included, hid the 
 pretty, light hair of our dear little friend, and was supported by a 
 sort of heraldic comb and some orange-flowers; in short, you can
 
 THfeO BENTZON 
 
 not imagine anything more heavy or more ugly. Poor Giselle, 
 loaded down with it, had red eyes, a face of misery, and the air 
 of a martyr. For all this her grandmother scolded her sharply, 
 which of course did not mend matters. Du reste, she seemed ab- 
 sorbed in prayer or thought during the ceremony, in which I took 
 up the offerings, by the way, with a young lieutenant of dragoons 
 just out of the military school at Saint Cyr: a uniform always 
 looks well on such occasions. Nor was Monsieur de Talbrun one 
 of those lukev.-arm Christians who hear mass with their arms 
 crossed and their noses in the air. He pulled a jewelled prayer- 
 book out of his pocket, which Giselle had given him. Speaking 
 of presents, those he gave her were superb : pearls as big as hazel- 
 nuts, a ruby heart that was a marvel, a diamond crescent that I 
 am afraid she will never wear with such an air as it deserves, and 
 two strings of diamonds en riviere, which I should suppose she 
 would have reset, for riineres are no longer in fashion. The 
 stones are enormous. 
 
 "But, poor dear! she could care little for such things. All she 
 wanted was to get back as quickly as she could into her usual 
 clothes. She said to me, again and again : ' Pray God for me that 
 I may be a good wife. I am so afraid I may not be. To belong 
 to Monsieur de Talbrun in this world, and in the next; to give up 
 everything for him, seems so extraordinary. Indeed, I think I 
 hardly knew what I was promising.' I felt sorry for her; I kissed 
 her. I was ready to cry myself, and poor Giselle went on : 'If you 
 knew, dear, how I love you ! how I love all my friends ! really to 
 love, people must have been brought up together must have always 
 known each other.' I don't think she was right, but everybody 
 has his or her ideas about such things. I tried, by way of consol- 
 ing her, to draw her attention to the quantities of presents she had 
 received. They were displayed on several tables in the smaller 
 drawing-room, but her grandmother would not let them put the 
 name of the giver upon each, as is the present custom. She said 
 that it humiliated those who had not been able to make gifts as 
 expensive as others. She is right, when one comes to think of it. 
 Nor would she let the trousseau be displayed; she did not think
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 it proper, but I saw enough to know that there were marvels in 
 linen, muslin, silks, and surahs, covered all over with lace. One 
 could see that the great mantuamaker had not consulted the grand- 
 mother, who says that women of distinction in her day did not 
 wear paltry trimmings. 
 
 " Dinner was served under a tent for all the village people dur- 
 ing the two mortal hours we had to spend over a repast, in which 
 Madame de Monredon's cook excelled himself. Then came 
 complimentary addresses in the old-fashioned style, composed by 
 the village schoolmaster who, for a wonder, knew what he was 
 about; groups of village children, boys and girls, came bringing 
 their offerings, followed by pet lambs decked with ribbons; it was 
 all in the style of the days of Madame de Genlis. While we danced 
 in the salons there was dancing in the barn, which had been deco- 
 rated for the occasion. In short, lords and ladies and laborers 
 all seemed to enjoy themselves, or made believe they did. The 
 Parisian gentlemen who danced were not very numerous. There 
 were a few friends of Monsieur de Talbrun's, however among 
 them, a Monsieur de Cymier, whom possibly you remember having 
 seen last summer at Treport; he led the cotillon divinely. The 
 bride and bridegroom drove away during the evening, as they do in 
 England, to their own house, which is not far off. Monsieur de 
 Talbrun's horses a magnificent pair, harnessed to a new caliche 
 carried off Psyche, as an old gentleman in gold spectacles said near 
 me. He was a pretentious old personage, who made a speech at 
 table, very inappropriate and much applauded. Poor Giselle! I 
 have not seen her since, but she has written me one of those little 
 notes which, when she was in the convent, she used to sign En/ant 
 de Marie. It begged me again to pray earnestly for her that she 
 might not fail in the fulfilment of her new duties. It seems hard, 
 does it not ? Let us hope that Monsieur de Talbrun, on his part, 
 may not find that his new life rather wearies him ! Do you know 
 what should have been Giselle's fate since she has a mania about 
 people being thoroughly acquainted before marriage ? What would 
 two or three years more or less have mattered ? She would have 
 made an admirable wife for a sailor; she would have spent the 
 
 [143]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 months of your absence kneeling before the altar; she would have 
 multiplied the lamentations and the tendernesses of your excellent 
 mother. I have been thinking this ever since the wedding-day 
 a very sad day, after all. 
 
 "But how I have let my pen run on. I shall have to put on 
 two stamps, notwithstanding my thin paper. But then you have 
 plenty of time to read on board- ship, and this account may amuse 
 you. Make haste and thank me for it. 
 
 "Your old friend, "JACQUELINE." 
 
 Amuse him! How could he be amused by so great 
 an insult? What! thank her for giving him over even 
 in thought to Giselle or to anybody ? Oh, how wicked, 
 how ungrateful, how unworthy! 
 
 The six pages of foreign-post paper were crumpled 
 up by his angry ringers. Fred tore them with his teeth, 
 and finally made them into a ball which he flung into 
 the sea, hating himself for having been so foolish as 
 to let himself be caught by the first lines, as a foolish 
 fish snaps at the bait, when, apropos to the church 
 in which she would like to be married, she had added: 
 "But we should have to be content with Saint- Augus- 
 tin." 
 
 Those words had delighted him as if they had really 
 been meant for himself and Jacqueline. This promise 
 for the future, that seemed to escape involuntarily from 
 her pen, had made him find all the rest of her letter 
 piquant and amusing. As he read, his mind had re- 
 verted to that little phrase which he now found he had 
 interpreted wrongly. What a fall ! How his hopes now 
 crumbled under his feet! She must have done it on 
 purpose but no, he need not blacken her! She had 
 
 [i44]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 written without thought, without purpose, in high 
 spirits; she wanted to be witty, to be droll, to write 
 gossip without any reference to him to whom her letter 
 was addressed. That we who some day would make 
 a triumphal entry into St. Augustin would be herself 
 and some other man some man with whom her ac- 
 quaintance had been short, since she did not seem to 
 feel in that matter like Giselle. Some one she did not 
 yet know? Was that sure? She might know her fu- 
 ture husband already, even now she might have made 
 her choice Marcel d'Etaples, perhaps, who looked so 
 well in uniform, or that M. de Cymier, who led the 
 cotillon so divinely. Yes! No doubt it was he the 
 last-comer. And once more Fred suffered all the pangs 
 of jealousy. It seemed to him that in his loneliness, 
 between sky and sea, those pangs were more acute 
 than he had ever known them. His comrades teased 
 him about his melancholy looks, and made him the butt 
 of all their jokes in the cockpit. He resolved, how- 
 ever, to get over it, and at the next port they put into, 
 Jacqueline's letter was the cause of his entering for 
 the first time some discreditable scenes of dissipa- 
 tion. 
 
 At Bermuda he received another letter, dated from 
 Paris, where Jacqueline had rejoined her parents, who 
 had returned from Italy. She sent him a commission. 
 Would he buy her a riding- whip? Bermuda was re- 
 nowned for its horsewhips, and her father had decided 
 that she must go regularly to the riding-school. They 
 seemed anxious now to give her, as preliminary to her 
 introduction into society, not only such pleasures as 
 
 !0 [ 145 ]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 horseback exercise, but intellectual enjoyment also. 
 She had been taken to the Institute to hear M. Legouve, 
 and what was better still, in December her stepmother 
 would give a little party every fortnight and would let 
 her sit up till eleven o'clock. She was also to be taken 
 to make some calls. In short, she felt herself rising in 
 importance, but the first thing that had made her feel 
 so was Fred's choice of her to be his literary confidant. 
 She was greatly obliged to him, and did not know how 
 she could better prove to him that she was worthy of so 
 great an honor than by telling him quite frankly just 
 what she thought of his verses. They were very, very 
 pretty. He had talent great talent. Only, as in at- 
 tending the classes of M. Regis she had acquired some 
 little knowledge of the laws of versification, she would 
 like to warn him against impairing a thought for the 
 benefit of a rhyme, and she pointed out several such 
 places in his compositions, ending thus : 
 
 "Bravo! for sunsets, for twilights, for moonshine, for deep 
 silence, for starry nights, and silvery seas in such things you 
 excel; one feels as if one were there, and one envies you the fairy 
 scenes of ocean. But, I implore you, be not sentimental. That 
 is the feeble part of your poetry, to my thinking, and spoils the 
 rest. By the way, I should like to ask you whose are those soft 
 eyes, that silky hair, that radiant smile, and all that assortment of 
 amber, jet, and coral occurring so often in your visions ? Is she 
 or rather, are they black, yellow, green, or tattooed, for, of 
 course, you have met everywhere beauties of all colors? Several 
 times when it appeared as if the lady of your dreams were white, 
 I fancied you were drawing a portrait of Isabelle Ray. All the 
 girls, your old friends, to whom I have shown At Sea, send you 
 their compliments, to which I join my own. Each of them will 
 
 [146]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 beg you to write her a sonnet; but first of all, in virtue of our 
 ancient friendship, I want one myself. 
 
 " JACQUELINE." 
 
 So ! she had shown to others what was meant for her 
 alone; what profanation! And what was more abom- 
 inable, she had not recognized that he was speaking of 
 herself. Ah! there was nothing to be done now but to 
 forget her. Fred tried to do so conscientiously during 
 all his cruise in the Atlantic, but the moment he got 
 ashore and had seen Jacqueline, he fell again a victim 
 to her charms. 
 
 [i47]
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 BEAUTY AT THE FAIR 
 
 was more beautiful than ever, and 
 her first exclamation on seeing him 
 was intended to be flattering: u Ah! 
 Fred, how much you have improved! 
 But what a change ! What an extraor- 
 dinary change! Why, look at him! 
 He is still himself, but who would 
 have thought it was Fred!" 
 He was not disconcerted, for he had acquired aplomb 
 in his journeys round the globe, but he gave her a 
 glance of sad reproach, while Madame de Nailles said, 
 quietly : 
 
 "Yes, really How are you, Fred ? The tan on your 
 face is very becoming to you. You have broadened at 
 the shoulders, and are now a man something more 
 than a man, an experienced sailor, almost an old sea- 
 dog." 
 
 And she laughed, but only softly, because a frank 
 laugh would have shown little wrinkles under her eyes 
 and above her cheeks, which were getting too large. 
 
 Her toilette, which was youthful, yet very carefully 
 adapted to her person, showed that she was by no means 
 as yet "laid on the shelf," as Raoul Wermant elegantly 
 said of her. She stood up, leaning over a table covered 
 
 [148]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 with toys, which it was her duty to sell at the highest 
 price possible, for the place of a meeting so full of emo- 
 tions for Fred was a charity bazaar. 
 
 The moment he arrived in Paris the young officer 
 had been, so to speak, seized by the collar. He had 
 found a great glazed card, bidding him to attend this 
 fair, in a fashionable quarter, and forthwith he had 
 forgotten his resolution of not going near the Nailles 
 for a long time. 
 
 "This is not the same thing," he said to himself. 
 "One must not let one's self be supposed to be stingy." 
 So with these thoughts he went to the bazaar, very glad 
 in his secret heart to have an excuse for breaking his 
 resolution. 
 
 The fair was for the benefit of sufferers from a fire 
 somewhere or other. In our day multitudes of people 
 fall victims to all kinds of dreadful disasters, explosions 
 of boilers, explosions of fire-damp, of everything that 
 can explode, for the agents of destruction seem to be in 
 a state of unnatural excitement as well as human beings. 
 Never before, perhaps, have inanimate things seemed 
 so much in accordance with the spirit of the times. 
 Fred found a superb placard, the work of Cheret, a 
 pathetic scene in a mine, banners streaming in the air, 
 with the words Bazar de Charlie in gold letters on a red 
 ground, and the courtyard of the mansion where the 
 fair was held filled with more carriages than one sees 
 at a fashionable wedding. In the vestibule many foot- 
 men were in attendance, the chasseurs of an Austrian 
 ambassador, the great hulking fellows of the English 
 embassy, the gray-liveried servants of old Rozenkranz,
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 with their powdered heads, the negro man belonging to 
 Madame Azucazillo, etc., etc. At each arrival there 
 was a jrou-jrou of satin and lace, and inside the sales- 
 room was a hubbub like the noise in an aviary. Fred, 
 finding himself at once in the full stream of Parisian 
 life, but for the moment not yet part of it, indulged in 
 some of those philosophic reflections to which he had 
 been addicted on shipboard. 
 
 Each of the tables showed something of the tastes, 
 the character, the peculiarities of the lady who had it in 
 charge. Madame Sterny, who had the most beautiful 
 hands in the world, had undertaken to sell gloves, being 
 sure that the gentlemen would be eager to buy if she 
 would only consent to try them on ; Madame de Louis- 
 grif , the chanoiness, whose extreme emaciation was not 
 perceived under a sort of ecclesiastical cape, had an 
 assortment of embroideries and objects of devotion, in- 
 tended only for ladies and indeed for only the most 
 serious among them ; for the table that held umbrellas, 
 parasols and canes suited to all ages and both sexes, a 
 good, upright little lady had been chosen. Her only 
 thought was how much money she could make by her 
 sales. Madame Strahlberg, the oldest of the Odin- 
 skas, obviously expected to sell only to gentlemen; her 
 table held pyramids of cigars and cigarettes, but noth- 
 ing else was in the corner where she presided, souple 
 and frail, not handsome, but far more dangerous than 
 if she had been, with her unfathomable way of looking 
 at you with her light eyes set deep under her eyebrows, 
 eyes that she kept half closed, but which were yet so 
 keen, and the cruel smile that showed her little sharp 
 
 [150]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 teeth. Her dress was of black grenadine embroidered 
 with silver. She wore half mourning as a sort of an- 
 nouncement that she was a widow, in hopes that this 
 might put a stop to any wicked gossip which should 
 assert that Count Strahlberg was still living, having 
 got a divorce and been very glad to get it. Yet peo- 
 ple talked about her, but hardly knew what to bring 
 against her, because, though anything might be sus- 
 pected, nothing was known. She was received and even 
 sought after in the best society, on account of her won- 
 derful talents, which she employed in a manner as per- 
 verse as everything else about her, but which led some 
 people to call her the Judic des salons. Wanda Strahl- 
 berg was now holding between her lips, which were arti- 
 ficially red, in contrast to the greenish paleness of her 
 face, which caused others to call her a vampire, one of 
 the cigarettes she had for sale. With one hand, she 
 was playing, graceful as a cat, with her last package 
 of regalias, tied with green ribbon, which, when offered 
 to the highest bidder, brought an enormous sum. Her 
 sister Colette was selling flowers, like several other 
 young girls, but while for the most part these waited on 
 their customers in silence, she was full of lively talk, and 
 as unblushing in her eagerness to sell as a bouquetttre 
 by profession. She had grown dangerously pretty. 
 Fred was dazzled when she wanted to fasten a rose into 
 his buttonhole, and then, as he paid for it, gave him an- 
 other, saying: "And here is another thrown in for old 
 acquaintance' sake." 
 
 "Charity seems to cover many things," thought the 
 young man as he withdrew from her smiles and her 
 
 [151]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 glances, but yet he had seen nothing so attractive among 
 the black, yellow, green or tattooed ladies about whom 
 Jacqueline had been pleased to tease him. 
 
 "Fred!" 
 
 It was Jacqueline's voice that arrested him. It was 
 sharp and almost angry. She, too, was selling flowers, 
 while at the same time she was helping Madame de 
 Nailles with her toys; but she was selling with that 
 decorum and graceful reserve which custom prescribes 
 for young girls. "Fred, I do hope you will wear no 
 roses but mine. Those you have are frightful. They 
 make you look like a village bridegroom. Take out those 
 things; come! Here is a pretty boutonniere, and I will 
 fasten it much better in your buttonhole let me." 
 
 In vain did he try to seem cold to her; his heart 
 thawed in spite of himself. She held him so charmingly 
 by the lapel of his coat, touching his cheek with the 
 tip end of an aigrette which set so charmingly on the 
 top of the most becoming of fur caps which she wore. 
 Her hair was turned up now, showing her beautiful 
 neck, and he could see little rebellious hairs curling at 
 their own will over her pure, soft skin, while she, bend- 
 ing forward, was engaged in his service. He admired, 
 too, her slender waist, only recently subjected to the 
 restraint of a corset. He forgave her on the spot. At 
 this moment a man with brown hair, tall, elegant, and 
 with his moustache turned up at the ends, after the 
 old fashion of the Valois, revived recently, came hur- 
 riedly up to the table of Madame de Nailles. Fred felt 
 that that inimitable moustache reduced his not yet 
 abundant beard to nothing.
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 " Mademoiselle Jacqueline," said the newcomer, 
 "Madame de Villegry has sent me to beg you to help 
 her at the buffet. She can not keep pace with her 
 customers, and is asking for volunteers." 
 
 All this was uttered with a familiar assurance which 
 greatly shocked the young naval man. 
 
 "You permit me, Madame?" 
 
 The Baroness bowed with a smile, which said, had 
 he chosen to interpret it, "I give you permission to 
 carry her off now and forever, if you wish it." 
 
 At that moment she was placing in the half-unwilling 
 arms of Hubert Marien an enormous rubber balloon 
 and a jumping-jack, in return for five louis which he 
 had laid humbly on her table. But Jacqueline had not 
 waited for her stepmother's permission; she let herself 
 be borne off radiant on the arm of the important per- 
 sonage who had come for her, while Colette, who per- 
 haps had remarked the substitution for her two roses, 
 whispered in Fred's ear, in a tone of great significance : 
 "Monsieur de Cymier." 
 
 The poor fellow started, like a man suddenly awak- 
 ened from a happy dream to face the most unwelcome 
 of realities. Impelled by that natural longing, that we 
 all have, to know the worst, he went toward the buffet, 
 affecting a calmness which it cost him a great effort to 
 maintain. As he went along he mechanically gave 
 money to each of the ladies whom he knew, moving off 
 without waiting for their thanks or stopping to choose 
 anything from their tables. He seemed to feel the floor 
 rock under his feet, as if he had been walking the deck 
 of a vessel. At last he reached a recess decorated with 
 
 [i53]
 
 TH6O BENTZON 
 
 palms, where, in a robe worthy of Peau d'Ane in the 
 story, and absolutely a novelty in the world of fashion 
 a robe all embroidered with gold and rubies, which 
 glittered with every movement made by the wearer 
 Madame de Villegry was pouring out Russian tea and 
 Spanish chocolate and Turkish coffee, while all kinds 
 of deceitful promises of favor shone in her eyes, which 
 wore a certain tenderness expressive of her interest in 
 charity. A party of young nymphs formed the court 
 of this fair goddess, doing their best to lend her their 
 aid. Jacqueline was one of them, and, at the moment 
 Fred approached, she was offering, with the tips of her 
 fingers, a glass of champagne to M. de Cymier, who at 
 the same time was eagerly trying to persuade her to be- 
 lieve something, about which she was gayly laughing, 
 while she shook her head. Poor Fred, that he might 
 hear, and suffer, drank two mouthfuls of sherry which 
 he could hardly swallow. 
 
 "One who was really charitable would not hesi- 
 tate," said M. de Cymier, " especially when every sepa- 
 rate hair would be paid for if you chose. Just one little 
 curl for the sake of the poor. It is very often done: 
 anything is allowable for the sake of the poor." 
 
 "Maybe it is because, as you say, that it is very often 
 done that I shall not do it," said Jacqueline, still laugh- 
 ing. "I have made up my mind never to do what others 
 have done before me." 
 
 "Well, we shall see," said M. de Cymier, pretending 
 to threaten her. 
 
 And her young head was thrown back in a burst of 
 inextinguishable laughter. 
 
 [154]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Fred fled, that he might not be tempted to make a 
 disturbance. 
 
 When he found himself again in the street, he asked 
 himself where he should go. His anger choked him; 
 he felt he could not keep his resentment to himself, and 
 yet, however angry he might be with Jacqueline, he 
 would have been unwilling to hear his mother give utter- 
 ance to the very sentiments that he was feeling, or 
 to harsh judgments, of which he preferred to keep the 
 monopoly. It came into his mind that he would pay a 
 little visit to Giselle, who, of all the people he knew, 
 was the least likely to provoke a quarrel. He had 
 heard that Madame de Talbrun did not go out, being 
 confined to her sofa by much suffering, which, it might 
 be hoped, would soon come to an end ; and the certainty 
 that he should find her if he called at once .decided him. 
 Since he had been in Paris he had done nothing but 
 leave cards. This time, however, he was sure that the 
 lady upon whom he called would be at home. 
 
 He was taken at once into the young wife's boudoir, 
 where he found her very feeble, lying back upon her 
 cushions, alone, and working at some little bits of baby- 
 clothes. He was not slow to perceive that she was very 
 glad to see him. She flushed with pleasure as he came 
 into the room, and, dropping her sewing, held out to 
 him two little, thin hands, white as wax. 
 
 "Take that footstool sit down there what a great, 
 great pleasure it is to see you back again!" She was 
 more expansive than she had been formerly; she had 
 gained a certain ease which comes from intercourse 
 with the world, but how delicate she seemed! Fred for 
 
 [i55]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 a moment looked at her in silence, she seemed so 
 changed as she lay there in a loose robe of pale blue 
 cashmere, whose train drawn over her feet made her 
 look tall as it stretched to the end of the gilded couch, 
 round which Giselle had collected all the little things 
 required by an invalid bottles, boxes, work-bag, 
 dressing-case, and writing materials. 
 
 "You see," she said, with her soft smile, "I have 
 plenty to occupy me, and I venture to be proud of my 
 work and to think I am creating marvels." 
 
 As she spoke she turned round on her closed hand a 
 cap that seemed microscopic to Fred. 
 
 "What!" he cried, "do you expect him to be small 
 enough to wear that!" 
 
 " Him! you said him; and I am sure you will be 
 right. I know it will be a boy," replied Giselle, eager- 
 ly, her fair face brightened by these words. "I have 
 some that are still smaller. Look!" and she lifted up a 
 pile of things trimmed with ribbons and embroidery. 
 "See, these are the first! Ah! I lie here and fancy how 
 he will look when he has them on. He will be sweet 
 enough to eat. Only his papa wants us to give him a 
 name that I think is too long for him, because it has 
 always been in the family Enguerrand." 
 
 "His name will be longer than himself, I should say, 
 judging by the dimensions of this cap," said Fred, try- 
 ing to laugh. 
 
 "Bah!" replied Giselle, gayly, "but we can get over 
 it by calling him Gue-gue or Ra-ra. What do you 
 think? The difficulty is that names of that kind are 
 apt to stick to a boy for fifty years, and then they seem 
 
 [156]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 ridiculous. Now a pretty abbreviation like Fred is an- 
 other matter. But I forget they have brought up my 
 chocolate. Please ring, and let them bring you a 
 cup. We will take our luncheon together, as we used 
 to do." 
 
 "Thank you, I have no appetite. I have just come 
 from a certain buffet where I lost it all." 
 
 "Oh! I suppose you have been to the Bazaar the 
 famous Charity Fair! You must have made a sensa- 
 tion there on your return, for I am told that the gentle- 
 men who are expected to spend the most are likely to 
 send their money, and not to show themselves. There 
 are many complaints of it." 
 
 "There were plenty of men round certain persons," 
 replied Fred, dryly. "Madame de Villegry's table was 
 literally besieged." 
 
 "Really! What, hers! You surprise me! So it was 
 the good things she gave you that make you despise my 
 poor chocolate," said Giselle, rising on her elbow, to 
 receive the smoking cup that a servant brought her on 
 a little silver salver. 
 
 "I didn't take much at her table," said Fred, ready 
 to enter on his grievances. "If you wish to know the 
 reason why, I was too indignant to eat or drink." 
 
 "Indignant?" 
 
 "Yes, the word is not at all too strong. VTien one 
 has passed whole months away from what is unwhole- 
 some and artificial, such things as make up life in Paris, 
 one becomes a little like Alceste, Moliere's misan- 
 thrope, when one gets back to them. It is ridiculous at 
 my age, and yet if I were to tell you "
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 "What? you puzzle me. What can there be that is 
 unwholesome in selling things for the poor?" 
 
 "The poor! A pretty pretext! Was it to benefit the 
 poor that that odious Countess Strahlberg made all 
 those disreputable grimaces? I have seen kermesses 
 got up by actresses, and, upon my word, they were 
 good form in comparison." 
 
 "Oh! Countess Strahlberg ! People have heard about 
 her doings until they are tired of them," said Giselle, 
 with that air of knowing everything assumed by a 
 young wife whose husband has told her all the current 
 scandals, as a sort of initiation. 
 
 "And her sister seems likely to be as bad as herself 
 before long." 
 
 "Poor Colette! She has been so badly brought up. 
 It is not her fault." 
 
 "But there's Jacqueline," cried Fred, in a sudden 
 outburst, and already feeling better because he could 
 mention her name. 
 
 "Allans, done! You don't mean to say anything 
 against Jacqueline?" cried Giselle, clasping her hands 
 with an air of astonishment. "What can she have done 
 to scandalize you poor little dear?" 
 
 Fred paused for half a minute, then he drew the stool 
 in the form of an X, on which he was sitting, a little 
 nearer to Giselle's sofa, and, lowering his voice, told 
 her how Jacqueline had acted under his very eyes. As 
 he went on, watching as he spoke the effect his words 
 produced upon Giselle, who listened as if slightly 
 amused by his indignation, the case seemed not nearly 
 so bad as he had supposed, and a delicious sense of 
 
 [158]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 relief crept over him when she to whom he told his 
 wrongs, after hearing him quietly to the end, said, 
 smiling: 
 
 "And what then ? There is no great harm in all that. 
 Would you have had her refuse to go with the gentleman 
 Madame de Villegry had sent to fetch her? And why, 
 may I ask, should she not have done her best to help 
 by pouring out champagne? An air put on to please 
 is indispensable to a woman, if she wishes to sell any- 
 thing. Good Heavens! I don't approve any more 
 than you do of all these worldly forms of charity, but 
 this kind of thing is considered right; it has come into 
 fashion. Jacqueline had the permission of her parents, 
 and I really can't see any good reason why you should 
 complain of her. Unless why not tell me the whole 
 truth, Fred? I know it don't we always know what 
 concerns the people that we care for? And I might 
 possibly some day be of use to you. Say! don't you 
 think you are a little bit jealous?" 
 
 Less encouragement than this would have sufficed to 
 make him open his heart to Giselle. He was delighted 
 that some woman was willing he should confide in her. 
 And what was more, he was glad to have it proved that 
 he had been all wrong. A quarter of an hour later 
 Giselle had comforted him, happy herself that it had 
 been in her power to undertake a task of consolation, 
 a work in which, with sweet humility, she felt herself 
 at ease. On the great stage of life she knew now she 
 should never play any important part, any that would 
 bring her greatly into view. But she felt that she was 
 made to be a confidant, one of those perfect confidants 
 
 [i59]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 who never attempt to interfere rashly with the course 
 of events, but who wait upon the ways of Providence, 
 removing stones, and briers and thorns, and making 
 everything turn out for the best in the end. Jacque- 
 line, she said, was so young! A little wild, perhaps, but 
 what a treasure! She was all heart! She would need 
 a husband worthy of her, such a man as Fred. Ma- 
 dame d'Argy, she knew, had already said something on 
 the subject to her father. But it would have to be the 
 Baroness that Fred must bring over to their views; the 
 Baroness was acquiring more and more influence over 
 her husband, who seemed to be growing older every 
 day. M. de Nailles had evidently much, very much 
 upon his mind. It was said in business circles that he 
 had for some time past been given to speculation. 
 Oscar said so. If that were the case, many of Jacque- 
 line's suitors might withdraw. Not all men were so 
 disinterested as Fred. 
 
 "Oh! As to her dot what do I care for her dot?" 
 cried the young man. "I have enough for two, if she 
 would only be satisfied to live quietly at Lizerolles!" 
 
 "Yes," said the judicious little matron, nodding her 
 head, "but who would like to marry a midshipman? 
 Make haste and be a lieutenant, or an ensign." 
 
 She smiled at herself for having made the reward 
 depend upon exertion, with a sort of maternal instinct. 
 It was the same instinct that would lead her in the 
 future to promise Enguerrand a sugar-plum if he said 
 his lesson. "Nobody will steal your Jacqueline till you 
 are ready to carry her off. Besides, if there were any 
 danger I could give you timely warning." 
 
 [160]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Ah! Giselle, if she only had your kind heart your 
 good sense." 
 
 "Do you think I am better and more reasonable than 
 other people ? In what way ? I have done as so many 
 other girls do; I have married without knowing well 
 what I was doing." 
 
 She stopped short, fearing she might have said too 
 much, and indeed Fred looked at her anxiously. 
 
 "You don't regret it, do you?" 
 
 "You must ask Monsieur de Talbrun if he regrets 
 it," she said, with a laugh. " It must be hard on him to 
 have a sick wife, who knows little of what is passing 
 outside of her own chamber, who is living on her re- 
 serve fund of resources a very poor little reserve fund 
 it is, too!" 
 
 Then, as if she thought that Fred had been with her 
 long enough, she said: "I would ask you to stay and 
 see Monsieur de Talbrun, but he won't be in, he dines 
 at his club. He is going to see a new play to-night 
 which they say promises to be very good." 
 
 "What! Will he leave you alone all the evening?" 
 
 "Oh! I am very glad he should find amusement. 
 Just think how long it is that I have been pinned down 
 here! Poor Oscar!"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 GISELLE'S CONSOLATION 
 
 'HE arrival of the expected Enguerrand 
 hindered Giselle from pleading Fred's 
 cause as soon as she could have 
 wished. Her life for twenty-four 
 hours was in great danger, and when 
 the crisis was past, which M. de Tal- 
 brun treated very indifferently, as a 
 matter of course, her first cry was 
 "My baby!" uttered in a tone of tender eagerness such 
 as had never been heard from her lips before. 
 
 The nurse brought him. He lay asleep swathed in his 
 swaddling clothes like a mummy in its wrappings, a 
 motionless, mysterious being, but he seemed to his 
 mother beautiful more beautiful than anything she 
 had seen in those vague visions of happiness she had 
 indulged in at the convent, which were never to be 
 realized. She kissed his little purple face, his closed 
 eyelids, his puckered mouth, with a sort of respectful 
 awe. She was forbidden to fatigue herself. The wet- 
 nurse, who had been brought from Picardy, drew near 
 with her peasant cap trimmed with long blue streamers; 
 her big, experienced hands took the baby from his 
 mother, she turned him over on her lap, she patted him, 
 she laughed at him. And the mother-happiness that 
 had lighted up Giselle's pale face died away. 
 
 [162]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "What right," she thought, "has that woman to my 
 child?" She envied the horrid creature, coarse and 
 stout, with her tanned face, her bovine features, her 
 shapeless figure, who seemed as if Nature had predes- 
 tined her to give milk and nothing more. Giselle would 
 so gladly have been in her place! Why wouldn't they 
 permit her to nurse her baby? 
 
 M. de Talbrun said in answer to this question: 
 
 " It is never done among people in our position. You 
 have no idea of all it would entail on you what slavery, 
 what fatigue ! And most probably you would not have 
 had milk enough." 
 
 "Oh! who can tell? I am his mother! And when 
 this woman goes he will have to have English nurses, 
 and when he is older he will have to go to school. When 
 shall I have him to myself?" 
 
 And she began to cry. 
 
 "Come, come!" said M. de Talbrun, much aston- 
 ished, "all this fuss about that frightful little monkey!" 
 
 Giselle looked at him almost as much astonished as 
 he had been at her. Love, with its jealousy, its trans- 
 ports, its anguish, its delights had for the first time 
 come to her the love that she could not feel for her 
 husband awoke in her for her son. She was ennobled 
 she was transfigured by a sense of her maternity; it 
 did for her what marriage does for some women it 
 seemed as if a sudden radiance surrounded her. 
 
 When she raised her infant in her arms, to show him 
 to those who came to see her, she always seemed like a 
 most chaste and touching representation of the Virgin 
 Mother. She would say, as she exhibited him: "Is he 
 
 [163]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 not superb?" Every one said : " Yes, indeed !" out of 
 politeness, but, on leaving the mother's presence, would 
 generally remark: "He is Monsieur de Talbrun in 
 baby-clothes: the likeness is perfectly horrible!" 
 
 The only visitor who made no secret of this impres- 
 sion was Jacqueline, who came to see her cousin as 
 soon as she was permitted that is, as soon as her 
 friend was able to sit up and be prettily dressed, as be- 
 came the mother of such a little gentleman as the heir 
 of all the Talbruns. When Jacqueline saw the little 
 creature half-smothered in the lace that trimmed his 
 pillows, she burst out laughing, though it was in the 
 presence of his mother. 
 
 "Oh, mon Dieu!" she cried, "how ugly! I never 
 should have supposed we could have been as ugly as 
 that! Why, his face is all the colors of the rainbow; 
 who would have imagined it ? And he crumples up his 
 little face like those things in gutta-percha. My poor 
 Giselle, how can you bear to show him ! I never, never 
 could covet a baby!" 
 
 Giselle, in consternation, asked herself whether this 
 strange girl, who did not care for children, could be a 
 proper wife for Fred ; but her habitual indulgence came 
 to her aid, and she thought: 
 
 "She is but a child herself, she does not know what 
 she is saying," and profiting by her first tete-a-tete with 
 Jacqueline's stepmother, she spoke as she had promised 
 to Madame de Nailles. 
 
 "A matchmaker already!" said the Baroness, with 
 a smile. "And so soon after you have found out what 
 it costs to be a mother! How good of you, my dear 
 
 [164]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Giselle! So you support Fred as a candidate? But 
 I can't say I think he has much chance; Monsieur de 
 Nailles has his own ideas." 
 
 She spoke as if she really thought that M. de Nailles 
 could have any ideas but her own. When the adroit 
 Clotilde was at a loss, she was likely to evoke this chi- 
 merical notion of her husband's having an opinion of 
 his own. 
 
 "Oh! Madame, you can do anything you like with 
 him!" 
 
 The clever woman sighed : 
 
 "So you fancy that when people have been long mar- 
 ried a wife retains as much influence over her husband 
 as you have kept over Monsieur de Talbrun? You 
 will learn to know better, my dear." 
 
 "But I have no influence," murmured Giselle, who 
 knew herself to be her husband's slave. 
 
 "Oh! I know better. You are making believe !" 
 
 "Well, but we were not talking about me, but 
 
 "Oh! yes. I understood. I will think about it. I 
 will try to bring over Monsieur de Nailles." 
 
 She was not at all disposed to drop the meat for the 
 sake of the shadow, but she was not sure of M. de 
 Cymier, notwithstanding all that Madame de Villegry 
 was at pains to tell her about his serious intentions. On 
 the other hand, she would have been far from willing 
 to break with a man so brilliant, who made himself so 
 agreeable at her Tuesday receptions. 
 
 "Meantime, it would be well if you, dear, were to try 
 to find out what Jacqueline thinks. You may not find 
 it very easy." 
 
 [165]
 
 TH6O BENTZON 
 
 /'Will you authorize me to tell her how well he loves 
 her? Oh, then, I am quite satisfied!" cried Giselle. 
 
 But she was under a mistake. Jacqueline, as soon 
 as she began to speak to her of Fred's suit, stopped her: 
 
 "Poor fellow! Why can't he amuse himself for some 
 time longer and let me do the same ? Men seem to me 
 so strange ! Now, Fred is one who, just because he is 
 good and serious by nature, fancies that everybody else 
 should be the same ; he wishes me to be tethered in the 
 flowery meads of Lizerolles, and browse where he 
 would place me. Such a life would be an end of every- 
 thing an end to my life, and I should not like it at all. 
 I should prefer to grow old in Paris, or some other capi- 
 tal, if my husband happened to be engaged in diplo- 
 macy. Even supposing I marry which I do not think 
 an absolute necessity, unless I can not get rid otherwise 
 of an inconvenient chaperon and to do my stepmother 
 justice, she knows well enough that I will not submit to 
 too much of her dictation!" 
 
 " Jacqueline, they say you see too much of the Odin- 
 skas." 
 
 "There! that's another fault you find in me. I go 
 there because Madame Strahlberg is so kind as to 
 give me some singing-lessons. If you only knew how 
 much progress I am making, thanks to her. Music is 
 a thousand times more interesting, I can tell you, than 
 all that you can do as mistress of a household. You 
 don't think so? Oh! I know Enguerrand's first 
 tooth, his first steps, his first gleams of intelligence, and 
 all that. Such things are not in my line, you know. 
 Of course I think your boy very funny, very cunning, 
 
 [166] '
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 very anything you like to fancy him, but forgive me if 
 I am glad he does not belong to me. There, don't you 
 see now that marriage is not my vocation, so please give 
 up speaking to me about matrimony." 
 
 "As you will," said Giselle, sadly, "but you will give 
 great pain to a good man whose heart is wholly yours." 
 
 "I did not ask for his heart. Such gifts are exasper- 
 ating. One does not know what to do with them. 
 Can't he poor Fred love me as I love him, and leave 
 me my liberty?" 
 
 "Your liberty!" exclaimed Giselle; "liberty to ruin 
 your life, that's what it will be." 
 
 "Really, one would suppose there was only one kind 
 of existence in your eyes this life of your own, Giselle. 
 To leave one cage to be shut up in another that is the 
 fate of many birds, I know, but there are others who 
 like to use their wings to soar into the air. I like that 
 expression. Come, little mother, tell me right out, 
 plainly, that your lot is the only one in this world that 
 ought to be envied by a woman." 
 
 Giselle answered with a strange smile: 
 
 "You seem astonished that I adore my baby; but 
 since he came great things seem to have been revealed 
 to me. When I hold him to my breast I seem to un- 
 derstand, as I never did before, duty and marriage, 
 family ties and sorrows, life itself, in short, its griefs 
 and joys. You can not understand that now, but you 
 will some day. You, too, will gaze upon the horizon as 
 I do. I am ready to suffer; I am ready for self-sacrifice. 
 I know now whither my life leads me. I am led, as it 
 were, by this little being, who seemed to me at first only
 
 TH0 BENTZON 
 
 a doll, for whom I was embroidering caps and dresses. 
 You ask whether I am satisfied with my lot in life. 
 Yes, I am, thanks to this guide, this guardian angel, 
 thanks to my precious Enguerrand." 
 
 Jacqueline listened, stupefied, to this unexpected out- 
 burst, so unlike her cousin's usual language; but the 
 charm was broken by its ending with the tremendous- 
 ly long name of Enguerrand, which always made her 
 laugh, it was in such perfect harmony with the feudal 
 pretensions of the Monredons and the Talbruns. 
 
 "How solemn and eloquent and obscure you are, my 
 dear," she answered. "You speak like a sibyl. But 
 one thing I see, and that is that you are not so perfectly 
 happy as you would have us believe, seeing that you 
 feel the need of consolations. Then, why do you wish 
 me to follow your example?" 
 
 "Fred is not Monsieur de Talbrun," said the young 
 wife, for the moment forgetting herself. 
 
 "Do you mean to say 
 
 "I meant nothing, except that if you married Fred 
 you would have had the advantage of first knowing 
 him." 
 
 "Ah! that's your fixed idea. But I am getting to 
 know Monsieur de Cymier pretty well." 
 
 "You have betrayed yourself," cried Giselle, with in- 
 dignation . ' ' Monsieur de Cymier ! ' ' 
 
 "Monsieur de Cymier is coming to our house on 
 Saturday evening, and I must get up a Spanish song 
 that Madame Strahlberg has taught me, to charm his 
 ears and those of other people. Oh! I can do it very 
 well. Won't you come and hear me play the castanets,
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 if Monsieur Enguerrand can spare you? There is a 
 young Polish pianist who is to play our accompaniment. 
 Ah, there is nothing like a Polish pianist to play Chopin ! 
 He is charming, poor young man ! an exile, and in pov- 
 erty; but he is cared for by those ladies, who take him 
 everywhere. That is the sort of life I should like the 
 life of Madame Strahlberg to be a young widow, 
 free to do what I pleased." 
 
 "She may be a widow but some say she is di- 
 vorced." 
 
 "Oh! is it you who repeat such naughty scandals, 
 Giselle ? Where shall charity take refuge in this world 
 if not in your heart? I am going your seriousness 
 may be catching. Kiss me before I go." 
 
 "No," said Madame de Talbrun, turning her head 
 away. 
 
 After this she asked herself whether she ought not 
 to discourage Fred. She could not resolve on doing 
 so, yet she could not tell him what was false; but by 
 eluding the truth with that ability which kind-hearted 
 women can always show when they try to avoid inflict- 
 ing pain, she succeeded in leaving the young man hope 
 enough to stimulate his ambition. 
 
 [169]
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FRED ASKS A QUESTION 
 
 JlME, whatever may be said of it by 
 the calendars, is not to be measured 
 by days, weeks, and months in all 
 cases; expectation, hope, happiness 
 and grief have very different ways 
 of counting hours, and we know 
 from our own experience that some 
 are as short as a minute, and others 
 as long as a century. The love or the suffering of 
 those who can tell just how long they have suffered, 
 or just how long they have been in love, is only moder- 
 ate and reasonable. 
 
 Madame d'Argy found the two lonely years she 
 passed awaiting the return of her son, who was win- 
 ning his promotion to the rank of ensign, so long, that 
 it seemed to her as if they never would come to an 
 end. She had given a reluctant consent to his notion 
 of adopting the navy as a profession, thinking that 
 perhaps, after all, there might be no harm in allowing 
 her dear boy to pass the most dangerous period of his 
 youth under strict discipline, but she could not be 
 patient forever! She idolized her son too much to be 
 resigned to living without him; she felt that he was 
 hers no longer. Either he was at sea or at Toulon, 
 
 [170]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 where she could very rarely join him, being detained 
 at Lizerolles by the necessity of looking after their 
 property. With what eagerness she awaited his pro- 
 motion, which she did not doubt was all the Nailles 
 waited for to give their consent to the marriage; of 
 their happy half-consent she hastened to remind them 
 in a note which announced the new grade to which 
 he had been promoted. Her indignation was great 
 on finding that her formal request received no decided 
 answer; but, as her first object was Fred's happiness, 
 she placed the reply she had received in its most favor- 
 able light when she forwarded it to the person whom it 
 most concerned. She did this in all honesty. She 
 was not willing to admit that she was being put off 
 with excuses; still less could she believe in a refusal. 
 
 She accepted the excuse that M. de Nailles gave for 
 returning no decided answer, viz.: that "Jacqueline 
 was too young," though she answered him with some 
 vehemence: "Fred was born when I was eighteen." 
 But she had to accept it. Her ensign would have 
 to pass a few more months on the coast of Senegal, 
 a few more months which were made shorter by the 
 encouragement forwarded to him by his mother, who 
 was careful to send him everything she could find out 
 that seemed to be, or that she imagined might be, in 
 his favor; she underlined such things and commented 
 upon them, so as to make the faintest hypothesis seem 
 a certainty. Sometimes she did not even wait for the 
 post. Fred would find, on putting in at some post, a 
 cablegram: "Good news," or "All goes well," and he 
 would be beside himself with joy and excitement until, 
 
 '
 
 TH0 BENTZON 
 
 on receiving his poor, dear mother's next letter, he 
 found out on how slight a foundation her assurance 
 had been founded. 
 
 Sometimes, she wrote him disagreeable things about 
 Jacqueline, as if she would like to disenchant him, and 
 then he said to himself: "By this, I am to understand 
 that my affairs are not going on well; I still count for 
 little, notwithstanding my promotion." Ah! if he 
 could only have had, so near the beginning of his 
 career, any opportunity of distinguishing himself! No 
 brilliant deed would have been too hard for him. He 
 would have scaled the very skies. Alas! he had had 
 no chance to win distinction, he had only had to follow 
 in the beaten track of ordinary duty; he had encoun- 
 tered no glorious perils, though at St. Louis he had 
 come very near leaving his bones, but it was only a case 
 of typhoid fever. This fever, however, brought about 
 a scene between M. de Nailles and his mother. 
 
 "When," she cried, with all the fury of a lioness, 
 "do you expect to come to the conclusion that my son 
 is a suitable match for Jacqueline? Do you imagine 
 that I shall let him wait till he is a post-captain to 
 satisfy the requirements of Mademoiselle your daughter 
 provided he does not die in a hospital ? Do you think 
 that I shall be willing to go on living if you can call 
 it living! all alone and in continual apprehension? 
 Why do you let him keep on in uncertainty? You 
 know his worth, and you know that with him Jacque- 
 line would be happy. Instead of that instead of say- 
 ing once for all to this young man, who is more in 
 love with her than any other man will ever be: ' There, 
 
 [172]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 take her, I give her to you,' which would be the straight- 
 forward, sensible way, you go on encouraging the ca- 
 prices of a child who will end by wasting, in the life 
 you are permitting her to lead, all the good qualities 
 she has and keeping nothing but the bad ones." 
 
 "Mon Dieu! I can't see that Jacqueline leads a life 
 like that!" said M. de Nailles, who felt that he must 
 say something. 
 
 "You don't see, you don't see! How can any one 
 see who won't open his eyes? My poor friend, just 
 look for once at what is going on around you, under 
 your own roof 
 
 "Jacqueline is devoted to music," said her father, 
 good-humoredly. Madame d'Argy in her heart thought 
 he was losing his mind. 
 
 And in truth he was growing older day by day, be- 
 coming more and more anxious, more and more ab- 
 sorbed in the great struggle not for life; that might 
 exhaust a man, but at least it was energetic and noble 
 but for superfluous wealth, for vanity, for luxury, 
 which, for his own part, he cared nothing for, and 
 which he purchased dearly, spurred on to exertion by 
 those near to him, who insisted on extravagances. 
 
 "Oh! yes, Jacqueline, I know, is devoted to music," 
 went on Madame d'Argy, with an air of extreme dis- 
 approval, "too much so! And when she is able to 
 sing like Madame Strahlberg, what good will it do 
 her ? Even now I see more than one little thing about 
 her that needs to be reformed. How can she escape 
 spoiling in that crowd of Slavs and Yankees, people of 
 no position probably in their own countries, with whom, 
 
 tml
 
 BENTZON 
 
 you permit her to associate ? People nowadays are so 
 imprudent about acquaintances! To be a foreigner is 
 a passport into society. Just think what her poor 
 mother would have said to the bad manners she is 
 adopting from all parts of the globe? My poor, dear 
 Adelaide! She was a genuine Frenchwoman of the 
 old type; there are not many such left now. Ah!" 
 continued Madame d'Argy, without any apparent con- 
 nection with her subject, "Monsieur de Talbrun's 
 mother, if he had one, would be truly happy to see him 
 married to Giselle!" 
 
 "But," faltered M. de Nailles, struck by the truth 
 of some of these remarks, "I make no opposition 
 quite the contrary I have spoken several times about 
 your son, but I was not listened to!" 
 
 "What can she say against Fred?" 
 
 "Nothing. She is very fond of him, that you know 
 as well as I do. But those childish attachments do 
 not necessarily lead to love and marriage." 
 
 "Friendship on her side might be enough," said 
 Madame d'Argy, in the tone of a woman who had 
 never known more than that in marriage. "My poor 
 Fred has enthusiasm and all that, enough for two. 
 And in time she will be madly in love with him she 
 must! It is impossible it should be otherwise." 
 
 "Very good, persuade her yourself if you can; but 
 Jacqueline has a pretty strong will of her own." 
 
 Jacqueline's will was a reality, though the ideas of 
 M. de Nailles may have been illusion. 
 
 "And my wife, too!" resumed the Baron, after a 
 long sigh. "I don't know how it is, but Jacqueline,
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 as she has grown up, has become like an unbroken 
 colt, and those two, who were once all in all to each 
 other, are now seldom of one mind. How am I to act 
 when their two wills cross mine, as they often do? 
 I have so many things on my mind. There are times 
 
 when " 
 
 "Yes, one can see that. You don't seem to know 
 where you are. And do you think that the disposition 
 she shows to act, as you say, like an unbroken colt, is 
 nothing to me ? Do you think I am quite satisfied with 
 my son's choice? I could have wished that he had 
 chosen for his wife but what is the use of saying 
 what I wished ? The important thing is that he should 
 be happy in his own way. Besides, I dare say the young 
 thing will calm down of her own accord. Her mother's 
 daughter must be good at heart. All will come right 
 when she is removed from a circle which is doing her 
 no good; it is injuring her in people's opinion already, 
 you must know. And how will it be by-and-bye? 
 I hear people saying everywhere : ' How can the Nailles 
 let that young girl associate so much with foreigners?' 
 You say they are old school-fellows, they went to the 
 cours together. But see if Madame d'Etaples and 
 Madame Ray, under the same pretext, let Isabelle and 
 Yvonne associate with the Odinskas! As to that 
 foolish woman, Madame d'Avrigny, she goes to their 
 house to look up recruits for her operettas, and Madame 
 Strahlberg has one advantage over regular artists, there 
 is no call to pay her. That is the reason why she 
 invites her. Besides which, she won't find it so easy 
 to marry Dolly."
 
 BENTZON 
 
 "Oh! there are several reasons for that," said the 
 Baron, who could see the mote in his neighbor's eye, 
 "Mademoiselle d'Avrigny has led a life so very worldly 
 ever since she was a child, so madly fast and lively, that 
 suitors are afraid of her. Jacqueline, thank heaven, 
 has never yet been in what is called the world. She 
 only visits those with whom she is on terms of in- 
 timacy." 
 
 "An intimacy which includes all Paris," said Madame 
 d'Argy, raising her eyes to heaven. "If she does not 
 go to great balls, it is only because her stepmother is 
 bored by them. But with that exception it seems to 
 me she is allowed to do anything. I don't see the dif- 
 ference. But, to be sure, if Jacqueline is not for us, 
 you have a right to say that I am interfering in what 
 does not concern me." 
 
 "Not at all," said the unfortunate father, "I feel 
 how much I ought to value your advice, and an alliance 
 with your family would please me more than any- 
 thing." 
 
 He said the truth, for he was disturbed by seeing 
 M. de Cymier so slow in making his proposals, and 
 he was also aware that young girls in our day are less 
 sought for in marriage than they used to be. His 
 friend Wermant, rich as he was, had had some trouble 
 in capturing for Berthe a fellow of no account in the 
 Faubourg St. Germain, and the prize was not much 
 to be envied. He was a young man without brains 
 and without a sou, who enjoyed so little consideration 
 among his own people that his wife had not been re- 
 ceived as she expected, and no one spoke of Madame 
 
 [176]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 de Belvan without adding: "You know, that little 
 Wermant, daughter of the agent de change." 
 
 Of course, Jacqueline had the advantage of good 
 birth over Berthe, but how great was her inferiority 
 in point of fortune! M. de Nailles sometimes confided 
 these perplexities to his wife, without, however, receiv- 
 ing much comfort from her. Nor did the Baroness 
 confess to her husband all her own fears. In secret 
 she often asked herself, with the keen insight of a woman 
 of the world well trained in artifice and who possessed 
 a thorough knowledge of mankind, whether there 
 might not be women capable of using a young girl 
 so as to put the world on a wrong scent; whether, in 
 other words, Madame de Villegry did not talk every- 
 where about M. de Cymier's attentions to Mademoiselle 
 de Nailles in order to conceal his relations to herself? 
 Madame de Villegry indeed cared little about standing 
 well in public opinion, but rather the contrary; she 
 would not, however, for the world have been willing, 
 by too openly favoring one man among her admirers, 
 to run the risk of putting the rest to flight. No doubt 
 M. de Cymier was most assiduous in his attendance 
 on the receptions and dances at Madame de Nailles' s, 
 but he was there always at the same time as Madame 
 de Villegry herself. They would hold whispered con- 
 ferences in corners, which might possibly have been 
 about Jacqueline, but there was no proof that they 
 were so, except what Madame de Villegry herself 
 said. "At any rate," thought Madame de Nailles, 
 "if Fred comes forward as a suitor it may stimulate 
 Monsieur de Cymier. There are men who put off 
 12 [177]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 taking a decisive step till the last moment, and are 
 only to be spurred up by competition." 
 
 So every opportunity was given to Fred to talk 
 freely with Jacqueline when he returned to Paris. 
 By this time he wore two gold-lace stripes upon his 
 sleeve. But Jacqueline avoided any tete-a-tete with 
 him as if she understood the danger that awaited her. 
 She gave him no chance of speaking alone w r ith her. 
 She was friendly nay, sometimes affectionate when 
 other people were near them, but more commonly she 
 teased him, bewildered him, excited him. After an 
 hour or two spent in her society he would go home 
 sometimes savage, sometimes desponding, to ponder 
 in his own room, and in his own heart, what inter- 
 pretation he ought to put upon the things that she 
 had said to him. 
 
 The more he thought, the less he understood. He 
 would not have confided in his mother for the world; 
 she might have cast blame on Jacqueline. Besides her, 
 he had no one who could receive his confidences, who 
 would bear with his perplexities, who could assist in 
 delivering him from the network of hopes and fears in 
 which, after every interview with Jacqueline, he seemed 
 to himself to become more and more entangled. 
 
 At last, however, at one of the soirees given every 
 fortnight by Madame de Nailles, he succeeded in 
 gaming her attention. 
 
 "Give me this quadrille," he said to her. 
 
 And, as she could not well refuse, he added, as soon 
 as she had taken his arm: "We will not dance, and I 
 defy you to escape me." 
 
 [178]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "This is treason!" she cried, somewhat angrily. 
 "We are not here to talk; I can almost guess before- 
 hand what you have to say, and " 
 
 But he had made her sit down in the recess of that 
 bow-window which had been called the young girls' 
 corner years ago. He stood before her, preventing 
 her escape, and half -laughing, though he was deeply 
 moved. 
 
 "Since you have guessed what I wanted to say, 
 answer me quickly." 
 
 "Must I? Must I, really? Why didn't you ask my 
 father to do your commission? It is so horribly disa- 
 greeable to do these things for one's self." 
 
 "That depends upon what the things may be that 
 have to be said. I should think it ought to be very 
 agreeable to pronounce the word on which the happi- 
 ness of a whole life is to depend." 
 
 "Oh! what a grand phrase ! As if I could be essen- 
 tial to anybody's happiness? You can't make me be- 
 lieve that!" 
 
 "You are mistaken. You are indispensable to 
 mine." 
 
 "There! my declaration has been made," thought 
 Fred, much relieved that it was over, for he had been 
 afraid to pronounce the decisive words. 
 
 "Well, if I thought that were true, I should be very 
 sorry," said Jacqueline, no longer smiling, but looking 
 down fixedly at the pointed toe of her little slipper; 
 "because " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. Her face flushed red. 
 
 "I don't know how to explain to you," she said.
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 "Explain nothing," pleaded Fred; "all I ask is Yes, 
 nothing more. There is nothing else I care for." 
 
 She raised her head coldly and haughtily, yet her 
 voice trembled as she said: 
 
 "You will force me to say it? Then, no! No!" 
 she repeated, as if to reaffirm her refusal. 
 
 Then, alarmed by Fred's silence, and above all by 
 his looks, he who had seemed so gay shortly before 
 and whose face now showed an anguish such as she 
 had never yet seen on the face of man, she added: 
 
 "Oh, forgive me! Forgive me," she repeated in a 
 lower voice, holding out her hand. He did not take 
 it. 
 
 "You love some one else?" he asked, through his 
 clenched teeth. 
 
 She opened her fan and affected to examine atten- 
 tively the pink landscape painted on it to match her 
 dress. 
 
 "Why should you think so? I wish to be free." 
 
 "Free? Are you free? Is a woman ever free?" 
 
 Jacqueline shook her head, as if expressing vague 
 dissent. 
 
 "Free at least to see a little of the world," she said, 
 "to choose, to use my wings, in short 
 
 And she moved her slender arms with an audacious 
 gesture which had nothing in common with the flight 
 of that mystic dove upon which she had meditated 
 when holding the card given her by Giselle. 
 
 "Free to prefer some other man," said Fred, who 
 held fast to his idea with the tenacity of jealousy. 
 
 "Ah! that is different. Supposing there were any 
 [180]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 one whom I liked not more, but differently from the 
 way I like you it is possible. But you spoke of 
 loving!" 
 
 "Your distinctions are too subtle," said Fred. 
 
 "Because, much as it seems to astonish you, I am 
 quite capable of seeing the difference," said Jacque- 
 line, with the look and the accent of a person who has 
 had large experience. "I have loved once a long 
 time ago, a very long time ago, a thousand years and 
 more. Yes, I loved some one, as perhaps you love 
 me, and I suffered more than you will ever suffer. 
 It is ended; it is over I think it is over forever." 
 
 "How foolish! At your age!" 
 
 "Yes, that kind of love is ended for me. Others 
 may please me, others do please me, as you said, but 
 it is not the same thing. Would you like to see the 
 man I once loved?" asked Jacqueline, impelled by a 
 juvenile desire to exhibit her experience, and also 
 aware instinctively that to cast a scrap of past history 
 to the curious sometimes turns off their attention on 
 another track. "He is near us now," she added. 
 
 And while Fred's angry eyes, under his frowning 
 brows, were wandering all round the salon, she 
 pointed to Hubert Marien with a movement of her 
 fan. 
 
 Marien was looking on at the dancing, with his old 
 smile, not so brilliant now as it had been. He now 
 only smiled at beauty collectively, which was well 
 represented that evening in Madame de Nailles's salon. 
 Young girls en masse continued to delight him, but his 
 admiration as an artist became less and less personal. 
 
 [181]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 He had grown stout, his hair and beard were getting 
 gray; he was interested no longer in Savonarola, hav- 
 ing obtained, thanks to his picture, the medal of honor, 
 and the Institute some months since had opened its 
 doors to him. 
 
 "Marien? You are laughing at me!" cried Fred. 
 
 "It is simply the truth." 
 
 Some magnetic influence at that moment caused the 
 painter to turn his eyes toward the spot where they 
 were talking. 
 
 "We were speaking of you," said Jacqueline. 
 
 And her tone was so singular that he dared not ask 
 what they were saying. With humility which had in 
 it a certain touch of bitterness he said, still smiling: 
 
 "You might find something better to do than to talk 
 good or evil of a poor fellow who counts now for noth- 
 ing." 
 
 "Counts for nothing! A fellow to be pitied!" cried 
 Fred, "a man who has just been elected to the Insti- 
 tute you are hard to satisfy!" 
 
 Jacqueline sat looking at him like a young sorceress 
 engaged in sticking pins into the heart of a waxen 
 figure of her enemy. She never missed an opportunity 
 of showing her implacable dislike of him. 
 
 She turned to Fred: "What I was telling you," she 
 said, "I am quite willing to repeat in his presence. 
 The thing has lost its importance now that he has 
 become more indifferent to me than any other man 
 in the world." 
 
 She stopped, hoping that Marien had understood 
 what she was saying and that he resented the humili- 
 
 [182]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 ating avowal from her own lips that her childish 
 love was now only a memory. 
 
 "If that is the only confession you have to make 
 to me," said Fred, who had almost recovered his 
 composure, "I can put up with my former rival, and 
 I pass a sponge over all that has happened in your 
 long past of seventeen years and a half, Jacqueline. 
 Tell me only that at present you like no one better 
 than me." 
 
 She smiled a half-smile, but he did not see it. She 
 made no answer. 
 
 "Is he here, too like the other!" he asked, sternly. 
 
 And she saw his restless eyes turn for an instant to 
 the conservatory, where Madame de Villegry, leaning 
 back in her armchair, and Gerard de Cymier, on a 
 low seat almost at her feet, were carrying on their 
 pla tonic flirtation. 
 
 "Oh! you must not think of quarrelling with him," 
 cried Jacqueline, frightened at the look Fred fastened 
 on De Cymier. 
 
 "No, it would be of no use. I shall go out to Ton- 
 quin, that's all." 
 
 "Fred! You are not serious." 
 
 "You will see whether I am not serious. At this 
 very moment I know a man who will be glad to ex- 
 change with me." 
 
 "What! go and get yourself killed at Tonquin for 
 a foolish little girl like me, who is very, very fond of 
 you, but hardly knows her own mind. It would be 
 absurd!" 
 
 "People are not always killed at Tonquin, but I 
 [183]
 
 THO BENTZON 
 
 must have new interests, something to divert my mind 
 
 from " 
 
 "Fred! my dear Fred "- -Jacqueline had sudden- 
 ly become almost tender, almost suppliant. "Your 
 mother! Think of your mother! What would she 
 say? Oh, my God!" 
 
 "My mother must be allowed to think that I love 
 my profession better than all else. But, Jacqueline," 
 continued the poor fellow, clinging in despair to the 
 very smallest hope, as a drowning man catches at a 
 straw, "if you do not, as you said, know exactly your 
 own mind if you would like to question your own 
 heart I would wait- 
 Jacqueline was biting the end of her fan a conflict 
 was taking place within her breast. But to certain 
 temperaments there is pleasure in breaking a chain 
 or in leaping a barrier; she said: 
 
 "Fred, I am too much your friend to deceive you." 
 At that moment M. de Cymier came toward them 
 with his air of assurance: "Mademoiselle, you forget 
 that you promised me this waltz," he said. 
 
 "No, I never forget anything," she answered, 
 rising. 
 
 Fred detained her an instant, saying, in a low voice : 
 
 "Forgive me. This moment, Jacqueline, is decisive. 
 
 I must have an answer. I never shall speak to you 
 
 again of my sorrow. But decide now on the spot. 
 
 Is all ended between us?" 
 
 "Not our old friendship, Fred," said Jacqueline, 
 tears rising in her eyes. 
 
 "So be it, then, if you so will it. But our friendship 
 [184]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 never will show itself unless you are in need of friend- 
 ship, and then only with the discretion that your pres- 
 ent attitude toward me has imposed." 
 
 "Are you ready, Mademoiselle," said Gerard, who, 
 to allow them to end their conversation, had obligingly 
 turned his attention to some madrigals that Colette 
 Odinska was laughing over. 
 
 Jacqueline shook her head resolutely, though at that 
 moment her heart felt as if it were in a vise, and the 
 moisture in her eyes looked like anything but a refusal. 
 Then, without giving herself time for further thought, 
 she whirled away into the dance with M. de Cymier. 
 It was over, she had flung to the winds her chance for 
 happiness, and wounded a heart more cruelly than 
 Hubert Marien had ever wounded hers. The most 
 horrible thing in this unending warfare we call love is 
 that we too often repay to those who love us the harm 
 that has been done us by those whom we have loved. 
 The seeds of mistrust and perversity sown by one man 
 or by one woman bear fruit to be gathered by some one 
 else. 
 
 [185]
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A COMEDY AND A TRAGEDY 
 
 [E departure of Frederic d'Argy for 
 Tonquin occasioned a break in the 
 intercourse between his mother and 
 the family of De Nailles. The wails 
 of Hecuba were nothing to the lam- 
 entations of poor Madame d'Argy; 
 the unreasonableness of her wrath 
 and the exaggeration in her re- 
 proaches hindered even Jacqueline from feeling all 
 the remorse she might otherwise have felt for her 
 share in Fred's departure. She told her father, who 
 the first time in her life addressed her with some 
 severity, that she could not be expected to love all the 
 young men who might threaten to go to the wars, or 
 to fling themselves from fourth-story windows, for her 
 sake. 
 
 "It was very indelicate and inconsiderate of Fred 
 to tell any one that it was my fault that he was doing 
 anything so foolish," she said, with true feminine de- 
 ceit, "but he has taken the very worst possible means 
 to make me care for him. Everybody has too much 
 to say about this matter which concerns only him and 
 me. Even Giselle thought proper to write me a ser- 
 mon!" 
 
 [186]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 And she gave vent to her feelings in an exclamation 
 of three syllables that she had learned from the Odin- 
 skas, which meant: "I don't care!" (je rrfen moque}. 
 
 But this was not true. She cared very much for 
 Giselle's good opinion, and for Madame d'Argy's 
 friendship. She suffered much in her secret heart at 
 the thought of having given so much pain to Fred. 
 She guessed how deep it was by the step to which it 
 had driven him. But there was in her secret soul 
 something more than all the rest, it was a puerile, but 
 delicious satisfaction in feeling her own importance, 
 in having been able to exercise an influence over one 
 heart which might possibly extend to that of M. de 
 Cymier. She thought he might be gratified by know- 
 ing that she had driven a young man to despair, if he 
 guessed for whose sake she had been so cruel. He 
 knew it, of course. Madame de Nailles took care 
 that he should not be ignorant of it, and the pleasure 
 he took in such a proof of his power over a young heart 
 was not unlike that pleasure Jacqueline experienced in 
 her coquetry which crushed her better feelings. He 
 felt proud of the sacrifice this beautiful girl had made 
 for his sake, though he did not consider himself thereby 
 committed to any decision, only he felt more attached 
 to her than ever. Ever since the day when Madame 
 de Villegry had first introduced him at the house of 
 Madame de Nailles, he had had great pleasure in 
 going there. The daughter of the house was more and 
 more to his taste, but his liking for her was not such 
 as to carry him beyond prudence. "If I chose," he 
 would say to himself after every time he met her, "if 
 
 '
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 I chose I could own that jewel. I have only to stretch 
 out my hand and have it given me." And the next 
 morning, after going to sleep full of that pleasant 
 thought, he would awake glad to find that he was still 
 as free as ever, and able to carry on a flirtation with a 
 woman of the world, which imposed no obligations 
 upon him, and yet at the same time make love to a 
 young girl whom he would gladly have married but 
 for certain reports which were beginning to circulate 
 among men of business concerning the financial posi- 
 tion of M. de Nailles. 
 
 They said that he was withdrawing money from 
 secure investments to repair (or to increase) considera- 
 ble losses made by speculation, and that he operated 
 recklessly on the Bourse. These rumors had already 
 withdrawn Marcel d'Etaples from the list of his daugh- 
 ter's suitors. The young fellow was a captain of 
 Hussars, who had no scruple in declaring the reason 
 of his giving up his interest in the young lady. Gerard 
 de Cymier, more prudent, waited and watched, think- 
 ing it would be quite time enough to go to the bottom 
 of things when he found himself called upon to make 
 a decision, and greatly interested meantime in the 
 daily increase of Jacqueline's beauty. It was evident 
 she cared for him. After all, it was doing the little 
 thing no harm to let her live on in the intoxication of 
 vanity and hope, and to give her something to dwell 
 upon in her innocent dreams. Never did Gerard 
 allow himself to overstep the line he had marked out 
 for himself; a glance, a slight pressure of the hand, 
 which might have been intentional, or have meant 
 
 [188]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 nothing, a few ambiguous words in which an active 
 imagination might find something to dream about, a 
 certain way of passing his arm round her slight waist 
 which would have meant much had it not been done in 
 public to the sound of music, were all the proofs the 
 young diplomatist had ever given of an attraction that 
 was real so far as consisted with his complete selfish- 
 ness, joined to his professional prudence, and that 
 systematic habit of taking up fancies at any time for 
 anything, which prevents each fancy as it occurs from 
 ripening into passion. 
 
 He alluded indirectly to Fred's departure in a way 
 that turned it into ridicule. While playing a game of 
 boston he whispered into Jacqueline's ear something 
 about the old-fashionedness and stupidity of Paul and 
 Virginia, and his opinion of "calf-love," as the Eng- 
 lish call an early attachment, and something about the 
 right of every girl to know a suitor long before she con- 
 sents to marry him. He said he thought that the days 
 of courtship must be the most delightful in the life of 
 a woman, and that a man who wished to cut them 
 short was a fellow without delicacy or discretion! 
 
 From this Jacqueline drew the conclusion that he 
 was not willing to resemble such a fellow, and was 
 more and more persuaded that there was tenderness 
 in the way he pressed her waist, and that his voice had 
 the softness of a caress when he spoke to her. He 
 made many inquiries as to what she liked and what 
 she wished for in the future, as if his great object in 
 all things was to anticipate her wishes. As for his 
 intimacy with Madame de Villegry, Jacqueline thought
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 nothing of it, notwithstanding her habitual mistrust of 
 those she called old women. In the first place, Ma- 
 dame de Villegry was her own mistress, nothing hin- 
 dered them from having been married long ago had 
 they wished it; besides, had not Madame de Villegry 
 brought the young man to their house and let every 
 one see, even Jacqueline herself, what was her object 
 in doing so ? In this matter she was their ally, a most 
 zealous and kind ally, for she was continually advising 
 her young friend as to what was most becoming to her 
 and how she might make herself most attractive to men 
 in general, with little covert allusions to the particular 
 tastes of Gerard, which she said she knew as well as 
 if he had been her brother. 
 
 All this was lightly insinuated, but never insisted 
 upon, with the tact which stood Madame de Villegry 
 in stead of talent, and which had enabled her to per- 
 form some marvellous feats upon the tight-rope with- 
 out losing her balance completely. She, too, made fun 
 of the tragic determination of Fred, which all those 
 who composed the society of the De Nailles had been 
 made aware of by the indiscreet lamentations of Ma- 
 dame d'Argy. 
 
 " Is not Jacqueline fortunate ? " cried Colette Odinska, 
 who, herself always on a high horse, looked on love in 
 its tragic aspect, and would have liked to resemble 
 Marie Stuart as much as she could, "is she not for- 
 tunate ? She has had a man who has gone abroad to 
 get himself killed and all for her!" 
 
 Colette imagined herself under the same circum- 
 stances, making the most of a slain lover, with a crape 
 
 [190]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 veil covering her fair hair, her mourning copied from 
 that of her divorced sister, who wore her weeds so 
 charmingly, but who was getting rather tired of a 
 single life. 
 
 As for Miss Kate Sparks and Miss Nora, they could 
 not understand why the breaking of half-a-dozen hearts 
 should not be the prelude to every marriage. That, 
 they said with much conviction, was always the case in 
 America, and a girl was thought all the more of who 
 had done so. 
 
 Jacqueline, however, thought more than was reason- 
 able about the dangers that the friend of her childhood 
 was going to encounter through her fault. Fred's 
 departure would have lent him a certain prestige, had 
 not a powerful new interest stepped in to divert her 
 thoughts. Madame d'Avrigny was getting up her 
 annual private theatricals, and wanted Jacqueline to 
 take the principal part in the play, saying that she 
 ought to put her lessons in elocution to some use. 
 The piece chosen was to illustrate a proverb, and was 
 entirely new. It was as unexceptionable as it was 
 amusing; the most severe critic could have found no 
 fault with its morality or with its moral, which turned 
 on the eagerness displayed by young girls nowadays 
 to obtain diplomas. Scylla and Charybdis was its 
 name. Its story was that of a young bride, who, 
 thinking to please a husband, a stupid and ignorant 
 man, was trying to obtain in secret a high place in the 
 examination at the Sorbonne un brevet superieur. 
 The husband, disquieted by the mystery, is at first 
 suspicious, then jealous, and then is overwhelmed 
 
 [191]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 with humiliation when he discovers that his wife knows 
 more of everything than himself. He ends by implor- 
 ing her to give up her higher education if she wishes 
 to please him. The little play had all the modern 
 loveliness and grace which Octave Feuillet alone can 
 give, and it contained a lesson from which any one 
 might profit; which was by no means always the case 
 with Madame d'Avrigny's plays, which too often were 
 full of risky allusions, of critical situations, and the 
 like; likely, in short, to "sail too close to the wind," 
 as Fred had once described them. But Madame 
 d'Avrigny's prime object was the amusement of society, 
 and society finds pleasure in things which, if innocence 
 understood them, would put her to the blush. This 
 play, however, was an exception. There had been 
 very little to cut out this time. Madame de Nailles 
 had been asked to take the mother's part, but she 
 declined, not caring to act such a character in a house 
 where years before in all her glory she had made a 
 sensation as a young coquette. So Madame d'Avrigny 
 had to take the part herself, not sorry to be able to 
 superintend everything on the stage, and to prompt 
 Dolly, if necessary Dolly, who had but four words to 
 say, which she always forgot, but who looked lovely 
 in a little cap as a femme de chambre. 
 
 People had been surprised that M. de Cymier should 
 have asked for the part of the husband, a local magis- 
 trate, stiff and self-important, whom everybody laughed 
 at. Jacqueline alone knew w r hy he had chosen it: it 
 would give him the opportunity of giving her two 
 kisses. Of course those kisses were to be reserved for 
 
 [192]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 the representation, but whether intentionally or other- 
 wise, the young husband ventured upon them at every 
 rehearsal, in spite of the general outcry not, however, 
 very much in earnest, for it is well understood that in 
 private theatricals certain liberties may be allowed, 
 and M. de Cymier had never been remarkable for 
 reserve when he acted at the clubs, where the female 
 parts were taken by ladies from the smaller theatres. 
 In this school he had acquired some reputation as an 
 amateur actor. "Besides," as he remarked on making 
 his apology, "we shall do it very awkwardly upon the 
 stage if we are not allowed to practise it beforehand." 
 Jacqueline burst out laughing, and did not make much 
 show of opposition. To play the part of his wife, to 
 hear him say tu to her, to respond with the affectionate 
 and familiar toi, was so amusing! It was droll to see 
 her cut out her husband in chemistry, history, and 
 grammar, and make him confound La Fontaine with 
 Corneille. She had such a little air while doing it! 
 And at the close, when he said to her: "If I give you 
 a pony to-morrow, and a good hearty kiss this very 
 minute, shall you be willing to give up getting that 
 degree?" she responded, with such gusto: "Indeed, I 
 shall!" and her manner was so eager, so boyish, so 
 full of fun, that she was wildly applauded, while 
 Gerard embraced her as heartily as he liked, to make 
 up to himself for her having had, as his wife, the upper 
 hand. 
 
 All this kissing threw him rather off his balance, 
 and he might soon have sealed his fate, had not a very 
 sad event occurred, which restored his self-possession. 
 13 [ J 93 ]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 The dress rehearsal was to take place one bright 
 spring day at about four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 A large number of guests was assembled at the house 
 of Madame d'Avrigny. The performance had been 
 much talked about beforehand in society. The beauty, 
 the singing, and the histrionic powers of the principal 
 actress had been everywhere extolled. Fully conscious 
 of what was expected of her, and eager to do herself 
 credit in every way, Jacqueline took advantage of 
 Madame Strahlberg's presence to run over a little 
 song, which she was to sing between the acts and 
 in which she could see no meaning whatever. This 
 little song, which, to most of the ladies present, seemed 
 simply idiotic, made the men in the audience cry 
 "Oh!" as if half-shocked, and then "Encore! Encore!" 
 in a sort of frenzy. It was a so-called pastoral effu- 
 sion, in which Colinette rhymed with herbette, and in 
 which the false innocence of the eighteenth century 
 was a cloak for much indelicate allusion. 
 
 "I never," said Jacqueline in self-defense, before 
 she began the song, "sang anything so stupid. And 
 that is saying much when one thinks of all the non- 
 sensical words that people set to music ! It's a marvel 
 how any one can like this stuff. Do tell me what there 
 is in it?" she added, turning to Gerard, who was 
 charmed by her ignorance. 
 
 Standing beside the grand piano, with her arms 
 waving as she sang, repeating, by the expression of 
 her eyes, the question she had asked and to which she 
 had received no answer, she was singing the verses 
 she considered nonsense with as much point as if she
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 had understood them, thanks to the hints given her 
 by Madame Strahlberg, who was playing her ac- 
 companiment, when the entrance of a servant, who 
 pronounced her name aloud, made a sudden interrup- 
 tion. "Mademoiselle de Nailles is wanted at home 
 at once. Modeste has come for her." 
 
 Madame d'Avrigny went out to say to the old ser- 
 vant: "She can not possibly go home with you! It is 
 only half an hour since she came. The rehearsal is 
 just beginning." 
 
 But something Modeste said in answer made her 
 give a little cry, full of consternation. She came 
 quickly back, and going up to Jacqueline : 
 
 "My dear," she said, "you must go home at once 
 there is bad news, your father is ill." 
 
 "111?" 
 
 The solemnity of Madame d'Avrigny's voice, the 
 pity in her expression, the affection with which she 
 spoke and above all her total indifference to the fate 
 of her rehearsal, frightened Jacqueline. She rushed 
 away, not waiting to say good-by, leaving behind her 
 a general murmur of "Poor thing!" while Madame 
 d'Avrigny, recovering from her first shock, was already 
 beginning to wonder her instincts as an impresario 
 coming once more to the front whether the leading 
 part might not be taken by Isabelle Ray. She would 
 have to send out two hundred cards, at least, and put 
 off her play for another fortnight. What a pity! It 
 seemed as if misfortunes always happened just so as 
 to interfere with pleasures. 
 
 The fiacre which had brought Modeste was at 
 [i95]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 the door. The old nurse helped her young lady 
 into it. 
 
 "What has happened to papa?" cried Jacqueline, 
 impetuously. 
 
 There was something horrible in this sudden transi- 
 tion from gay excitement to the sharpest anxiety. 
 
 "Nothing that is to say he is very sick. Don't 
 tremble like that, my darling courage!" stammered 
 Modeste, who was frightened by her agitation. 
 
 "He was taken sick, you say. Where? How hap- 
 pened it?" 
 
 "In his study. Pierre had just brought him his 
 letters. We thought we heard a noise as if a chair 
 had been thrown down, and a sort of cry. I ran in 
 to see. He was lying at full length on the floor." 
 
 "And now? How is he now?" 
 
 "We did what we could for him. Madame came 
 back. He is lying on his bed." 
 
 Modeste covered her face with her hands. 
 
 "You have not told me all. What else?" 
 
 "Mon Dieu! you knew your poor father had heart 
 disease. The last time the doctor saw him he thought 
 his legs had swelled " 
 
 "Had!" Jacqueline heard only that one word. It 
 meant that the life of her father was a thing of the past. 
 Hardly waiting till the fiacre could be stopped, she 
 sprang out, rushed into the house, opened the door of 
 her father's chamber, pushing aside a servant who 
 tried to stop her, and fell upon her knees beside the 
 bed where lay the body of her father, white and rigid. 
 
 "Papa! My poor dear dear papa!" 
 [196]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 The hand she pressed to her lips was as cold as ice. 
 She raised her frightened eyes to the face over which 
 the great change from life to death had passed. " What 
 does it mean?" Jacqueline had never looked on 
 death before, but she knew this was not sleep. 
 
 "Oh, speak to me, papa! It is I it is Jacqueline!" 
 
 Her stepmother tried to raise her tried to fold her 
 in her arms. 
 
 "Let me alone!" she cried with horror. 
 
 It seemed to her as if her father, where he was now, 
 so far from her, so far from everything, might have 
 the power to look into human hearts, and know the 
 perfidy he had known nothing of when he was living. 
 He might see in her own heart, too, her great despair. 
 All else seemed small and of no consequence when 
 death was present. 
 
 Oh! why had she not been a better daughter, more 
 loving, more devoted? why had she ever cared for 
 anything but to make him happy? 
 
 She sobbed aloud, while Madame de Nailles, press- 
 ing her handkerchief to her eyes, stood at the foot of 
 the bed, and the doctor, too, was near, whispering to 
 some one whom Jacqueline at first had not perceived 
 the friend of the family, Hubert Marien. 
 
 Marien there ? Was it not natural that, so intimate 
 as he had always been with the dead man, he should 
 have hastened to offer his services to the widow ? 
 
 Jacqueline flung herself upon her father's corpse, as 
 if to protect it from profanation. She had an impulse 
 to bear it away with her to some desert spot where she 
 alone could have wept over it.
 
 BENTZON 
 
 She lay thus a long time, beside herself with grief. 
 
 The flowers which covered the bed and lay scattered 
 on the floor, gave a festal appearance to the death- 
 chamber. They had been purchased for a fdte, but 
 circumstances had changed their destination. That 
 evening there was to have been a reception in the house 
 of M. de Nailles, but the unexpected guest that comes 
 without an invitation had arrived before the music 
 and the dancers. 
 
 [198]
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 
 
 fONSIEUR DE NAILLES was dead, 
 struck down suddenly by what is 
 called indefinitely heart-failure. The 
 trouble in that organ from which 
 he had long suffered had brought 
 on what might have been long 
 foreseen, and yet every one seemed 
 stupefied by the event. It came upon 
 them like a thunderbolt. It often happens so when 
 people who are really ill persist in doing all that may be 
 done with safety by other persons. They persuaded 
 themselves, and those about them are easily persuaded, 
 that small remedies will prolong indefinitely a state of 
 things which is precarious to the last degree. Friends 
 are ready to believe, when the sufferer complains that 
 his work is too hard for him, that he thinks too much 
 of his ailments and that he exaggerates trifles to which 
 they are well accustomed, but which are best known to 
 him alone. When M. de Nailles, several weeks before 
 his death, had asked to be excused and to stay at home 
 instead of attending some large gathering, his wife, and 
 even Jacqueline, would try to convince him that a little 
 amusement would be good for him; they were unwil- 
 ling to leave him to the repose he needed, prescribed
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 for him by the doctors, who had been unanimous that 
 he must "put down the brakes," give less attention 
 to business, avoid late hours and over-exertion of all 
 kinds. "And, above all," said one of the lights of 
 science whom he had consulted recently about cer- 
 tain feelings of faintness which were a bad symptom, 
 "above all, you must keep yourself from mental 
 anxiety." 
 
 How could he, when his fortune, already much im- 
 paired, hung on chances as uncertain as those in a 
 game of roulette? What nonsense! The failure of a 
 great financial company had brought about a crisis on 
 the Bourse. The news of the inability of Wermant, the 
 agent de change, to meet his engagements, had com- 
 pleted the downfall of M. de Nailles. Not only death, 
 but ruin, had entered that house, where, a few hours 
 before, luxury and opulence had seemed to reign. 
 
 "We don't know whether there will be anything left 
 for us to live upon," cried Madame de Nailles, with an- 
 guish, even while her husband's body lay in the cham- 
 ber of death, and Jacqueline, kneeling beside it, wept, 
 unwilling to receive comfort or consolation. 
 
 She turned angrily upon her stepmother and cried : 
 
 "What matter? I have no father there is nothing 
 else I care for." 
 
 But from that moment a dreadful thought, a thought 
 she was ashamed of, which made her feel a monster of 
 selfishness, rose in her mind, do what she would to hin- 
 der it. Jacqueline was sensible that she cared for 
 something else; great as was her sense of loss, a sort of 
 reckless curiosity seemed haunting her, while all the
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 time she felt that her great grief ought not to give place 
 to anything besides. "How would Gerard de Cymier 
 behave in these circumstances?" She thought about it 
 all one dreadful night as she and Modeste, who was 
 telling her beads softly, sat in the faint light of the 
 death-chamber. She thought of it at dawn, when, after 
 one of those brief sleeps which come to the young under 
 all conditions, she resumed with a sigh a sense of sur- 
 rounding realities. Almost in the same instant she 
 thought: "My dear father will never wake again," and 
 "Does he love me? does he now wish me to be his 
 wife? will he take me away?" The devil, which put 
 this thought into her heart, made her eager to know the 
 answer to these questions. He suggested how dreadful 
 life with her stepmother would be if no means of escape 
 were offered her. He made her foresee that her step- 
 mother would marry again would marry Marien. 
 "But I shall not be there!" she cried, "I will not coun- 
 tenance such an infamy!" Oh, how she hoped Gerard 
 de Cymier loved her! The hypocritical tears of Ma- 
 dame de Nailles disgusted her. She could not bear to 
 have such false grief associated with her own. 
 
 Men in black, with solemn faces, came and bore 
 away the body, no longer like the form of the father she 
 had loved. He had gone from her forever. Pompous 
 funeral rites, little in accordance with the crash that 
 soon succeeded them, were superintended by Marien, 
 who, in the absence of near relatives, took charge of 
 everything. He seemed to be deeply affected, and be- 
 haved with all possible kindness and consideration to 
 Jacqueline, who could not, however, bring herself to 
 
 [201]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 thank him, or even to look at him. She hated him with 
 an increase of resentment, as if the soul of her dead 
 father, who now knew the truth, had passed into her 
 own. 
 
 Meantime, M. de Cymier took care to inform him- 
 self of the state of things. It was easy enough to do so. 
 All Paris was talking of the shipwreck in which life and 
 fortune had been lost by a man whose kindliness as 
 a host at his wife's parties every one had appreciated. 
 That was what came, people said, of striving after big 
 dividends! The house was to be sold, with the horses, 
 the pictures, and the furniture. What a change for his 
 poor wife and daughter! There were others who suf- 
 fered by the Wermant crash, but those were less inter- 
 esting than the De Nailles. M. de Belvan found himself 
 left by his father-in-law's failure with a wife on his 
 hands who not only had not a sou, but who was the 
 daughter of an agent de change who had behaved 
 dishonorably. 
 
 This was a text for dissertations on the disgrace of 
 marrying for money; those who had done the same 
 thing, minus the same consequences, being loudest in 
 reprobating alliances of that kind. M. de Cymier lis- 
 tened attentively to such talk, looking and saying the 
 right things, and as he heard more and more about the 
 deplorable condition of M. de Nailles' s affairs, he con- 
 gratulated himself that a prudent presentiment had 
 kept him from asking the hand of Jacqueline. He had 
 had vague doubts as to the firm foundation of the opu- 
 lence which made so charming a frame for her young 
 beauty ; it seemed to him as if she were now less beauti- 
 
 [ 202 ]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 ful than he had imagined her; the enchantment she 
 had exercised upon him was thrown off by simple con- 
 siderations of good sense. And yet he gave a long sigh 
 of regret when he thought she was unattainable except 
 by marriage. He, however, thanked heaven that he had 
 not gone far enough to have compromised himself with 
 her. The most his conscience could reproach him with 
 was an occasional imprudence in moments of forget- 
 fulness; no court of honor could hold him bound to 
 declare himself her suitor. The evening that he made 
 up his mind to this he wrote two letters, very nearly 
 alike; one was to Madame d'Avrigny, the other to Ma- 
 dame de Nailles, announcing that, having received 
 orders to join the Embassy to which he was attached 
 at Vienna, he was about to depart at once, with great 
 regret that he should not be able to take leave of any 
 one. To Madame d'Avrigny he made apologies for 
 having to give up his part in her theatricals; he en- 
 treated Madame de Nailles to accept both for herself 
 and for Mademoiselle Jacqueline his deepest condo- 
 lences and the assurance of his sympathy. The man- 
 ner in which this was said was all it ought to have been, 
 except that it might have been rather more brief. M. 
 de Cymier said more than was necessary about his par- 
 ticipation in their grief, because he was conscious of 
 a total lack of sympathy. He begged the ladies would 
 forgive him if, from feelings of delicacy and a sense of 
 the respect due to a great sorrow, he did not, before 
 leaving Paris, which he was about do to probably for a 
 long time, personally present to them ses hommages 
 attristes. Then followed a few lines in which he spoke 
 
 [203]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 of the pleasant recollections he should always retain of 
 the hospitality he had enjoyed under M. de Nailles's 
 roof, in a way that gave them clearly to understand 
 that he had no expectation of ever entering their family 
 on a more intimate footing. 
 
 Madame de Nailles received this letter just as she 
 had had a conversation with a man of business, who 
 had shown her how complete was the ruin for which in 
 a great measure she herself was responsible. She had 
 no longer any illusions as to her position. When the 
 estate had been settled there would be nothing left but 
 poverty, not only for herself, who, having brought her 
 husband no dot, had no right to consider herself wronged 
 by the bankruptcy, but for Jacqueline, whose fortune, 
 derived from her mother, had suffered under her fa- 
 ther's management (there are such men unfaithful 
 guardians of a child's property, but yet good fathers) 
 in every way in which it was possible to evade the pro- 
 visions of the Code intended to protect the rights of 
 minor children. In the little salon so charmingly fur- 
 nished, where never before had sorrow or sadness been 
 discussed, Madame de Nailles poured out her com- 
 plaints to her stepdaughter and insisted upon plans of 
 strict economy, when M. de Cymier's letter was brought 
 in. 
 
 "Read!" said the Baroness, handing the strange 
 document to Jacqueline, after she had read it 
 through. 
 
 Then she leaned back in her chair wren a gesture 
 which signified: "This is the last straw!" and re- 
 mained motionless, apparently overwhelmed, with her 
 
 [204]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 face covered by one hand, but furtively watching the 
 face of the girl so cruelly forsaken. 
 
 That face told nothing, for pride supplies some suf- 
 ferers with necessary courage. Jacqueline sat for some 
 time with her eyes fixed on the decisive adieu which 
 swept away what might have been her secret hcpc. 
 The paper did not tremble in her hand, a half -smile of 
 contempt passed over her mouth. The answer to the 
 restless question that had intruded itself upon her in 
 the first moments of her grief was now before her. Its 
 promptness, its polished brutality, had given her a 
 shock, but not the pain she had expected. Perhaps her 
 great grief the real, the true, the grief death brings 
 recovered its place in her heart, and prevented her 
 from feeling keenly any secondary emotion. Perhaps 
 this man, who could pay court to her in her days of 
 happiness and disappear when the first trouble came, 
 seemed to her not worth caring for. 
 
 She silently handed back the letter to her stepmother. 
 
 "No more than I expected," said the Baroness. 
 
 "Indeed?" replied Jacqueline with complete in- 
 difference. She wished to give no opening to any ex- 
 pressions 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 prac- 
 tise artifice, and who found bitter amusement in watch- 
 ing the girl's assumed sang-froid. But the mask fell off
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 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 bitter- 
 ness of a cruel, humiliating desertion. Long talks en- 
 sued 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 win- 
 dows 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 Benedic- 
 tine 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, 
 
 [206]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 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 affec- 
 tion 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 con- 
 clusion 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 moth- 
 er, 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 contradic- 
 tory 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 
 
 [207]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 those who had brought him into peril could not be pun- 
 ished 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 be- 
 tween 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 him- 
 self 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 show- 
 ing 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 
 
 [208]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 mixed feeling of forgiveness and revenge contended to- 
 gether 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 aban- 
 dons those who are overtaken by misfortune, all the 
 friends of the De Nailles flocked to offer their condo- 
 lences to the widow and the orphan with warm demon- 
 strations 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 sen- 
 timents, 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 
 14 [ 209 ]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 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; Grand - 
 chaux was loaded down with mortgages and would 
 bring almost nothing at a forced sale. 
 
 Everybody forgot that had M. de Nailles's specula- 
 tions been successful they would have been called 
 matters of business, conducted with great ability on a 
 large scale. When a performer falls from the tight- 
 rope, 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 resolu- 
 tion 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 theatri- 
 cals 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 ! 
 
 [210]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 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 blam- 
 ing 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 amuse- 
 ment 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 fool- 
 ish 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 
 
 [211]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 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'Eta- 
 ples, " would be for the mother and daughter to keep to- 
 gether, 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 dis- 
 cussions, 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. 
 
 [212]
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 BITTER DISILLUSION 
 
 OME 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 cer- 
 tain 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 con- 
 front 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 noth- 
 ing of the pleasure ladies boarding in nunneries are 
 sure to feel on reentering the world, at recovering their 
 
 [213]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 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 com- 
 mitted 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 at- 
 taining 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 Dursue 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 noth- 
 ing 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 inter- 
 ests. 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. 
 
 [214]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Thus, at eighteen, youth is ready to set sail in a light 
 skiff on a rough sea, having laid in a good store of im- 
 agination 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 Jacque- 
 line had provided herself beforehand with some double- 
 edged remarks by way of weapons, which she intended 
 to use according to circumstances. But all these prepa- 
 rations for defense or attack proved unnecessary. When 
 she told the Baroness of her plans she met with no op- 
 position. She had expected that her project of separa- 
 tion 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 com- 
 panionship 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 cer- 
 tain conditions: they would save appearances; they 
 
 [215]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 would remain on outwardly good terms with each other 
 whatever happened, and above all they would avoid 
 any explanation. This programme was faithfully car- 
 ried 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 re- 
 tained 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 par- 
 ties, 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 be- 
 cause 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 
 
 [216]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 by the lay sisters, content with having no salon but the 
 convent parlor, who was passing examinations to be- 
 come 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 hero- 
 ine in a novel. And indeed Jacqueline had the agree- 
 able sensation of considering herself one. Public ad- 
 miration 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, walk- 
 ing only in the grounds and gardens, which were of con- 
 siderable 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 
 
 [217]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 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 appear- 
 ance of a lady, fair and with light hair, very pretty and 
 about her own age, gave her for the first time an in- 
 clination 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 par- 
 tition 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 ad- 
 venturer. 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 stran- 
 ger some holy water when they met in the chapel, a 
 bow and a smile were interchanged, their fingers 
 
 [218]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 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 pre- 
 sided 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 re- 
 quested 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 an- 
 
 [219]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 swer. Her intercourse with her neighbor was thence- 
 forward, 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 gar- 
 den, 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 coinci- 
 ded with what she called her choice of a career. Think- 
 ing 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! Be- 
 sides 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 kind- 
 nesses 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 
 
 [220]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 strings, which, when she first put it on her head, made 
 her burst out laughing. She imagined herself to be go- 
 ing forth in disguise. To walk the streets thus masked 
 she thought would be amusing, so amusing that the mo- 
 ment 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 fol- 
 low 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 Ma- 
 dame 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 ad- 
 dressed to a lieutenant of chasseurs with an aristocratic 
 name, in a garrison at Fontainebleau. 
 
 Then Jacqueline began vaguely to comprehend that 
 Madame Saville's husband might have had serious rea- 
 sons for commending his wife to the surveillance of the 
 nuns, and that there might have been some excuse for 
 their endeavoring to hinder all intimacy between her- 
 self and the little blonde. 
 
 This office of messenger, thrust upon her without 
 asking permission, was not agreeable to Jacqueline, and 
 she resolved as she dropped the missive, which, even 
 on the outside, looked compromising, into the nearest 
 post-box, to be more reserved in future. For which 
 reason she responded coldly to a sign Madame Saville
 
 BENTZON 
 
 made her when, in the evening, she returned from giv- 
 ing her lessons. 
 
 Those lessons those excursions which took her 
 abroad in all weathers, though with praiseworthy and 
 serious motives, into the fashionable parts of Paris, 
 from which she had exiled herself by her own will were 
 greatly enjoyed by Jacqueline. Everything amused 
 her, being seen from a point of view in which she had 
 never before contemplated it. She seemed to be at a 
 play, all personal interests forgotten for the moment, 
 looking at the world of which she was no longer a part 
 with a lively, critical curiosity, without regrets but with- 
 out cynicism. The world did not seem to her bad 
 only man's higher instincts had little part in it. Such, 
 at least, was what she thought, so long as people praised 
 her for her courage, so long as the houses in which an- 
 other Jacqueline de Nailles had been once so brilliant, 
 received her with affection as before, though she had 
 to leave in an anteroom her modest waterproof or wet 
 umbrella. They were even more kind and cordial to 
 her than ever, unless an exaggerated cordiality be one 
 form of impertinence. But the enthusiasm bestowed 
 on splendid instances of energy in certain circles, to 
 which after all such energy is a reproach, is superficial, 
 and not being genuine is sure not to last long. Some 
 people said that Jacqueline's staid manners were put 
 on for effect, and that she was only attempting to play 
 a difficult part to which she was not suited; others 
 blamed her for not being up to concert-pitch in matters 
 of social interest. The first time she felt the pang of 
 exclusion was at Madame d'Avrigny's, who was at the 
 
 222
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 same moment overwhelming her with expressions of 
 regard. In the first place, she could see that the little 
 family dinner to which she had been so kindly invited 
 was attended by so many guests that her deep mourn- 
 ing seemed out of place among them. Then Madame 
 d'Avrigny would make whispered explanations, which 
 Jacqueline was conscious of, and which were very pain- 
 ful to her. Such words as: " Old friend of the family;" 
 "Is giving music lessons to my daughter;" fell more 
 than once upon her ear, followed by exclamations of: 
 "Poor thing!" "So courageous!" "Chivalric senti- 
 ments!" Of course, everyone added that they excused 
 her toilette. Then when she tried to escape such re- 
 marks by wearing a new gown, Dolly, who was always 
 a little fool (there is no cure for that infirmity) cried out 
 in a tone such as she never would have dared to use in 
 the days when Jacqueline was a model of elegance: 
 "Oh, how fine you are!" Then again, Madame 
 d'Avrigny, notwithstanding the good manners on which 
 she prided herself, could not conceal that the obligation 
 of sending home the recluse to the ends of the earth, at 
 a certain hour, made trouble with her servants, who 
 were put out of their way. Jacqueline seized on this 
 pretext to propose to give up the Monday music-lesson, 
 and after some polite hesitation her offer was accepted, 
 evidently to Madame d'Avrigny's relief. 
 
 In this case she had the satisfaction of being the one 
 to propose the discontinuance of the lessons. At Ma- 
 dame Ray's she was simply dismissed. About the close 
 of winter she was told that as Isabelle was soon to be 
 married she would have no time for music till her wed- 
 
 [223]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 ding was over, and about the same time the d'Etaples 
 told her much the same thing. This was not to be 
 wondered at, for Mademoiselle Ray was engaged to an 
 officer of dragoons, the same Marcel d'Etaples who had 
 acted with her in Scylla and Charybdis, and Madame 
 Ray, being a watchful mother, was not long in per- 
 ceiving that Marcel came to pay court to Isabelle too 
 frequently at the hour for her music-lesson. Madame 
 d'Etaples on her part had made a similar discovery, 
 and both judged that the presence of so beautiful a girl, 
 in Jacqueline's position, might not be desirable in these 
 interviews between lovers. 
 
 When Giselle, as she was about to leave town for the 
 country in July, begged Jacqueline, who seemed run 
 down and out of spirits, to come and stay with her, the 
 poor child was very glad to accept the invitation. Her 
 pupils were leaving her one after another, she could not 
 understand why, and she was bored to death in the con- 
 vent, whose strict rules were drawn tighter on her than 
 before, for the nuns had begun to understand her better, 
 and to discover the real worldliness of her character. 
 At the same time, that retreat within these pious walls 
 no longer seemed like paradise to Jacqueline; her 
 transition from the deepest crape to the softer tints of 
 half mourning, seemed to make her less of an angel in 
 their eyes. They said to each other that Mademoiselle 
 de Nailles was fanciful, and fancies are the very last 
 things wanted in a convent, for fancies can brave bolts, 
 and make their escape beyond stone walls, whatever 
 means may be taken to clip their wings. 
 
 "She does not seem like the same person," cried the 
 [224]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 good sisters, who had been greatly edified at first by her 
 behavior, and who were almost ready now to be shocked 
 at her. 
 
 The course of things was coming back rapidly into 
 its natural channel; in obedience to the law which 
 makes a tree, apparently dead, put forth shoots in 
 springtime. And that inevitable re-budding and re- 
 blossoming was beautiful to see in this young human 
 plant. M. de Talbrun, Jacqueline's host, could not 
 fail to perceive it. At first he had been annoyed with 
 Giselle for giving the invitation, having a habit of 
 finding fault with everything he had not ordered or 
 suggested, by virtue of his marital authority, and also 
 because he hated above all things, as he said, to have 
 people in his house who were "wobegones." But in a 
 week he was quite reconciled to the idea of keeping 
 Mademoiselle de Nailles all the summer at the Chateau 
 de Fresne. Never had Giselle known him to take so 
 much trouble to be amiable, and indeed Jacqueline saw 
 him much more to advantage at home than in Paris, 
 where, as she had often said, he diffused too strong an 
 odor of the stables. At Fresne, it was more easy to for- 
 give him for talking always of his stud and of his ken- 
 nel, and then he was so obliging! Every day he pro- 
 posed some new jaunt, an excursion to see some view, 
 to visit all the ruined chdteaux or abbeys in the neigh- 
 borhood. And, with surprising delicacy, M. de Tal- 
 brun refrained from inviting too many of his country 
 neighbors, who might perhaps have scared Jacqueline 
 and arrested her gradual return to gayety. They might 
 also have interrupted his tete-a-tete with his wife's guest, 
 *5 [ 22 5]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 for they had many such conversations. Giselle was 
 absorbed in the duty of teaching her son his a, b, c. 
 Besides, being very timid, she had never ridden on 
 horseback, and, naturally, riding was delightful to her 
 cousin. Jacqueline was never tired of it; while she 
 paid as little attention to the absurd remarks Oscar 
 made to her between their gallops as a girl does at a 
 ball to the idle words of her partner. She supposed it 
 was his custom to talk in that manner a sort of rough 
 gallantry but with the best intentions. Jacqueline 
 was disposed to look upon her life at Fresne as a feast 
 after a long famine. Everything was to her taste, the 
 whole appearance of this lordly chateau of the time of 
 Louis XIII, the splendid trees in the home park, the 
 gardens laid out a la Fran$aise, decorated with art and 
 kept up carefully. Everything, indeed, that pertained 
 to that high life which to Giselle had so little impor- 
 tance, was to her delightful. Giselle's taste was so 
 simple that it was a constant subject of reproach from 
 her husband. To be sure, it was with him a general 
 rule to find fault with her about everything. He did 
 not spare her his reproaches on a multitude of subjects; 
 all day long he was worrying her about small trifles 
 with which he should have had nothing to do. It is a 
 mistake to suppose that a man can not be brutal and 
 fussy at the same time. M. de Talbrun was proof to 
 the contrary. 
 
 "You are too patient," said Jacqueline often to 
 Giselle. "You ought to answer him back to defend 
 yourself. I am sure if you did so you would have him, 
 by-and-bye, at your beck and call." 
 
 [226]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Perhaps so. I dare say you could have managed 
 better than I do," replied Giselle, with a sad smile, but 
 without a spark of jealousy. "Oh, you are in high 
 favor. He gave up this week the races at Deauville, 
 the great race week from which he has never before been 
 absent, since our marriage. But you see my ambition 
 has become limited; I am satisfied if he lets me alone." 
 Giselle spoke these words with emphasis, and then she 
 added: "and lets me bring up his son my own way. 
 That is all I ask." 
 
 Jacqueline thought in her heart that it was wrong to 
 ask so little, that poor Giselle did not know how to 
 make the best of her husband, and, curious to find out 
 what line of conduct would serve best to subjugate M. 
 de Talbrun, she became herself that is to say, a born 
 coquette venturing from one thing to another, like a 
 child playing fearlessly with a bulldog, who is gentle 
 only with him, or a fly buzzing round a spider's web, 
 while the spider lies quietly within. 
 
 She would tease him, contradict him, and make him 
 listen to long pieces of scientific music as she played 
 them on the piano, when she knew he always said that 
 music to him was nothing but a disagreeable noise; 
 she would laugh at his thanks when a final chord, struck 
 with her utmost force, roused him from a brief slum- 
 ber; in short, it amused her to prove that this coarse, 
 rough man was to her alone no object of fear. She 
 would have done better had she been afraid. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that, as they rode together 
 through some of the prettiest roads in the most beautiful 
 part of Normandy, M. de Talbrun began to talk, with 
 
 [227]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 an ever-increasing vivacity, of the days when they first 
 met at Treport, relating a thousand little incidents 
 which Jacqueline had forgotten, and from which it was 
 easy to see that he had watched her narrowly, though 
 he was on the eve of his own marriage. With unneces- 
 sary persistence, and stammering as he was apt to do 
 when moved by any emotion, he repeated over and over 
 again, that from the first moment he had seen her he 
 had been struck by her devilishly struck by her he 
 had been, indeed! And one day when she answered, in 
 order not to appear to attach any importance to this 
 declaration, that she was very glad of it, he took an 
 opportunity, as their horses stopped side by side before 
 a beautiful sunset, to put his arm suddenly round her 
 waist, and give her a kiss, so abrupt, so violent, so out- 
 rageous, that she screamed aloud. He did not remove 
 his arm from her, his coarse, red face drew near her own 
 again with an expression that filled her with horror. 
 She struggled to free herself, her horse began to rear, 
 she screamed for help with all her might, but nothing 
 answered her save an echo. The situation seemed crit- 
 ical for Jacqueline. As to M. de Talbrun, he was quite 
 at his ease, as if he were accustomed to make love like 
 a centaur; while the girl felt herself in peril of being 
 thrown at any moment, and trampled under his horse's 
 feet. At last she succeeded in striking her aggressor 
 a sharp blow across the face with her riding-whip. 
 Blinded for a moment, he let her go, and she took ad- 
 vantage of her release to put her horse to its full speed. 
 He galloped after her, beside himself with wrath and 
 agitation; it was a mad but silent race, until they 
 
 [228]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 reached the gate of the Chateau de Fresne, which they 
 entered at the same moment, their horses covered with 
 foam. 
 
 "How foolish!" cried Giselle, coming to meet them. 
 " Just see in what a state you have brought home your 
 poor horses." 
 
 Jacqueline, pale and trembling, made no answer. 
 M. de Talbrun, as he helped her to dismount, whis- 
 pered, savagely: "Not a word of this!" 
 
 At dinner, his wife remarked that some branch must 
 have struck him on the cheek, there was a red mark 
 right across his face like a blow. 
 
 "We were riding through the woods," he answered, 
 shortly. 
 
 Then Giselle began to suspect something, and re- 
 marked that nobody was talking that evening, asking, 
 with a half-smile, whether they had been quarrelling. 
 
 "We did have a little difference," Oscar replied, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Oh, it did not amount to anything," he said, light- 
 ing his cigar; "let us make friends again, won't you?" 
 he added, holding out his hand to Jacqueline. She 
 was obliged to give him the tips of her fingers, as she 
 said in her turn, with audacity equal to his own : 
 
 "Oh, it was less than nothing. Only, Giselle, I told 
 your husband that I had had some bad news, and shall 
 have to go back to Paris, and he tried to persuade me 
 not to go." 
 
 "I beg you not to go," said Oscar, vehemently. 
 
 "Bad news?" repeated Giselle, "you did not say a 
 word to me about it!" 
 
 [229]
 
 TH&O BENTZON 
 
 "I did not have a chance. My old Modeste is very 
 ill and asks me to come to her. I should never forgive 
 myself if I did not go." 
 
 "What, Modeste? So very ill? Is it really so seri- 
 ous? What a pity! But you will come back again?" 
 
 "If I can. But I must leave Fresne to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 "Oh, I defy you to leave Fresne!" said M. de 
 Talbrun. 
 
 Jacqueline leaned toward him, and said firmly, but 
 in a low voice: "If you attempt to hinder me, I swear 
 I will tell everything." 
 
 All that evening she did not leave Giselle's side for a 
 moment, and at night she locked herself into her cham- 
 ber and barricaded the door, as if a mad dog or a mur- 
 derer were at large in the ch&teau. 
 
 Giselle came into her room at an early hour. 
 
 "Is what you said yesterday the truth, Jacqueline? 
 Is Modeste really ill? Are you sure you have had no 
 reason to complain of anybody in this place? of any 
 one?" 
 
 Then, after a pause, she added: 
 
 "Oh, my darling, how hard it is to do good even to 
 those whom we most dearly love." 
 
 "I don't understand you," said Jacqueline, with an 
 effort. "Everybody has been kind to me." 
 
 They kissed each other with effusion, but M. de Tal- 
 brun's leave-taking was icy in the extreme. Jacque- 
 line had made a mortal enemy. 
 
 The grand outline of the chdteau, built of brick and 
 stone with its wings flanked by towers, the green turf 
 
 [230]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 of the great park in which it stood, passed from her 
 sight as she drove away, like some vision in a dream. 
 
 "I shall never come back never come back!" 
 thought Jacqueline. She felt as if she had been thrust 
 out everywhere. For one moment she thought of seek- 
 ing refuge at Lizerolles, which was not very many miles 
 from the railroad station, and when there of telling 
 Madame d'Argy of her difficulties, and asking her 
 advice; but false pride kept her from doing so the 
 same false pride which had made her write coldly, in 
 answer to the letters full of feeling and sympathy Fred 
 had written to her on receiving news of her father's 
 death. 
 
 [231]
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 TREACHEROUS KINDNESS 
 
 I 
 
 'HE experience through which Jacque- 
 line had just passed was not calcu- 
 lated to fortify her or to elevate her 
 soul. She felt for the first time that 
 her unprotected situation and her 
 poverty exposed her to insult, for 
 what other name could she give to 
 the outrageous behavior of M. de 
 Talbrun, which had degraded her in her own eyes? 
 
 What right had that man to treat her as his play- 
 thing ? Her pride and all her womanly instincts rose 
 up in rebellion. Her nerves had been so shaken that 
 she sobbed behind her veil ail the way to her destina- 
 tion. Paris, when she reached it, offered her almost 
 nothing that could comfort or amuse her. That city is 
 always empty and dull in August, more so than at any 
 other season. Even the poor occupation of teaching 
 her little class of music pupils had been taken away 
 by the holidays. Her sole resource was in Modeste's 
 society. Modeste who, by the way, had never been 
 ill, and who suffered from nothing but old age was 
 delighted to receive her dear young lady in her little 
 room far up under the roof, where, though quite in- 
 firm, she lived comfortably, on her savings. Jacque- 
 line, sitting beside her as she sewed, was soothed by her
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 old nursery tales, or by anecdotes of former days. Her 
 own relatives were often the old woman's theme. She 
 knew the history of Jacqueline's family from beginning 
 to end; but, wherever her story began, it invariably 
 wound up with: 
 
 "If only your poor papa had not made away with all 
 your money!" 
 
 And Jacqueline always answered: 
 
 "He was quite at liberty to do what he pleased with 
 what belonged to him." 
 
 "Belonged to him! Yes, but what belonged to you? 
 And how does it happen that your stepmother seems 
 so well off? Why doesn't some family council inter- 
 fere? My little pet, to think of your having to work 
 for your living. It's enough to kill me!" 
 
 "Bah! Modeste, there are worse things than being 
 poor." 
 
 "Maybe so," answered the old nurse, doubtfully, 
 "but when one has money troubles along with the rest, 
 the money troubles make other things harder to bear; 
 whereas, if you have money enough you can bear any- 
 thing, and you would have had enough, after all, if 
 you had married Monsieur Fred." 
 
 At which point Jacqueline insisted that Modeste 
 should be silent, and answered, resolutely: "I mean 
 never to marry at all." 
 
 To this Modeste made answer: "That's another of 
 your notions. The worst husband is always better 
 than none; and I know, for I never married." 
 
 "That's why you talk such nonsense, my poor dear 
 Modeste! You know nothing about it." 
 
 [ 2 33]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 One day, after one of these visits to the only friend, 
 as she believed, who remained to her in the world for 
 her intimacy with Giselle was spoiled forever she saw, 
 as she walked with a heavy heart toward her convent 
 in a distant quarter, an open fiacre pull up, in obe- 
 dience to a sudden cry from a passenger who was sit- 
 ting inside. The person sprang out, and rushed to- 
 ward Jacqueline with loud exclamations of joy. 
 
 "Madame Strahlberg!" 
 
 "Dear Jacqueline! What a pleasure to meet you!" 
 And, the street being nearly empty, Madame Strahl- 
 berg heartily embraced her friend. 
 
 "I have thought of you so often, darling, for months 
 past they seem like years, like centuries! Where have 
 you been all that long time?" 
 
 In point of fact, Jacqueline had no proof that the 
 three Odinska ladies had ever remembered her exist- 
 ence, but that might have been partly her own fault, 
 or rather the fault of Giselle, who had made her promise 
 to have as little as possible to do with such compromis- 
 ing personages. She was seized with a kind of remorse 
 when she found such warmth of recognition from the 
 amiable Wanda. Had she not shown herself ungrate- 
 ful and cowardly? People about whom the world 
 talks, are they not sometimes quite as good as those 
 who have not lost their standing in society, like M. de 
 Talbrun? It seemed to her that, go where she would, 
 she ran risks. 
 
 The cynicism that is the result of sad experience was 
 beginning to show itself in Jacqueline. 
 
 "Oh, forgive me!" she said, feeling contrite. 
 [234]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Forgive you for what, you beautiful creature?" 
 asked Madame Strahlberg, with sincere astonishment. 
 
 She had the excellent custom of never observing 
 when people neglected her, or at least, of never show- 
 ing that she did so, partly because her life was so full 
 of varied interests that she cared little for such trifles, 
 and secondly because, having endured several affronts 
 of that nature, she had ceased to be very sensitive. 
 
 "I knew, through the d'Avrignys," she said, "that 
 you were still at the convent. You are not going to 
 take the veil there, are you ? It would be a great pity. 
 No ? You wish to lead the life of an intelligent woman 
 who is free and independent ? That is well ; but it was 
 rather an odd idea to begin by going into a cloister. 
 Oh! I see, public opinion?" And Madame Strahl- 
 berg made a little face, expressive of her contempt for 
 public opinion. 
 
 "It does not pay to consult other people's opin- 
 ions it is useless, believe me. The more we sacri- 
 fice to public opinion, the more it asks of us. I 
 cut that matter short long ago. But how glad I 
 am to hear that you don't intend to hide that lovely 
 face in a convent. You are looking better than ever 
 a little too pale, still, perhaps a little too interest- 
 ing. Colette will be so glad to see you, for you must 
 let me take you home with me. I shall carry you off, 
 whether you will or not, now I have caught you. We 
 will have a little music just among ourselves, as we 
 had in the good old times you know, our dear music ; 
 you will feel like yourself again. Ah, art there is 
 nothing to compare with art in this world, my darling!" 
 
 [235]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 Jacqueline yielded without hesitation, only too glad 
 of the unhoped-for good fortune which relieved her 
 from her ennui and her depression. And soon the 
 hired victoria was on its way to that quarter of the city 
 which is made up of streets with geographical names, 
 and seems as if it were intended to lodge all the nations 
 under heaven. It stopped in the Rue de Naples, before 
 a house that was somewhat showy, but which showed 
 from its outside, that it was not inhabited by high- 
 bred people. There were pink linings to lace curtains 
 at the windows, and quantities of green vines drooped 
 from the balconies, as if to attract attention from the 
 passers-by. Madame Strahlberg, with her ostentatious 
 and undulating walk, which caused men to turn and 
 notice her as she went by, went swiftly up the stairs to 
 the second story. She put one finger on the electric 
 bell, which caused two or three little dogs inside to 
 begin barking, and pushed Jacqueline in before her, 
 crying: "Colette! Mamma! See whom I have 
 brought back to you!" Meantime doors were hur- 
 riedly opened, quick steps resounded in the ante- 
 chamber, and the newcomer found herself received 
 with a torrent of affectionate and delighted exclama- 
 tions, pressed to the ample bosom of Madame Odinska, 
 covered with kisses by Colette, and fawned upon by 
 the three toy terriers, the most sociable of their kind 
 in all Paris, their mistresses declared. 
 
 Jacqueline was passing through one of those mo- 
 ments when one is at the mercy of chance, when the 
 heart which has been closed by sorrow suddenly re- 
 vives, expands, and softens under the influence of a ray 
 
 [236]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 of sunshine. Tears came into her eyes, and she mur- 
 mured : 
 
 "My friends my kind friends!" 
 
 "Yes, your friends, whatever happens, now and 
 always," said Colette, eagerly, though she had proba- 
 bly barely given a thought to Jacqueline for eighteen 
 months. Nevertheless, on seeing her, Colette really 
 thought she had not for a moment ceased to be fond 
 of her. "How you have suffered, you poor pussy! 
 We must set to work and make you feel a little gay, 
 at any price. You see, it is our duty. How lucky 
 you came to-day 
 
 A sign from her sister stopped her. 
 
 They carried Jacqueline into a large and handsome 
 salon, full of dust and without curtains, with all the 
 furniture covered up as if the family were on the eve 
 of going to the country. Madame Strahlberg, never- 
 theless, was not about to leave Paris, her habit being 
 to remain there in the summer, sometimes for months, 
 picnicking as it were, in her own apartment. What 
 was curious, too, was that the chandelier and all the 
 side-lights had fresh wax candles, and seats were ar- 
 ranged as if in preparation for a play, while near the 
 grand piano was a sort of stage, shut off from the rest 
 of the room by screens. 
 
 Colette sat down on one of the front row of chairs 
 and cried: "I am the audience I am all ears." Her 
 sister hurriedly explained all this to Jacqueline, with- 
 out waiting to be questioned: "We have been giving 
 some little summer entertainments of late, of which 
 you see the remains." She went at once to the piano,
 
 BENTZON 
 
 and incited Jacqueline to sing by beginning one of 
 their favorite duets, and Jacqueline, once more in her 
 native element, followed her lead. They went on 
 from one song to another, from the light to the severe, 
 from scientific music to mere tunes and airs, turning 
 over the old music-books together. 
 
 "Yes, you are a little out of practice, but all you have 
 to do is to rub off the rust. Your voice is finer than 
 ever just like velvet." And Madame Strahlberg pre- 
 tended that she envied the fine mezzo-soprano, speak- 
 ing disparagingly of her own little thread of a voice, 
 which, however, she managed so skilfully. "What a 
 shame to take up your time teaching, with such a voice 
 as that!" she cried; "you are out of your senses, my 
 dear, you are raving mad. It would be sinful to keep 
 your gifts to yourself! I am very sorry to discourage 
 you, but you have none of the requisites for a teacher. 
 The stage would be best for you Mon Dieu! why 
 not ? You will see La Rochette this evening ; she is a 
 person who would give you good advice. I wish she 
 could hear you!" 
 
 "But my dear friend, I can not stay," murmured 
 Jacqueline, for those unexpected words "the stage, 
 why not?" rang in her head, made her heart beat 
 fast, and made lights dance before her eyes. "They 
 are expecting me to dine at home." 
 
 "At your convent? I beg your pardon, I'll take 
 ?:are of that. Don't you know me? My claws sel- 
 dom let go of a prize, especially when that prize is 
 worth the keeping. A little telegram has already been 
 sent, with your excuses. The telegraph is good 
 
 238]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 for that, if not for anything else: it facilitates im- 
 promptus." 
 
 "Long live impromptus," cried out Colette, "there 
 is nothing like them for fun!" And while Jacqueline 
 was trying to get away, not knowing exactly what she 
 was saying, but frightened, pleased, and much excited, 
 Colette went on: "Oh! I am so glad, so glad you 
 came to-day; now you can see the pantomime! I 
 dreamed, wasn't it odd, only last night, that you were 
 acting it with us. How can one help believing in pre- 
 sentiments ? Mine are always delightful and yours ? " 
 
 "The pantomime?" repeated Jacqueline in be- 
 wilderment, "but I thought your sister told me you 
 were all alone." 
 
 "How could we have anything like company in 
 August?" said Madame Strahlberg, interrupting her; 
 "why, it would be impossible, there are not four cats 
 in Paris. No, no, we sha'n't have anybody. A few 
 friends possibly may drop in people passing through 
 Paris in their travelling-dresses. Nothing that need 
 alarm you. The pantomime Colette talks about is 
 only a pretext that they may hear Monsieur Szmera." 
 
 And who was M. Szmera? 
 
 Jacqueline soon learned that he was a Hungarian, 
 second half -cousin of a friend of Kossuth, the most 
 wonderful violinist of the day, who had apparently 
 superseded the famous Polish pianist in these ladies' 
 interest and esteem. As for the latter, they had almost 
 forgotten his name, he had behaved so badly. 
 
 "But," said Jacqueline, anxiously, "you know I am 
 obliged to be home by ten o'clock." 
 
 [ 2 39]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 "Ah! that's like Cinderella," laughed Wanda. 
 "Will the stroke of the clock change all the carriages 
 in Paris into pumpkins? One can get fiacres at any 
 hour." 
 
 "But it is a fixed rule: I must be in," repeated 
 Jacqueline, growing very uneasy. 
 
 "Must you really? Madame Saville says it is very 
 easy to manage those nuns 
 
 "What? Do you know Madame Saville, who was 
 boarding at the convent last winter?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed; she is a countrywoman of ours, a 
 friend, the most charming of women. You will see 
 her here this evening. She has gained her divorce 
 suit " 
 
 "You are mistaken," said Colette, "she has lost it. 
 But that makes no difference. She has got tired of her 
 husband. Come, say 'Yes,' Jacqueline a nice, dear 
 1 Yes' you will stay, will you not ? Oh, you darling!" 
 
 They dined without much ceremony, on the pretext 
 that the cook had been turned off that morning for 
 impertinence, but immediately after dinner there was 
 a procession of boys from a restaurant, bringing whipped 
 creams, iced drinks, fruits, sweetmeats, and champagne 
 more than would have been wanted at the buffet of 
 a ball. The Prince, they said, had sent these things. 
 What Prince? 
 
 As Jacqueline was asking this question, a gentleman 
 came in whose age it would have been impossible to 
 guess, so disguised was he by his black wig, his dyed 
 whiskers, and the soft bloom on his cheeks, all of 
 which were entirely out of keeping with those parts 
 
 [240]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 of his face that he could not change. In one of his 
 eyes was stuck a monocle. He was bedizened with 
 several orders, he bowed with military stiffness, and 
 kissed with much devotion the ladies' hands, calling 
 them by titles, whether they had them or not. His 
 foreign accent made it as hard to detect his nationality 
 as it was to know his age. Two or three other gentle- 
 men, not less decorated and not less foreign, afterward 
 came in. Colette named them in a whisper to Jacque- 
 line, but their names were too hard for her to pro- 
 nounce, much less to remember. One of them, a 
 man of handsome presence, came accompanied by 
 a sort of female ruin, an old lady leaning on a cane, 
 whose head, every time she moved, glittered with jew- 
 els, placed in a very lofty erection of curled hair. 
 
 "That gentleman's mother is awfully ugly," Jacque- 
 line could not help saying. 
 
 "His mother? What, the Countess? She is neither 
 his mother nor his wife. He is her gentleman-in-wait- 
 ing that's all. Don't you understand? Well, im- 
 agine a man who is a sort of "gentleman-companion"; 
 he keeps her accounts, he escorts her to the theatre, 
 he gives her his arm. It is a very satisfactory arrange- 
 ment." 
 
 "The gentleman receives a salary, hi such a case?" 
 inquired Jacqueline, much amused. 
 
 "Why, what do you find in it so extraordinary?" 
 said Colette. "She adores cards, and there he is, 
 always ready to be her partner. Oh, here comes dear 
 Madame Saville!" 
 
 There were fresh cries of welcome, fresh exchanges 
 16 [ 241 ]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 of affectionate diminutives and kisses, which seemed 
 to make the Prince's mouth water. Jacqueline dis- 
 covered, to her great surprise, that she, too, was a 
 dear friend of Madame Saville's, who called her her 
 good angel, in reference, no doubt, to the letter she 
 had secretly put into the post. At last she said, trying 
 to make her escape from the party: "But it must be 
 nine o'clock." 
 
 "Oh! but you must hear Szmera." 
 
 A handsome young fellow, stoutly built, with heavy 
 eyebrows, a hooked nose, a quantity of hair growing 
 low upon his forehead, and lips that were too red, the 
 perfect type of a Hungarian gypsy, began a piece of 
 his own composition, which had all the ardor of a mild 
 galopade and a Satanic hunt, with intervals of dying 
 sweetness, during which the painted skeleton they 
 called the Countess declared that she certainly heard 
 a nightingale warbling in the moonlight. 
 
 This charming speech was forthwith repeated by her 
 "umbra" in all parts of the room, which was now 
 nearly filled with people, a mixed multitude, some of 
 whom were frantic about music, others frantic about 
 Wanda Strahlberg. There were artists and amateurs 
 present, and even respectable women, for Madame 
 d'Avrigny, attracted by the odor of a species of Bo- 
 hemianism, had come to breathe it with delight, under 
 cover of a wish to glean ideas for her next winter's 
 receptions. 
 
 Then again there were women who had been 
 dropped out of society, like Madame de Versanne, 
 who, with her sunken eyes and faded face, was not 
 
 [242]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 likely again to pick up in the street a bracelet worth 
 ten thousand francs. There was a literary woman who 
 signed herself Fraisiline, and wrote papers on fashion 
 she was so painted and bedizened that some one 
 remarked that the principal establishments she praised 
 in print probably paid her in their merchandise. There 
 was a dowager whose aristocratic name appeared daily 
 on the fourth page of the newspapers, attesting the 
 merits of some kind of quack medicine; and a retired 
 opera-singer, who, having been called Zenaide Rochet 
 till she grew up in Montmartre, where she was born, 
 had had a brilliant career as a star in Italy under the 
 name of Zina Rochette. La Rochette's name, alas! 
 is unknown to the present generation. 
 
 In all, there were about twenty persons, who made 
 more noise with their applause than a hundred ordinary 
 guests, for enthusiasm was exacted by Madame Strahl- 
 berg. Profiting by the ovation to the Hungarian 
 musician, Jacqueline made a movement toward the 
 door, but just as she reached it she had the misfortune 
 of falling in with her old acquaintance, Nora Sparks, 
 who was at that moment entering with her father. 
 She was forced to sit down again and hear all about 
 Kate's marriage. Kate had gone back to New York, 
 her husband being an American, but Nora said she 
 had made up her mind not to leave Europe till she 
 had found a satisfactory match. 
 
 "You had better make haste about it, if you expect 
 to keep me here," said Mr. Sparks, with a peculiar 
 expression in his eye. He was eager to get home, 
 having important business to attend to in the West. 
 
 [ 2 43]
 
 TH&O BENTZON 
 
 "Oh, papa, be quiet! I shall find somebody at 
 Bellagio. Why, darling, are you still in mourning?" 
 
 She had forgotten that Jacqueline had lost her 
 father. Probably she would not have thought it neces- 
 sary to wear black so long for Mr. Sparks. Meantime, 
 Madame Strahlberg and her sister had left the room. 
 
 "When are they coming back?" said Jacqueline, 
 growing very nervous. "It seems to me this clock 
 must be wrong. It says half-past nine. I am sure 
 it must be later than that." 
 
 "Half -past nine! why, it is past eleven," replied 
 Miss Nora, with a giggle. "Do you suppose they pay 
 any attention to clocks in this house? Everything 
 here is topsy-turvy." 
 
 "Oh! what shall I do?" sighed poor Jacqueline, on 
 the verge of tears. 
 
 "Why, do they keep you such a prisoner as that? 
 Can't you come in a little late 
 
 "They wouldn't open the doors they never open 
 the doors on any pretext after ten o'clock," cried 
 Jacqueline, beside herself. 
 
 "Then your nuns must be savages? You should 
 teach them better." 
 
 "Don't be worried, dear little one, you can sleep on 
 this sofa," said Madame Odinska, kindly. 
 
 To whom had she not offered that useful sofa ? Wan- 
 da and Colette were just as ready to propose that others 
 should spend the night with them as, on the smallest 
 pretext, to accept the same hospitality from others. 
 Wanda, indeed, always slept curled up like a cat on 
 a divan, in a fur wrapper, which she put on early in 
 
 [244]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 the evening when she wanted to smoke cigarettes. 
 She went to sleep at no regular hour. A bear's skin 
 was placed always within her reach, so that if she were 
 cold she could draw it over her. Jacqueline, not being 
 accustomed to these Polish fashions, did not seem to 
 be much attracted by the offer of the sofa. She blamed 
 herself bitterly for her own folly in having got herself 
 into a scrape which might lead to serious conse- 
 quences. 
 
 But this was neither time nor place for expressions 
 of anxiety; it would be absurd to trouble every one 
 present with her regrets. Besides, the harm was done 
 it was irreparable and while she was turning over 
 in her mind in what manner she could explain to the 
 Mother Superior that the mistake about the hour had 
 been no fault of hers and the Mother Superior, alas! 
 would be sure to make inquiries as to the friends whom 
 she had visited the magic violin of M. Szmera played 
 its first notes, accompanied by Madame Odinska on 
 the piano, and by a delicious little flute. They played 
 an overture, the dreamy sweetness of which extorted 
 cries of admiration from all the women. 
 
 Suddenly, the screens parted, and upon the little plat- 
 form that represented a stage bounded a sort of anom- 
 alous being, supple and charming, in the traditional 
 dress of Pierrot, whom the English vulgarize and call 
 Harlequin. He had white camellias instead of buttons 
 on his loose white jacket, and the bright eyes of Wan- 
 da shone out from his red- and- white face. He held 
 a mandolin, and imitated the most charming of seren- 
 ades, before a make-believe window, which, being 
 
 [245]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 opened by a white, round arm, revealed Colette, dressed 
 as Colombine. 
 
 The little pantomime piece was called Pierrot in 
 Love. It consisted of a series of dainty coquetries, sud- 
 den quarrels, fits of jealousy, and tender reconciliations, 
 played by the two sisters. Colette with her beauty, 
 Wanda with her talent, her impishness, her graceful 
 and voluptuous attitudes, electrified the spectators, 
 especially in a long monologue, in which Pierrot 
 contemplated suicide, made more effective by the pas- 
 sionate and heart-piercing strains of the Hungarian's 
 violin, so that old Rochette cried out: "What a pity 
 such a wonder should not be upon the stage!" La 
 Rochette, now retired into private life, wearing an old 
 dress, with her gray hair and her black eyes, like those 
 of a watchful crocodile, took the pleasure in the panto- 
 mime that all actors do to the very last in everything 
 connected with the theatre. She cried brava in tones 
 that might reach Italy; she blew kisses to the actors 
 in default of flowers. 
 
 Madame d'Avrigny was also transported to the 
 sixth heaven, but Jacqueline's presence somewhat 
 marred her pleasure. When she first perceived her 
 she had shown great surprise. "You here, my dear?" 
 she cried, "I thought you safe with our own excellent 
 Giselle." 
 
 "Safe, Madame? It seems to me one can be safe 
 anywhere," Jacqueline answered, though she was 
 tempted to say "safe nowhere;" but instead she 
 inquired for Dolly. 
 
 Dolly's mother bit her lips and then replied: "You 
 [246]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 see I have not brought her. Oh, yes, this house is 
 very amusing but rather too much so. The play 
 was very pretty, and I am sorry it would not do at my 
 house. It is too too risque, you know;" and she 
 rehearsed her usual speech about the great difficulties 
 encountered by a lady who wished to give entertain- 
 ments and provide amusement for her friends. 
 
 Meantime Pierrot, or rather Madame Strahlberg, 
 had leaped over an imaginary barrier and came danc- 
 ing toward the company, shaking her large sleeves 
 and settling her little snake-like head in her large 
 quilled collar, dragging after her the Hungarian, who 
 seemed not very willing. She presented him to Ma- 
 dame d'Avrigny, hoping that so fashionable a woman 
 might want him to play at her receptions during the 
 winter, and to a journalist who promised to give him 
 a notice in his paper, provided and here he whispered 
 something to Pierrot, who, smiling, answered neither 
 yes nor no. The sisters kept on their costumes; 
 Colette was enchanting with her bare neck, her long- 
 waisted black velvet corsage, her very short skirt, and 
 a sort of three-cornered hat upon her head. All the 
 men paid court to her, and she accepted their homage, 
 becoming gayer and gayer at every compliment, laugh- 
 ing loudly, possibly that her laugh might exhibit her 
 beautiful teeth. 
 
 Wanda, as Pierrot, sang, with her hands in her 
 pockets, a Russian village song: "Ah! Dounal-li moy 
 Dounai" ("Oh! thou, my Danube"). Then she 
 imperiously called Jacqueline to the piano: "It is 
 your turn now," she said, "most humble violet."
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 Up to that moment, Jacqueline's deep mourning had 
 kept the gentlemen present from addressing her, though 
 she had been much stared at. Although she did not 
 wish to sing, for her heart was heavy as she thought of 
 the troubles that awaited her the next day at the con- 
 vent, she sang what was asked of her without resistance 
 or pretension. Then, for the first time, she experienced 
 the pride of triumph. Szmera, though he was furious 
 at not being the sole lion of the evening, complimented 
 her, bowing almost to the ground, with one hand on 
 his heart; Madame Rochette assured her that she had 
 a fortune in her throat whenever she chose to seek it; 
 persons she had never seen and who did not know her 
 name, pressed her hands fervently, saying that her 
 singing was adorable. All cried " Encore," "Encore ! " 
 and, yielding to the pleasure of applause, she thought 
 no more of the flight of time. Dawn was peeping 
 through the windows when the party broke up. 
 
 "What kind people!" thought the debutante, whom 
 they had encouraged and applauded; "some perhaps 
 are a little odd, but how much cordiality and warmth 
 there is among them! It is catching. This is the sort 
 of atmosphere in which talent should live." 
 
 Being very much fatigued, she fell asleep upon the 
 jffered sofa, half-pleased, half -frightened, but with two 
 prominent convictions: one, that she was beginning to 
 return to life; the other, that she stood on the edge of 
 a precipice. In her dreams old Rochette appeared to 
 her, her face like that of an affable frog, her dress the 
 dress of Pierrot, and she croaked out, in a variety of 
 tones: "The stage! Why not? Applauded every 
 
 1*4*1
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 night it would be glorious!" Then she seemed in 
 her dream to be falling, falling down from a great 
 height, as one falls from fairyland into stern reality. 
 She opened her eyes: it was noon. Madame Odinska 
 was waiting for her: she intended herself to take her 
 to the convent, and for that purpose had assumed the 
 imposing air of a noble matron. 
 
 Alas! it was in vain! Jacqueline, was made to un- 
 derstand that such an infraction of the rules could 
 not be overlooked. To pass the night without leave 
 out of the convent, and not with her own family, 
 was cause for expulsion. Neither the prayers nor 
 the anger of Madame Odinska had any power to 
 change the sentence. While the Mother Superior 
 calmly pronounced her decree, she was taking the 
 measure of this stout foreigner who appeared in be- 
 half of Jacqueline, a woman overdressed, yet at the 
 same time shabby, who had a far from well-bred or 
 aristocratic air. "Out of consideration for Madame 
 de Talbrun," she said, "the convent consents to keep 
 Mademoiselle de Nailles a few days longer a few 
 weeks perhaps, until she can find some other place to 
 go. That is all we can do for her." 
 
 Jacqueline listened to this sentence as she might 
 have watched a game of dice when her fate hung on 
 the result, but she showed no emotion. "Now," she 
 thought, "my fate has been decided; respectable peo- 
 ple will have nothing more to do with me. I will go 
 with the others, who, perhaps, after all are not worse, 
 and who most certainly are more amusing." 
 
 A fortnight after this, Madame de Nailles, having 
 [249]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 come back to Paris, from some watering-place, was 
 telling Marien that Jacqueline had started for Bellagio 
 with Mr. and Miss Sparks, the latter having taken a 
 notion that she wanted that kind of chaperon who is 
 called a companion in England and America. 
 
 "But they are of the same age," said Marien. 
 
 "That is just what Miss Sparks wants. She does 
 not wish to be hampered by an elderly chaperon, but 
 to be accompanied, as she would have been by her 
 sister." 
 
 "Jacqueline will be exposed to see strange things; 
 how could you have consented 
 
 "Consented? As if she cared for my consent! 
 And then she manages to say such irritating things 
 as soon as one attempts to blame her or advise her. 
 For example, this is one of them : ' Don't you suppose,' 
 she said to me, ' that every one will take the most agree- 
 able chance that offers for a visit to Italy ? ' What do 
 you think of that allusion? It closed my lips abso- 
 lutely." 
 
 "Perhaps she did not mean what you think she 
 meant." 
 
 "Do you think so? And when I warned her against 
 Madame Strahlberg, saying that she might set her a 
 very bad example, she answered: 'I may have had 
 worse.' I suppose that was not meant for imperti- 
 nence either!" 
 
 "I don't know," said Hubert Marien, biting his lips 
 doubtfully, "but " 
 
 He was silent a few moments, his head drooped on 
 his breast, he was in some painful reverie. 
 
 [250]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Go on. What are you thinking about?" asked 
 Madame de Nailles, impatiently. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I was only thinking that a 
 certain responsibility might rest on those who have 
 made that young girl what she is." 
 
 "I don't understand you," said the stepmother, with 
 an impatient gesture. "Who can do anything to 
 counteract a bad disposition? You don't deny that 
 hers is bad ? She is a very devil for pride and obsti- 
 nacy she has no affection she has proved it. I 
 have no inclination to get myself wounded by trying 
 to control her." 
 
 "Then you prefer to let her ruin herself?" 
 
 "I should prefer not to give the world a chance to 
 talk, by coming to an open rupture with her, which 
 would certainly be the case if I tried to contradict her. 
 After all, the Sparks and Madame Odinska are not 
 yet put out of the pale of good society, and she knew 
 them long ago. An early intimacy may be a good 
 explanation if people blame her for going too far 
 
 "So be it, then; if you are satisfied it is not for me 
 to say anything," replied Marien, coldly. 
 
 "Satisfied? I am not satisfied with anything or 
 anybody," said Madame de Nailles, indignantly. 
 "How could I be satisfied; I never have met with 
 anything but ingratitude." 
 
 [251]
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE SAILOR'S RETURN 
 
 ADAME D'ARGY did not leave her 
 
 son in ignorance of all the freaks and 
 follies of Jacqueline. He knew every 
 particular of the wrong-doings and 
 the imprudences of his early friend, 
 and even the additions made to them 
 by calumny, ever since the fit of in- 
 dependence which, after her father's 
 death, had led her to throw off all control. She told of 
 her sudden departure from Fresne, where she might 
 have found so safe a refuge with her friend and cousin. 
 Then had not her own imprudence and coquetry led 
 to a rupture with the families of d'Etaples and Ray? 
 She told of the scandalous intimacy with Madame 
 Strahlberg; of her expulsion from the convent, where 
 they had discovered, even before she left, that she had 
 been in the habit of visiting undesirable persons; and 
 finally she informed him that Jacqueline had gone to 
 Italy with an old Yankee and his daughter he being 
 a man, it was said, who had laid the foundation of his 
 colossal fortune by keeping a bar-room in a mining- 
 camp in California. This last was no fiction, the cut of 
 Mr. Sparks's beard and his unpolished manners left no 
 doubt on the subject; and she wound up by saying that
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Madame d'Avrigny, whom no one could accuse of ill- 
 nature, had been grieved at meeting this unhappy girl 
 in very improper company, among which she seemed 
 quite in her element, like a fish in water. 
 
 It was said also that she was thinking of studying for 
 the stage with La Rochette M. de Talbrun had heard 
 it talked about in the foyer of the Opera by an old 
 Prince from some foreign country she could not re- 
 member his name, but he was praising Madame Strahl- 
 berg without any reserve as the most delightful of 
 Parisiennes. Thereupon Talbrun had naturally for- 
 bidden his wife to have anything to do with Jacque- 
 line, or even to write to her. Fat Oscar, though he 
 was not all that he ought to be himself, had some very 
 strict notions of propriety. No one was more particular 
 about family relations, and really in this case no one 
 could blame him; but Giselle had been very unhappy, 
 and to the very last had tried to stand up for her un- 
 happy friend. Having told him all this, she added, she 
 would say no more on the subject. 
 
 Giselle was a model woman in everything, in tact, in 
 goodness, in good sense, and she was very attentive to 
 the poor old mother of Fred, who but for her must have 
 died long ago of loneliness and sorrow. Thereupon 
 ensued the poor lady's usual lamentations over the 
 long, long absence of her beloved son; as usual, she 
 told him she did not think she should live to see him 
 back again; she gave him a full account of her mala- 
 dies, caused, or at least aggravated, by her mortal, 
 constant, incurable sorrow; and she told how Giselle 
 had been nursing her with all the patience and devotion 
 
 [253]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 of a Sister of Charity. Through all Madame d'Argy's 
 letters at this period the angelic figure of Giselle was 
 contrasted with the very different one of that young 
 and incorrigible little devil of a Jacqueline. 
 
 Fred at first believed his mother's stories were all 
 exaggeration, but the facts were there, corroborated 
 by the continued silence of the person concerned. He 
 knew his mother to be too good wilfully to blacken the 
 character of one whom for years she had hoped would 
 be her daughter-in-law, the only child of her best 
 friend, the early love of her son. But by degrees he 
 fancied that the love so long living at the bottom of his 
 heart was slowly dying, that it had been extinguished, 
 that nothing remained of it but remembrance, such 
 remembrance as we retain for dead things, a remem- 
 brance without hope, whose weight added to the home- 
 sickness which with him was increasing every day. 
 
 There was no active service to enable him to endure 
 exile. The heroic period of the war had passed. 
 Since a treaty of peace had been signed with China, 
 the fleet, which had distinguished itself in so many 
 small engagements and bombardments, had had noth- 
 ing to do but to mount guard, as it were, along a con- 
 quered coast. All round it in the bay, where it lay at 
 anchor, rose mountains of strange shapes, which 
 seemed to shut it into a kind of prison. This feeling 
 of nothing to be done of nothing likely to be done, 
 worked in Fred's head like a nightmare. The only 
 thing he thought of was how he could escape, when 
 could he once more kiss the faded cheeks of his mother, 
 who often, when he slept or lay wakeful during the long 
 
 [254]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 hours of the siesta, he saw beside him in tears. Hers 
 was the only face that he recalled distinctly ; to her and 
 to her only were devoted his long reveries when on 
 watch; that time when he formerly composed his love 
 verses, tender or angry, or full of despair. That was all 
 over! A sort of mournful resignation had succeeded 
 his bursts of excited feeling, his revolt against his 
 fate. 
 
 This was Fred's state of mind when he received 
 orders to return home orders as unexpected as every- 
 thing seems to be in the life of a naval man. "I am 
 going back to her!" he cried. Her was his mother, her 
 was France. All the rest had disappeared as if into a 
 fog. Jacqueline was a phantom of the past; so many 
 things had happened since the old times when he had 
 loved her. He had crossed the Indian Ocean and the 
 China Sea; he had seen long stretches of interminable 
 coast-line; he had beheld misery, and glory, and all the 
 painful scenes that wait on warfare ; he had seen pes- 
 tilence, and death in every shape, and all this had 
 wrought in him a sort of stoicism, the result of long ac- 
 quaintance with solitude and danger. He remembered 
 his old love as a flower he had once admired as he 
 passed it, a treacherous flower, with thorns that had 
 wounded him. There are flowers that are beneficent, 
 and flowers that are poisonous, and the last are some- 
 times the most beautiful. They should not be blamed, 
 he thought; it was their nature to be hurtful; but it 
 was well to pass them by and not to gather them. 
 
 By the time he had debarked Fred had made up his 
 mind to let his mother choose a wife for him, a daugh- 
 
 [255]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 ter-in-law suited to herself, who would give her the de- 
 light of grandchildren, who would bring them up well, 
 and who would not weary of Lizerolles. But a week 
 later the idea of this kind of marriage had gone out of 
 his head, and this change of feeling was partly owing to 
 Giselle. Giselle gave him a smile of welcome that went 
 to his heart, for that poor heart, after all, was only wait- 
 ing for a chance again to give itself away. She was 
 with Madame d'Argy, who had not been well enough to 
 go to the sea-coast to meet her son, and he saw at the 
 same moment the pale and aged face which had visited 
 him at Tonquin in his dreams, and a fair face that he 
 had never before thought so beautiful, more oval than 
 he remembered it, with blue eyes soft and tender, and 
 a mouth with a sweet infantine expression of sincerity 
 and goodness. His mother stretched out her trembling 
 arms, gave a great cry, and fainted away. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed; it is only joy," said Giselle, in 
 her soft voice. 
 
 And when Madame d'Argy proved her to be right by 
 recovering very quickly, overwhelming her son with 
 rapid questions and covering him with kisses, Giselle 
 held out her hand to him and said : 
 
 "I, too, am very glad you have come home." 
 
 "Oh!" cried the sick woman in her excitement, 
 "you must kiss your old playfellow!" 
 
 Giselle blushed a little, and Fred, more embarrassed 
 than she, lightly touched with his lips her pretty smooth 
 hair which shone upon her head like a helmet of gold. 
 Perhaps it was this new style of hairdressing which 
 made her seem so much more beautiful than he remem- 
 
 [256]
 
 bered her, but it seemed to him he saw her for the first 
 time; while, with the greatest eagerness, notwithstand- 
 ing Giselle's attempts to interrupt her, Madame d'Argy 
 repeated to her son all she owed to that dear friend 
 "her own daughter, the best of daughters, the most 
 patient, the most devoted of daughters, could not have 
 done more! Ah! if there only could be found another 
 one like her!" 
 
 Whereupon the object of all these praises made her 
 escape, disclaiming everything. 
 
 Why, after this, should she have hesitated to come 
 back to Lizerolles every day, as of late had been her 
 custom? Men know so little about taking care of sick 
 people. So she came, and was present at all the re- 
 joicings and all the talks that followed Fred's return. 
 She took her part in the discussions about Fred's fu- 
 ture. " Help me, my pet," said Madame d'Argy, " help 
 me to find a wife for him : all we ask is that she should 
 be like you." 
 
 In answer to which Fred declared, half -laughing and 
 half-seriously, that that was his ideal. 
 
 She did not believe much of this, but, following her 
 natural instinct, she assumed the dangerous task of 
 consolation, until, as Madame d'Argy grew better, she 
 discontinued her daily visits, and Fred, in his turn, took 
 a habit of going over to Fresne without being invited, 
 and spending there a good deal of his time. 
 
 "Don't send me away. You who are always char- 
 itable," he said. "If you only knew what a pleasure 
 a Parisian conversation is after coming from Ton- 
 quin!" 
 
 17 [ 2 57]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 "But I am so little of a Parisienne, or at least what 
 you mean by that term, and my conversation is not 
 worth coming for," objected Giselle. 
 
 In her extreme modesty she did not realize how 
 much she had gained in intellectual culture. Women 
 left to themselves have time to read, and Giselle had 
 done this all the more because she had considered it a 
 duty. Must she not know enough to instruct and su- 
 perintend the education of her son ? With much strong 
 feeling, yet with much simplicity, she spoke to Fred of 
 this great task, which sometimes frightened her; he 
 gave her his advice, and both discussed together the 
 things that make up a good man. Giselle brought up 
 frequently the subject of heredity: she named no one, 
 but Fred could see that she had a secret terror lest En- 
 guerrand, who in person was very like his father, might 
 also inherit his character. Fears on this subject, how- 
 ever, appeared unfounded. There was nothing about 
 the child that was not good ; his tastes were those of his 
 mother. He was passionately fond of Fred, climbing 
 on his lap as soon as the latter arrived and always 
 maintaining that he, too, wanted a pretty red ribbon to 
 wear in his buttonhole, a ribbon only to be got by sail- 
 ing far away over the seas, like sailors. 
 
 "A sailor! Heaven forbid!" cried Madame de 
 Talbrun. 
 
 "Oh! sailors come back again. He has come back. 
 Couldn't he take me away with him soon? I have 
 some stories about cabin-boys who were not much 
 older than I." 
 
 "Let us hope that your friend Fred won't go away," 
 [258]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 said Giselle. "But why do you wish to be a cabin- 
 boy?" 
 
 "Because I want to go away with him, if he does 
 not stay here because I like him," answered Enguer- 
 rand in a tone of decision. 
 
 Hereupon Giselle kissed her boy with more than 
 usual tenderness. He would not take to the hunting- 
 field, she thought, the boulevard, and the corps de ballet. 
 She would not lose him. "But, oh, Fred!" she cried, 
 "it is not to be wondered at that he is so fond of you! 
 You spoil him! You will be a devoted father some day; 
 your vocation is evidently for marriage." 
 
 She thought, in thus speaking, that she was saying 
 what Madame d'Argy would like her to say. 
 
 " In the matter of children, I think your son is enough 
 for me," he said, one day; "and as for marriage, you 
 would not believe how all women I mean all the 
 young girls among whom I should have to make a 
 choice are indifferent to me. My feeling almost 
 amounts to antipathy." 
 
 For the first time she ventured to say: "Do you still 
 care for Jacqueline?" 
 
 "About as much as she cares for me," he answered, 
 dryly. "No, I made a mistake once, and that has 
 made me cautious for the future." 
 
 Another day he said : 
 
 "I know now who was the woman I ought to have 
 loved." 
 
 Giselle did not look up; she was devoting all her 
 attention to Enguerrand. 
 
 Fred held certain theories which he used to talk 
 [259]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 about. He believed in a high, spiritual, disinterested 
 affection which would raise a man above himself, mak- 
 ing him more noble, inspiring a disgust for all ignoble 
 pleasures. The woman willing to accept such homage 
 might do anything she pleased with a heart that would 
 be hers alone. She would be the lady who presided 
 over his life, for whose sake all good deeds and gener- 
 ous actions would be done, the idol, higher than a wife 
 or any object of earthly passion, the White Angel whom 
 poets have sung. 
 
 Giselle pretended that she did not understand him, 
 but she was divinely happy. This, then, was the reward 
 of her spotless life ! She was the object of a worship no 
 less tender than respectful. Fred spoke of the woman 
 he ought to have loved as if he meant to say, "I love 
 you;" he pressed his lips on the auburn curls of little 
 Enguerrand where his mother had just kissed him. 
 Day after day he seemed more attracted to that salon 
 where, dressed with more care than she had ever 
 dressed before, she expected him. Then awoke in her 
 the wish to please, and she was beautiful with that 
 beauty which is not the insipid beauty of St. Agnes, but 
 that which, superior to all other, is seen when the face 
 reflects the soul. All that winter there was a new Gi- 
 selle a Giselle who passed away again among the 
 shadows, a Giselle of whom everybody said, even her 
 husband, "M a joi! but she is beautiful!" Oscar de 
 Talbrun, as he made this remark, never thought of 
 wondering why she was more beautiful. He was ready 
 to take offense and was jealous by nature, but he was 
 perfectly sure of his wife, as he had often said. As to 
 
 [260]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Fred, the idea of being jealous of him would never have 
 entered his mind. Fred was a relative and was ad- 
 mitted to all the privileges of a cousin or a brother; 
 besides, he was a fellow of no consequence in any way. 
 
 While this platonic attachment grew stronger and 
 stronger between Fred and Giselle, assisted by the inno- 
 cent complicity of little Enguerrand, Jacqueline was 
 discovering how hard it is for a girl of good birth, if she 
 is poor, to carry out her plans of honest independence. 
 Possibly she had allowed herself to be too easily misled 
 by the title of "companion," which, apparently more 
 cordial than that of demoiselle de compagnie, means in 
 reality the same thing a sort of half -servile position. 
 
 Money is a touchstone which influences all social 
 relations, especially when on one side there is a some- 
 what morbid susceptibility, and on the other a lack 
 of good breeding and education. The Sparks, father 
 and daughter, Americans of the lower class, though 
 willing to spend any number of dollars for their own 
 pleasure, expected that every penny they disbursed 
 should receive its full equivalent in service; the place 
 therefore offered so gracefully and spontaneously to 
 Mademoiselle de Nailles was far from being a sinecure. 
 Jacqueline received her salary on the same footing as 
 Justine, the Parisian maid, received her wages, for, 
 although her position was apparently one of much 
 greater importance and consideration than Justine's, 
 she was really at the beck and call of a girl who, while 
 she called her "darling," gave her orders and paid her 
 for her services. Very often Miss Nora asked her to 
 sew, on the plea that she was as skilful with her fingers 
 
 [261]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 as a fairy, but in reality that her employer might feel 
 the superiority of her own position. 
 
 Hitherto Miss Nora had been delighted to meet at 
 watering-places a friend of whom she could say proudly, 
 "She is a representative of the old nobility of France" 
 (which was not true, by the way, for the title of Baron 
 borne by M. de Nailles went no farther back than the 
 days of Louis XVIII) ; and she was still more proud to 
 think that she was now waited on by this same daughter 
 of a nobleman, when her own father had kept a drink- 
 ing-saloon. She did not acknowledge this feeling to 
 herself, and would certainly have maintained that she 
 never had had such an idea, but it existed all the same, 
 and she was under its influence, being very vain and 
 rather foolish. And, indeed, Jacqueline, would have 
 been very willing to plan trimmings and alter finery 
 from morning to night in her own chamber in a hotel, 
 exactly as Mademoiselle Justine did, if she could by this 
 means have escaped the special duties of her difficult 
 position, which duties were to follow Miss Nora every- 
 where, like her own shadow, to be her confidant and to 
 act sometimes as her screen, or even as her accomplice, 
 in matters that occasionally involved risks, and were 
 never to her liking. 
 
 The young American girl had already said to her 
 father, when he asked her to give up her search for an 
 entirely satisfactory European suitor, which search he 
 feared might drag on forever without any results: " Oh! 
 I shall be sure to find him at Bellagio!" And she made 
 up her mind that there he was to be sought and found 
 at any price. Hotel life offered her opportunities to 
 
 [262]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 exercise her instincts for flirtation, for there she met 
 many specimens of men she called chic, with a funny 
 little foreign accent, which seemed to put new life into 
 the worn-out word. Twenty times a day she baited her 
 hook, and twenty times a day some fish would bite, or 
 at least nibble, according as he was a fortune-hunter or 
 a dilettante. Miss Nora, being incapable of knowing 
 the difference, was ready to capture good or bad, and 
 went about dragging her slaves at her chariot-wheels. 
 Sometimes she took them rowing, with the Stars 
 and Stripes floating over her boat, by moonlight; some- 
 times she drove them recklessly in a drag through 
 roads bordered by olive-groves and vineyards ; all these 
 expeditions being undertaken under pretence of admir- 
 ing the romantic scenery. Her father was not disposed 
 to interfere with what he called "a little harmless dis- 
 sipation." He was confident his daughter's "com- 
 panion" must know what was proper, she being, as he 
 said, accustomed to good society. Were not all Italian 
 ladies attended by gentlemen? Who could blame a 
 young girl for amusing herself ? Meantime Mr. Sparks 
 amused himself after his own fashion, which was to sit 
 comfortably, with his feet up on the piazza rail of the 
 hotel, imbibing strong iced drinks through straws. But 
 in reality Jacqueline had no power whatever to pre- 
 serve propriety, and only compromised herself by her 
 associations, though her own conduct was irreproach- 
 able. Indeed she was considered quite prudish, and 
 the rest of the mad crowd laughed at her for having the 
 manners of a governess. In vain she tried to say words 
 of warning to Nora; what she said was laughed at or 
 
 [263]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 resented in a tone that told her that a paid companion 
 had not the right to speak as frankly as a friend. 
 
 Her business, she was plainly told one day, was to be 
 on the spot in case any impertinent suitor should ven- 
 ture too far in a tete-a-tete, but short of that she was 
 not to " spoil sport." " I am not doing anything wrong; 
 it is allowable in America," was Miss Nora's regular 
 speech on such occasions, and Jacqueline could not 
 dispute the double argument. Nora's conduct was not 
 wicked, and in America such things might be allowed. 
 Yet Jacqueline tried to demonstrate that a young girl 
 can not pass unscathed through certain adventures, 
 even if they are innocent in the strict sense of the 
 word ; which made Nora cry out that all she said was 
 subterfuge and that she had no patience with preju- 
 dices. 
 
 In vain her young companion pointed out to her 
 charge that other Americans at Bellagio seemed far 
 from approving her conduct. American ladies of a 
 very different class, who were staying at the hotel, held 
 aloof from her, and treated her with marked coldness 
 whenever they met; declaring that her manners would 
 be as objectionable in her own country, in good society, 
 as they were in Italy. 
 
 But Miss Sparks was not to be put down by any 
 argument. "Bah! they are stuck-up Bostonians. And 
 do you know, Jacqueline, you are getting very tire- 
 some ? You were faster yourself than I when we were 
 the Blue Band at Treport." 
 
 Nora's admirers, sometimes encouraged, sometimes 
 snubbed, when treated cavalierly by this young lady, 
 
 [264]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 would occasionally pay court to the demoiselle de com- 
 pagnie, who indeed was well worth their pains; but, 
 to their surprise, the subordinate received their atten- 
 tions with great coldness. Having entered her protest 
 against what was going on, and having resisted the 
 contagion of example, it was natural she should some- 
 what exaggerate her prudery, for it is hard to hit just 
 the right point in such reaction. The result was, she 
 made herself so disagreeable to Miss Sparks that the 
 latter determined on getting rid of her as tactfully as 
 possible. 
 
 Their parting took place on the day after an excursion 
 to the Villa Sommariva, where Miss Sparks and her 
 little court had behaved with their usual noise and 
 rudeness. They had gone there ostensibly to see the 
 pictures, about which none of them cared anything, for 
 Nora, wherever she was, never liked any one to pay 
 attention to anybody or to look at anything but her 
 own noisy, all-pervading self. 
 
 It so happened that at the most riotous moment of the 
 picnic an old gentleman passed near the lively crowd. 
 He was quite inoffensive, pleasant-mannered, and 
 walked leaning on his cane, yet, had the statue of the 
 Commander in Don Juan suddenly appeared it could 
 not have produced such consternation as his presence 
 did on Jacqueline, when, after a moment's hesitation, 
 he bowed to her. She recognized in him a friend of 
 Madame d'Argy, M. Martel, whom she had often met 
 at her house in Paris and at Lizerolles. When he rec- 
 ognized her, she fancied she had seen pass over his face 
 a look of painful surprise. He would surely tell how he 
 
 [265]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 had met her; what would her old friends think of her? 
 What would Fred? For some time past she had 
 thought more than ever before of what Fred would 
 think of her. The more she grew disgusted w r ith the 
 men she met, the more she appreciated his good quali- 
 ties, and the more she thought of the honest, faithful 
 love he had offered her love that she had so madly 
 thrown away. She never should meet such love again, 
 she thought. It was the idea of how Fred would blame 
 her when he heard what she pictured to herself the old 
 gentleman would say of her, that suddenly decided her 
 to leave Bellagio. 
 
 She told Mr. Sparks that evening that she was not 
 strong enough for such duties as were required of a 
 companion. 
 
 He looked at her with pity and annoyance. 
 "I should have thought you had more energy. How 
 do you expect to live by work if you are not strong 
 enough for pleasure?" 
 
 "Pleasure needs strength as well as labor," she said, 
 smiling; "I would rather work in the fields than go on 
 amusing myself as I have been doing." 
 
 "My dear, you must not be so difficult to please. 
 When people have to earn their bread, it is a bad plan. 
 I am afraid you will find out before long that there are 
 harder ways of making a living than lunching, dancing, 
 walking, and driving from morning to night in a pretty 
 country- 
 Here Mr. Sparks began to laugh as he thought of all 
 he had had to do, without making objections, in the 
 Far West, in the heroic days of his youthful vigor. He 
 
 [266]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 was rather fond of recalling how he had carried his 
 pick on his shoulder and his knife in his belt, with two 
 Yankee sayings in his head, and little besides for bag- 
 gage: "Muscle and pluck! Muscle and pluck!" and 
 " Go ahead for ever!" That was the sort of thing to be 
 done when a man or a woman had not a cent. 
 
 And now, what was Jacqueline to do next ? She re- 
 flected that in a very short time she had attempted 
 many things. It seemed to her that all she could do 
 now was to follow the advice which, when first given 
 her by Madame Strahlberg, had frightened her, though 
 she had found it so attractive. She would study 
 with Madame Rochette; she would go to the Milan 
 Conservatory, and as soon as she came of age she 
 would go upon the stage, under a feigned name, 
 of course, and in a foreign country. She would 
 prove to the world, she said to herself, that the career 
 of an actress is compatible with self-respect. This 
 resolve that she would never be found wanting in self- 
 respect held a prominent place in all her plans, as she 
 began to understand better those dangers in life which 
 are for the most part unknown to young girls born 
 in her social position. Jacqueline's character, far from 
 being injured by her trials and experiences, had gained 
 in strength. She grew firmer as she gained in know- 
 ledge. Never had she been so worthy of regard and 
 interest as at the very time when her friends were 
 saying sadly to themselves, "She is going to the bad," 
 and when, from all appearances, they were right in 
 this conclusion. 
 
 [267]
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 TWIN DEVILS 
 
 [ACQUELINE came to the conclusion 
 that she had better seriously consult 
 Madame Strahlberg. She therefore 
 stopped at Monaco, where this friend, 
 whom she intended to honor with the 
 strange office of Mentor, was passing 
 the winter in a little villa in the Con- 
 damine quarter a cottage surrounded 
 by roses and laurel-bushes, painted in soft colors and 
 looking like a plaything. 
 
 Madame Strahlberg had already urged Jacqueline 
 to come and make acquaintance with her "paradise," 
 without giving her any hint of the delights of that para- 
 dise, from which that of gambling was not excluded, for 
 Madame Strahlberg was eager for any kind of excite- 
 ment. Roulette now occupied with her a large part of 
 every night indeed, her nights had been rarely given 
 to slumber, for her creed was that morning is the time 
 for sleep, for which reason they never took breakfast in 
 the pink villa, but tea, cakes, and confectionery were 
 eaten instead at all hours until the evening. Thus it 
 happened very often that they had no dinner, and 
 guests had to accommodate themselves to the strange 
 ways of the family. Jacqueline, however, did not stay 
 long enough to know much of those ways. 
 
 [268]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 She arrived, poor thing, with weary wing, like some 
 bird, who, escaping from the fowler's net, where it has 
 left its feathers, flies straight to the spot where a sports- 
 man lies ready to shoot it. She was received with the 
 same cries of joy, the same kisses, the same demonstra- 
 tions of affection, as those which, the summer before, 
 had welcomed her to the Rue de Naples. They told her 
 she could sleep on a sofa, exactly like the one on which 
 she had passed that terrible night which had resulted 
 in her expulsion from the convent; and it was decided 
 that she must stay several days, at least, before she went 
 on to Paris, to begin the life of hard study and coura- 
 geous work which would make of her a great singer. 
 
 Tired ? No, she was hardly tired at all. The jour- 
 ney over the enchanting road of the Corniche had 
 awakened in her a fervor of admiration which prevented 
 her from feeling any bodily needs, and now she seemed 
 to have reached fairyland, where the verdure of the 
 tropics was like the hanging gardens of Babylon, only 
 those had never had a mirror to reflect back their an- 
 cient, far-famed splendor, like that before her eyes, as 
 she looked down upon the Mediterranean, with the sun 
 setting in the west in a sky all crimson and gold. 
 
 Notwithstanding the disorder of her travelling-dress, 
 Jacqueline allowed her friend to take her straight from 
 the railway station to the Terrace of Monte Carlo. She 
 fell into ecstasies at sight of the African cacti, the cen- 
 tury plants, and the fig-trees of Barbary, covering the 
 low walls whence they looked down into the water; at 
 the fragrance of the evergreens that surrounded the 
 beautiful palace with its balustrades, dedicated to all 
 
 [269]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 the worst passions of the human race; with the sharp 
 rocky outline of Turbia ; with an almost invisible speck 
 on the horizon which they said was Corsica; with 
 everything, which, whether mirage or reality, lifted her 
 out of herself, and plunged her into that state of excited 
 happiness and indescribable sense of bodily comfort, 
 which exterior impressions so easily produce upon the 
 young. 
 
 After exhausting her vocabulary in exclamations and 
 in questions, she stood silent, watching the sun as it 
 sank beneath the waters, thinking that life is well 
 worth living if it can give us such glorious spectacles, 
 notwithstanding all the difficulties that may have to be 
 passed through. Several minutes elapsed before she 
 turned her radiant face and dazzled eyes toward Wan- 
 da, or rather toward the spot where Wanda had been 
 standing beside her. "Oh! my dear how beautiful!" 
 she murmured with a long sigh. 
 
 The sigh was echoed by a man, who for a few mo- 
 ments had looked at her with as much admiration as 
 she had looked at the landscape. He answered her by 
 saying, in a low voice, the tones of which made her 
 tremble from head to foot : 
 
 "Jacqueline!" 
 
 "Monsieur de Cymier!" 
 
 The words slipped through her lips as they suddenly 
 turned pale. She had an instinctive, sudden persua- 
 sion that she had been led into a snare. If not, why was 
 Madame Strahlberg now absorbed in conversation with 
 three other persons at some little distance. 
 
 "Forgive me you did not expect to see me you 
 [270]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 seem quite startled," said the young man, drawing near 
 her. With an effort she commanded herself and looked 
 full in his face. Her anger rose. She had seen the 
 same look in the ugly, brutal face of Oscar de Talbrun. 
 From the Terrace of Monte Carlo her memory flew 
 back to a country road in Normandy, and she clenched 
 her hand round an imaginary riding-whip. She needed 
 coolness and she needed courage. They came as if by 
 miracle. 
 
 "It is certain, Monsieur," she answered, slowly, 
 "that I did not expect to meet you here." 
 
 "Chance has had pity on me," he replied, bowing 
 low, as she had set him the example of ceremony. 
 
 But he had no idea of losing time in commonplace 
 remarks he wished to take up their intimacy on the 
 terms it had been formerly, to resume the romance he 
 himself had interrupted. 
 
 "I knew," he said in the same low voice, full of per- 
 suasion, which gave especial meaning to his words, "I 
 knew that, after all, we should meet again." 
 
 "I did not expect it," said Jacqueline, haughtily. 
 
 "Because you do not believe in the magnetism of a 
 fixed desire." 
 
 "No, I do not believe any such thing, when, op- 
 posed to such a desire, there is a strong, firm will," said 
 Jacqueline, her eyes burning. 
 
 "Ah!" he murmured, and he might have been sup- 
 posed to be really moved, so much his look changed, 
 "do not abuse your power over me do not make me 
 wretched ; if you could only understand 
 
 She made a swift movement to rejoin Madame Strahl- 
 [271]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 berg, but that lady was already coming toward them 
 with the same careless ease with which she had left 
 them together. 
 
 "Well! you have each found an old acquaintance," 
 she said, gayly. "I beg your pardon, my loveliest, but 
 I had to speak to some old friends, and ask them to 
 join us to-morrow evening. We shall sup at the restau- 
 rant of the Grand Hotel, after the opera for, I did not 
 tell you before, you will have the good luck to hear 
 Patti. Monsieur de Cymier, we shall expect you. Au 
 revoir" 
 
 He had been on the point of asking leave to walk 
 home with them. But there was something in Jacque- 
 line's look, and in her stubborn silence, that deterred 
 him. He thought it best to leave a skilful advocate to 
 plead his cause before he continued a conversation 
 which had not begun satisfactorily. Not that Gerard 
 de Cymier was discouraged by the behavior of Jacque- 
 line. He had expected her to be angry at his defection, 
 and that she would make him pay for it; but a little 
 skill on his part, and a little credulity on hers, backed 
 by the intervention of a third party, might set things 
 right. 
 
 One moment he lingered to look at her, admiring her 
 as she stood in the light of the dying sun, as beautiful 
 in her plain dress and her indignant paleness, while she 
 looked far out to sea, that she might not be obliged to 
 look at him, as she had been when he had known her 
 in prosperity. 
 
 At that moment he knew she hated him, but it would 
 be an additional delight to overcome that feeling. 
 
 [272]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 The two women, when he left them, continued walk- 
 ing on the terrace side by side, without a word. Wan- 
 da watched her companion out of the corners of her 
 eyes, and hummed an air to herself to break the si- 
 lence. She saw a storm gathering under Jacqueline's 
 black eyebrows, and knew that sharp arrows were 
 likely to shoot forth from those lips which several times 
 had opened, though not a word had been uttered, 
 probably through fear of saying too little or too much. 
 
 At last she made some trifling comment on the view, 
 explaining something about pigeon-shooting. 
 
 "Wanda," interrupted Jacqueline, "did you not 
 know what happened once?" 
 
 "Happened, how? About what?" asked Madame 
 Strahlberg, with an air of innocence. 
 
 "I am speaking of the way Monsieur de Cymier 
 treated me." 
 
 "Bah! He was in love with you. Who didn't know 
 it ? Every one could see that. It was all the more rea- 
 son why you should have been glad to meet him." 
 
 "He did not act as if he were much in love," said 
 Jacqueline. 
 
 "Because he went away when your family thought he 
 was about to make his formal proposal ? Not all men 
 are marrying men, my dear, nor have all women that 
 vocation. Men fall in love all the same." 
 
 "Do you think, then, that when a man knows he has 
 no intention of marrying he should pay court to a 
 young girl ? I think I told you at the time that he had 
 paid court to me, and that he afterward how shall I 
 say it? basely deserted me." 
 18 [273]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 The sharp and thrilling tone in which Jacqueline 
 said this amused Madame Strahlberg. 
 
 "What big words, my dear! No, I don't remember 
 that you ever said anything of the sort to me before. 
 But you are wrong. As we grow older we lay aside 
 harsh judgments and sharp words. They do no good. 
 In your place I should be touched by the thought that 
 a man so charming had been faithful to me." 
 
 "Faithful!" cried Jacqueline, her dark eyes flashing 
 into the cat-like eyes of Madame Strahlberg. 
 
 Wanda looked down, and fastened a ribbon at her 
 waist. 
 
 "Ever since we have been here," she said, "he has 
 been talking of you." 
 
 "Really for how long?" 
 
 " Oh, if you must know, for the last two weeks." 
 
 "It is just a fortnight since you wrote and asked 
 me to stay with you," said Jacqueline, coldly and re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 "Oh, well what's the harm? Suppose I did think 
 your presence would increase the attractions of Mon- 
 aco?" 
 
 "Why did you not tell me?" 
 
 "Because I never write a word more than is neces- 
 sary; you know how lazy I am. And also because, I 
 may as well confess, it might have scared you off, you 
 are so sensitive." 
 
 "Then you meant to take me by surprise?" said 
 Jacqueline, in the same tone. 
 
 " Oh! my dear, why do you try to quarrel with me ?" 
 replied Madame Strahlberg, stopping suddenly and 
 
 [274]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 looking at her through her eyeglass. "We may as well 
 understand what you mean by a free and independent 
 life." 
 
 And thereupon ensued an address to which Jacque- 
 line listened, leaning one hand on a balustrade of that 
 enchanted garden, while the voice of the serpent, as 
 she thought, was ringing in her ears. Her limbs shook 
 under her her brain reeled. All her hopes of success 
 as a singer on the stage Madame Strahlberg swept 
 away, as not worth a thought. She told her that, in 
 her position, had she meant to be too scrupulous, she 
 should have stayed in the convent. Everything to 
 Jacqueline seemed to dance before her eyes. The eve- 
 ning closed around them, the light died out, the land- 
 scape, like her life, had lost its glow. She uttered a 
 brief prayer for help, such a prayer as she had prayed 
 in infancy. She whispered it in terror, like a cry in ex- 
 treme danger. She was more frightened by Wanda's 
 wicked words than she had been by M. de Talbrun or 
 by M. de Cymier. She ceased to know what she was 
 saying till the last words, "You have good sense and 
 you will think about it," met her ear. 
 
 Jacqueline said not a word. 
 
 Wanda took her arm. "You may be sure," she 
 said, "that I am thinking only of your good. Come! 
 W T ould you like to go into the Casino and look at the 
 pictures ? No, you are tired ? You can see them some 
 evening. The ballroom holds a thousand persons. 
 Yes, if you prefer, we will go home. You can take a 
 nap till dinner-time. We shall dine at eight o'clock." 
 
 Conversation languished till they reached the Villa 
 [275]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 Rosa. Notwithstanding Jacqueline's efforts to appear 
 natural, her own voice rang in her ears in tones quite 
 new to her, a laugh that she uttered without any occa- 
 sion, and which came near resulting in hysterics. Yet 
 she had power enough over her nerves to notice the 
 surroundings as she entered the house. At the door of 
 the room in which she was to sleep, and which was on 
 the first story, Madame Strahlberg kissed her with one 
 of those equivocal smiles which so long had imposed 
 on her simplicity. 
 
 "Till eight o'clock, then." 
 
 "Till eight o'clock," repeated Jacqueline, passively. 
 
 But when eight o'clock came she sent word that 
 she had a severe headache, and would try to sleep 
 it off. 
 
 Suppose, she thought, M. de Cymier should have 
 been asked to dinner; suppose she should be placed 
 next to him at table? Anything in that house seemed 
 possible now. 
 
 They brought her a cup of tea. Up to a late hour 
 she heard a confused noise of music and laughter. She 
 did not try to sleep. All her faculties were on the 
 alert, like those of a prisoner who is thinking of 
 escape. She knew what time the night trains left the 
 station, and, abandoning her trunk and everything else 
 that she had with her, she furtively but ready, if need 
 were, to fight for her liberty with the strength of des- 
 peration slipped down the broad stairs over their 
 thick carpet and pushed open a little glass door. Thank 
 heaven! people came in and went out of that house as 
 if it had been a mill. No one discovered her flight till 
 
 [276]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 the next morning, when she was far on her way to Paris 
 in an express train. 
 
 Modeste, quite unprepared for her young mistress's 
 arrival, was amazed to see her drop down upon her, 
 feverish and excited, like some poor hunted animal, 
 with strength exhausted. Jacqueline flung herself into 
 her nurse's arms as she used to do when, as a little girl, 
 she was in what she fancied some great trouble, and she 
 cried: "Oh, take me in pray take me in! Keep me 
 safe! Hide me!" And then she told Modeste every- 
 thing, speaking rapidly and disconnectedly, thankful 
 to have some one to whom she could open her heart. 
 In default of Modeste she would have spoken to stone 
 walls. 
 
 "And what will you do now, my poor darling?" 
 asked the old nurse, as soon as she understood that her 
 young lady had come back to her, "with weary foot 
 and broken wing," from what she had assured her on 
 her departure would be a brilliant excursion. 
 
 "Oh! I don't know," answered Jacqueline, in utter 
 discouragement; "I am too worn out to think or to do 
 anything. Let me rest; that is all." 
 
 "Why don't you go to see your stepmother?" 
 
 "My stepmother? Oh, no! She is at the bottom 
 of all that has happened to me." 
 
 "Or Madame d'Argy? Or Madame de Talbrun? 
 Madame de Talbrun is the one who would give you 
 good advice." 
 
 Jacqueline shook her head with a sad smile. 
 
 "Let me stay here. Don't you remember years 
 ago but it seems like yesterday all the rest is like a 
 
 [277]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 nightmare how I used to hide myself under your pet- 
 ticoats, and you would say, going on with your knit- 
 ting: 'You see she is not here; I can't think where she 
 can be.' Hide me now just like that, dear old Modeste. 
 Only hide me." 
 
 And Modeste, full of heartfelt pity, promised to hide 
 her "dear child" from every one, which promise, how- 
 ever, did not prevent her, for she was very self-willed, 
 from going, without Jacqueline's knowledge, to see Ma- 
 dame de Talbrun and tell her all that had taken place. 
 She was hurt and amazed at her reception by Giselle, 
 and at her saying, without any offer of help or words of 
 sympathy, "She has only reaped what she has sown." 
 Giselle would have been more than woman had not 
 Fred, and a remembrance of the wrongs that he had 
 suffered through Jacqueline, now stood between them. 
 For months he had been the prime object in her life; 
 her mission of comforter had brought her the greatest 
 happiness she had ever known. She tried to make him 
 turn his attention to some serious work in life; she 
 wanted to keep him at home, for his mother's sake, she 
 thought; she fancied she had inspired him with a taste 
 for home life. If she had examined herself she might 
 have discovered that the task she had undertaken of 
 doing good to this young man was not wholly for his 
 sake but partly for her ow r n. She wanted to see him 
 nearly every day and to occupy a place in his life ever 
 larger and larger. But for some time past the con- 
 scientious Giselle had neglected the duty of strict self- 
 examination. She was thankful to be happy and 
 though Fred was a man little given to self-flattery in 
 
 [278]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 his relations with women, he could not but be pleased 
 at the change produced in her by her intercourse with 
 him. 
 
 But while Fred and Giselle considered themselves 
 as two friends trying to console each other, people had 
 begun to talk about them. Even Madame d'Argy 
 asked herself whether her son might not have escaped 
 from the cruel claws of a young coquette of the new 
 school to fall into a worse scrape with a married wom- 
 an. She imagined what might happen if the jealousy 
 of "that wild boar of an Oscar de Talbrun" were 
 aroused ; the dangers, far more terrible than the perils of 
 the sea, that might in such a case await her only son, the 
 child for whose safety her mother-love caused her to suf- 
 fer perpetual torments. "O mothers! mothers!" she 
 often said to herself, "how much they are to be pitied. 
 And they are very blind. If Fred must get into danger 
 and difficulty for any woman, it should not have been 
 for Giselle de Talbrun." 
 
 [279]
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 'AN AFFAIR OF HONOR" 
 
 MEETING took place yesterday at Vdsinet 
 between the Vicomte de Cymier, secretary of 
 Embassy at Vienna, and M. Fr&le'ric d'Argy, 
 ensign in the navy. The parties fought with 
 swords. The seconds of M. de Cymier were 
 the Prince de Moelk and M. d'Etaples, cap- 
 tain in the th Hussars; those of M. d'Argy 
 were M. Edmond Lavour, of the navy, and 
 Hubert Marien, the painter. M. d'Argy was 
 wounded in the right arm, and for the present the affair is termi- 
 nated, but it is said it will be resumed on M. d'Argy 's recovery, 
 although this seems hardly probable, considering the very slight 
 cause of the quarrel an altercation at the Cercle de la Rue Boissy 
 d'Anglas, which took place over the card-table. 
 
 Such was the announcement in a daily paper that 
 met the eyes of Jacqueline, as she lay hidden in Mo- 
 deste's lodging, like a fawn in its covert, her eyes and 
 ears on the alert, watching for the least sign of alarm, 
 in fear and trembling. She expected something, she 
 knew not what; she felt that her sad adventure at 
 Monaco could not fail to have its epilogue; but this 
 was one of which she never had dreamed. 
 
 "Modeste, give me my hat! Get me a carriage! 
 Quick! Oh, my God, it is my fault! I have killed 
 him!"
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 These incoherent cries came from her lips while 
 Modeste, in alarm, picked up the newspaper and ad- 
 justed her silver spectacles upon her nose to read the 
 paragraph. "Monsieur Fred wounded! Holy Virgin! 
 His poor mother! That is a new trouble fallen on her, 
 to be sure. But this quarrel had nothing to do with 
 you, my pet; you see they say it was about cards." 
 
 And folding up the Figaro, while Jacqueline in all 
 haste was wrapping her head in a veil, Modeste, with 
 the best intentions, went on to say: "Nobody ever dies 
 of a sword-thrust in the arm." 
 
 "But you see it says that they are going to fight all 
 over again don't you understand ? You are so stupid ! 
 What could they have had to quarrel about but me? 
 O God! Thou art just! This is indeed punishment 
 too much punishment for me!" 
 
 So saying, she ran down the many stairs that led up 
 to Modeste' s little lodging in the roof, her feet hardly 
 touching them as she ran, while Modeste followed her 
 more slowly, crying: "Wait for me! Wait for me, 
 Mademoiselle!" 
 
 Calling a fiacre, Jacqueline, almost roughly, pushed 
 the old woman into it, and gave the coachman the 
 address of Madame d'Argy, having, in her excitement, 
 first given him that of their old house in the Pare 
 Monceau, so much was she possessed by the idea that 
 this was a repetition of that dreadful day, when with 
 Modeste, just as now, she went to meet an irreparable 
 loss. She seemed to see before her her dead father 
 he looked like Fred, and now, as before, Marien had 
 his part in the tragedy. Could he not have prevented 
 
 [281]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 the duel? Could he not have done something to pre- 
 vent Fred from exposing himself? The wound might 
 be no worse than it was said to be in the newspaper 
 but then a second meeting was to take place. No ! it 
 should not, she would stop it at any price ! 
 
 And yet, as. the coach drew nearer to the Rue de 
 Varenne, where Madame d'Argy had her winter resi- 
 dence, a little calm, a little sense returned to Jacque- 
 line. She did not see how she could dare to enter that 
 house, where probably they cursed her very name. 
 She would wait in the street with the carriage-blinds 
 pulled down, and Modeste should go in and ask for in- 
 formation. Five minutes passed ten minutes passed 
 they seemed ages. How slow Modeste was, slow as 
 a tortoise! How could she leave her there when she 
 knew she was so anxious? What could she be doing? 
 All she had to do was to ask news of M. Fred in just 
 two words! 
 
 At last, Jacqueline could bear suspense no longer. 
 She opened the coach-door and jumped out on the 
 pavement. Just at that moment Modeste appeared, 
 brandishing the umbrella that she carried instead of a 
 stick, in a manner that meant something. It might be 
 bad news, she would know in a moment ; anything was 
 better than suspense. She sprang forward. 
 
 "What did they say, Modeste? Speak! Why have 
 you been such a tune?" 
 
 "Because the servants had something else to do than 
 to attend to me. I wasn't the only person there they 
 were writing in a register. Get back into the carriage, 
 Mademoiselle, or somebody will see you There are 
 
 [282]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 lots of people there who know you Monsieur and 
 Madame d'Etaples " 
 
 "What do I care? The truth! Tell me the 
 truth " 
 
 "But didn't you understand my signals? He is go- 
 ing on well. It was only a scratch Ah! dame! that's 
 only my way of talking. He will be laid up for a fort- 
 night. The doctor was there he has some fever, but 
 he is not in any danger." 
 
 "Oh! what a blessing! Kiss me, Modeste. We 
 have a fortnight in which we may interfere But how 
 Oh, how ? Ah ! there is Giselle ! We will go to Giselle 
 at once!" 
 
 And the fiacre was ordered to go as fast as possible to 
 the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. This time Jacqueline herself 
 spoke to the concierge. 
 
 "Madame la Comtesse is out." 
 
 "But she never goes out at this hour. I wish to see 
 her on important business. I must see her." 
 
 And Jacqueline passed the concierge, only to en- 
 counter another refusal from a footman, who insisted 
 that Madame la Comtesse was at home to no one. 
 
 " But me, she will see me. Go and tell her it is Made- 
 moiselle de Nailles." 
 
 Moved by her persistence, the footman went in to 
 inquire, and came back immediately with the an- 
 swer: 
 
 "Madame la Comtesse can not see Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Ah!" thought Jacqueline, "she, too, throws me off, 
 and it is natural. I have no friends left. No one will 
 tell me anything! I think it will drive me mad?" 
 
 [283]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 She was half -mad already. She stopped at a news- 
 stand and bought all the evening journals; then, up in 
 her garret, in her poor little nest under the roof which, 
 as she felt bitterly, was her only refuge, she began to 
 look over those printed papers in which she might pos- 
 sibly find out the true cause of the duel. Nearly all 
 related the event in almost the exact terms used by the 
 Figaro. Ah ! here was a different one ! A reporter who 
 knew something more added, in Gil Bias: "We have 
 stated the cause of the dispute as it has been given to 
 the public, but in affairs of this nature more than in any 
 others, it is safe to remember the old proverb: 'Look 
 for the woman.' The woman could doubtless have 
 been found enjoying herself on the sunny shores of the 
 Mediterranean, while men were drawing swords in her 
 defense." 
 
 Jacqueline went on looking through the newspapers, 
 crumpling up the sheets as she laid them down. The 
 last she opened had the reputation of being a repository 
 of scandals, never to be depended on, as she well knew. 
 Several times it had come to her hand and she had not 
 opened it, remembering what her father had always 
 said of its reputation. But where would she be more 
 likely to find what she wanted than in the columns of a 
 journal whose reporters listened behind doors and 
 peeped through keyholes? Under the heading of Les 
 Dessous Parisiens, she read on the first page : 
 
 "Two hens lived in peace; a cock came 
 
 And strife soon succeeded to joy; 
 E'en as love, they say, kindled the flame 
 That destroyed the proud city of Troy. 
 
 [284]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "This quarrel was the outcome of a violent rupture between 
 the two hens in question, ending in the flight of one of them, a 
 young and tender pullet, whose voice we trust soon to hear warbling 
 on the boards at one of our theatres. This was the subject of 
 conversation in a low voice at the Cercle, at the hour when it is 
 customary to tell such little scandals. M. de C - was enlarg- 
 ing on the somewhat Bohemian character of the establishment of 
 a lovely foreign lady, who possesses the secret of being always 
 surrounded by delightful friends, young ladies who are self-eman- 
 cipated, quasi-widows who, by divorce suits, have regained their 
 liberty, etc. He was speaking of one of the beauties who are 
 
 friends of his friend Madame S , as men speak of women who 
 
 have proved themselves careless of public opinion; when M. 
 
 d' A , in a loud voice, interrupted him ; the lie was given in 
 
 terms that of course led to the hostile meeting of which the press 
 has spoken, attributing it to a dispute about the Queen of Spades, 
 when it really concerned the Queen of Hearts." 
 
 Then she had made no mistake; it had been her 
 flight from Madame Strahlberg's which had led to her 
 being attacked by one man, and defended by the other! 
 Jacqueline found it hard to recognize herself in this 
 tissue of lies, insinuations, and half-truths. What did 
 the paper mean its readers to understand by its account ? 
 Was it a jealous rivalry between herself and Madame 
 Strahlberg ? Was M. de Cymier meant by the cock ? 
 And Fred had heard all this he had drawn his sword 
 to refute the calumny. Brave Fred! Alas! he had 
 been prompted only by chivalric generosity. Doubt- 
 less he, also, looked upon her as an adventuress. 
 
 All night poor Jacqueline wept with such distress 
 that she wished that she might die. She was dropping 
 off to sleep at last, overpowered by fatigue, when a ring 
 
 [285]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 at the bell in the early morning roused her. Then she 
 heard whispering: 
 
 "Do you think she is so unhappy?" 
 
 It was the voice of Giselle. 
 
 "Come in come in quickly!" she cried, springing 
 out of bed. Wrapped in a dressing-gown, with bare 
 feet, her face pale, her eyelids red, her complexion 
 clouded, she rushed to meet her friend, who was almost 
 as much disordered as herself. It seemed as if Madame 
 de Talbrun might also have passed a night of sleepless- 
 ness and tears. 
 
 "You have come! Oh! you have come at last!" 
 cried Jacqueline, throwing her arms around her, but 
 Giselle repelled her with a gesture so severe that the 
 poor child could not but understand its meaning. She 
 murmured, pointing to the pile of newspapers: "Is it 
 possible? Can you have believed all those dreadful 
 things?" 
 
 "What things? I have read nothing," said Giselle, 
 harshly. "I only know that a man who was neither 
 your husband nor your brother, and who consequently 
 was under no obligation to defend you, has been foolish 
 enough to be nearly killed for your sake. Is not that a 
 proof of your downfall ? Don't you know it ?" 
 
 "Downfall?" repeated Jacqueline, as if she did not 
 understand her. Then, seizing her friend's hand, she 
 forcibly raised it to her lips: "Ah! what can anything 
 matter to me," she cried, "if only you remain my 
 friend; and he has never doubted me!" 
 
 "Women like you can always find defenders," said 
 Giselle, tearing her hand from her cousin's grasp. 
 
 [286]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Giselle was not herself at that moment. "But, for 
 your own sake, it would have been better he should 
 have abstained from such an act of Quixotism." 
 
 " Giselle! can it be that you think me guilty ?" 
 
 "Guilty!" cried Madame de Talbrun, her pale face 
 aflame. "A little more and Monsieur de Cymier's 
 sword-point would have pierced his lungs." 
 
 "Good heavens!" cried Jacqueline, hiding her face 
 in her hands. "But I have done nothing to 
 
 "Nothing except to set two men against each other; 
 to make them suffer, or to make fools of them, and to 
 be loved by them all the same." 
 
 "I have not been a coquette," said Jacqueline, with 
 indignation. 
 
 "You must have been, to authorize the boasts of 
 Monsieur de Cymier. He had seen Fred so seldom, and 
 Tonquin had so changed him that he spoke in his pres- 
 ence without supposing any one would interfere. I 
 dare not tell you what he said " 
 
 "Whatever spite or revenge suggested to him, no 
 doubt," said Jacqueline. "Listen, Giselle Oh, you 
 must listen. I shall not be long." 
 
 She forced her to sit down; she crouched on a foot- 
 stool at her feet, holding her hands in hers so tightly 
 that Giselle could not draw them away, and began her 
 story, with all its details, of what had happened to her 
 since she left Fresne. She told of her meeting with 
 Wanda ; of the fatal evening which had resulted in her 
 expulsion from the convent; her disgust at the Sparks 
 family ; the snare prepared for her by Madame Strahl- 
 berg. "And I can not tell you all," she added, "I can 
 
 [287]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 not tell you what drove me away from my true friends, 
 and threw me among these people- 
 Giselle's sad smile seemed to answer, "No need I 
 am aware of it I know my husband." Encouraged by 
 this, Jacqueline went on with her confession, hiding 
 nothing that was wrong, showing herself just as she 
 had been, a poor, proud child who had set out to battle 
 for herself in a dangerous world. At every step she 
 had been more and more conscious of her own impru- 
 dence, of her own weakness, and of an ever- increasing 
 desire to be done with independence ; to submit to law, 
 to be subject to any rules which would deliver her from 
 the necessity of obeying no will but her own. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, "I am so disgusted with independ- 
 ence, with amusement, and amusing people! Tell me 
 what to do in future I am weary of taking charge of 
 myself. I said so the other day to the Abbe Bardin. 
 He is the only person I have seen since my return. It 
 seems to me I am coming back to my old ideas you 
 remember how I once wished to end my days in the 
 cell of a Carmelite? You might love me again then, 
 perhaps, and Fred and poor Madame d'Argy, who must 
 feel so bitterly against me since her son was wounded, 
 might forgive me. No one feels bitterly against the 
 dead, and it is the same as being dead to be a Carmel- 
 ite nun. You would all speak of me sometimes to 
 each other as one who had been very unhappy, who 
 had been guilty of great foolishness, but who had re- 
 paired her faults as best she could." 
 
 Poor Jacqueline! She was no longer a girl of the 
 period ; in her grief and humiliation she belonged to the 
 
 [288]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 past. Old - fashioned forms of penitence attracted 
 her. 
 
 "And what did the Abbe Bardin tell you?" asked 
 Giselle, with a slight movement of her shoulders. 
 
 "He only told me that he could not say at present 
 whether that were my vocation." 
 
 "Nor can I," said Giselle. 
 
 Jacqueline lifted up her face, wet with tears, which 
 she had been leaning on the lap of Giselle. 
 
 "I do not see what else I can do, unless you would 
 get me a place as governess somewhere at the ends of 
 the earth," she said. "I could teach children their 
 letters. I should not mind doing anything. I never 
 should complain. Ah! if you lived all by yourself, 
 Giselle, how I should implore you to take me to teach 
 little Enguerrand!" 
 
 "I think you might do better than that," said 
 Giselle, wiping her friend's eyes almost as a mother 
 might have done, "if you would only listen to Fred." 
 
 Jacqueline's cheeks became crimson. 
 
 "Don't mock me it is cruel I am too unworthy 
 it would pain me to see him. Shame regret you 
 understand! But I can tell you one thing, Giselle 
 only you. You may tell it to him when he is quite old, 
 when he has been long married, and when everything 
 concerning me is a thing of the past. I never had loved 
 any one with all my heart up to the moment when I 
 read in that paper that he had fought for me, that 
 his blood had flowed for me, that after all that had 
 passed he still thought me worthy of being defended by 
 him." 
 
 19 f 289 1
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 Her tears flowed fast, and she added: "I shall be 
 proud of that all the rest of my life! If only you, too, 
 would forgive me." 
 
 The heart of Giselle was melted by these words. 
 
 "Forgive you, my dear little girl? Ah! you have 
 been better than I. I forgot our old friendship for a 
 moment I was harsh to you ; and I have so little right 
 to blame you! But come! Providence may have ar- 
 ranged all for the best, though one of us may have to 
 suffer. Pray for that some one. Good-by aurevoir!" 
 
 She kissed Jacqueline's forehead and was gone, be- 
 fore her cousin had seized the meaning of her last 
 words. But joy and peace came back to Jacqueline. 
 She had recovered her best friend, and had convinced 
 her of her innocence. 
 
 1 390 J
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 GENTLE CONSPIRATORS 
 
 EFORE Giselle went home to her own 
 house she called on the Abbe, Bardin, 
 whom a rather surly servant was not 
 disposed to disturb, as he was just 
 eating his breakfast. The Abbe Bar- 
 din was Jacqueline's confessor, and 
 he held the same relation to a number 
 of other young girls who were among 
 her particular friends. He was thoroughly acquainted 
 with all that concerned their delicate and generally 
 childish little souls. He kept them in the right way, 
 had often a share in their marriages, and in general 
 kept an eye upon them all their lives. Even when they 
 escaped from him, as had happened in the case of 
 Jacqueline, he did not give them up. He commended 
 them to God, and looked forward to the time of their 
 repentance with the patience of a father. The Abb 
 Bardin had never been willing to exercise any function 
 but that of catechist; he had grown old in the humble 
 rank of third assistant in a great parish, when, with a 
 little ambition, he might have been its rector. "Suffer 
 little children to come unto me" had been his motto. 
 These words of his Divine Master seemed more often 
 than any others on his lips lips so expressive of loving- 
 
 [291]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 kindness, though sometimes a shrewd smile would pass 
 over them and seem to say: "I know, I can divine." 
 But when this smile, the result of long experience, did 
 not light up his features, the good Abbe Bardin looked 
 like an elderly child ; he was short, his walk was a trot, 
 his face was round and ruddy, his eyes, which were 
 short-sighted, were large, wide-open, and blue, and his 
 heavy crop of white hair, which curled and crinkled 
 above his forehead, made him look like a sixty-year- 
 old angel, crowned with a silvery aureole. 
 
 Rubbing his hands affably, he came into the little 
 parlor where Madame de Talbrun was waiting for 
 him. There was probably no ecclesiastic in all Paris 
 who had a salon so full of worked cushions, each of 
 which was a keepsake a souvenir of some first com- 
 munion. The Abbe did not know his visitor, but the 
 name Talbrun seemed to him connected with an 
 honorable and well-meaning family. The lady was 
 probably a mother who had come to put her child into 
 his hands for religious instruction. He received visits 
 from dozens of such mothers, some of whom were a 
 little tiresome, from a wish to teach him what he knew 
 better than they, and at one time he had set apart 
 Wednesday as his day for receiving such visits, that 
 he might not be too greatly disturbed, as seemed likely 
 to happen to him that day. Not that he cared very 
 much whether he ate his cutlet hot or cold, but his 
 housekeeper cared a great deal. A man may be a 
 very experienced director, and yet be subject to direc- 
 tion in other ways. 
 
 The youth of Giselle took him by surprise. 
 [292]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "Monsieur 1'Abbe," she said, without any pre- 
 amble, while he begged her to sit down, "I have come 
 to speak to you of a person in whom you take an 
 interest, Jacqueline de Nailles." 
 
 He passed the back of his hand over his brow and 
 said, with a sigh: "Poor little thing!" 
 
 "She is even more to be pitied than you think. You 
 have not seen her, I believe, since last week." 
 
 "Yes she came. She has kept up, thank God, 
 some of her religious duties." 
 
 "For all that, she has played a leading part in a 
 recent scandal." 
 
 The Abbe sprang up from his chair. 
 
 "A duel has taken place because of her, and her 
 name is in all men's mouths whispered, of course- 
 but the quarrel took place at the Club. You know 
 what it is to be talked of at the Club." 
 
 "The poison of asps," growled the Abbe; "oh! 
 those clubs think of all the evil reports concocted in 
 them, of which women are the victims!" 
 
 "In the present case the evil report was pure cal- 
 umny. It was taken up by some one whom you also 
 know Frederic d'Argy." 
 
 "I have had profound respect these many years for 
 his excellent and pious mother." 
 
 "I thought so. In that case, Monsieur 1'Abbe, you 
 would not object to going to Madame d'Argy 's house 
 and asking how her son is." 
 
 "No, of course not; but it is my duty to disap- 
 prove 
 
 "You will tell her that when a young man has com- 
 [ 2 93]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 promised a young girl by defending her reputation in 
 a manner too public, there is but one thing he can do 
 afterward marry her." 
 
 "Wait one moment," said the Abbe, who was greatly 
 surprised; "it is certain that a good marriage would 
 be the best thing for Jacqueline. I have been thinking 
 of it. But I do not think I could so suddenly so soon 
 after " 
 
 "To-day at four o'clock, Monsieur 1'Abbe. Time 
 presses. You can add that such a marriage is the only 
 way to stop a second duel, which will otherwise take 
 place." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "And it is also the only way to bring Frederic to 
 decide on sending in his resignation. Don't forget that 
 it is important." 
 
 "But how do you know " 
 
 The poor Abbe stammered out his words, and 
 counted on his fingers the arguments he was desired 
 to make use of. 
 
 "And you will solemnly assure them that Jacqueline 
 is innocent." 
 
 "Oh! as to that, there are wolves in sheeps' clothing, 
 as the Bible tells us; but believe me, when such poor 
 young things are in question, it is more often the sheep 
 which has put on the appearance of a wolf to seem 
 in the fashion," added the Abbe, "just to seem in the 
 fashion. Fashion will authorize any kind of counter- 
 feiting." 
 
 "Well, you will say all that, will you not, to Madame 
 d'Argy? It will be very good of you if you will. She 
 
 [294]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 will make no difficulties about money. All she wants 
 is a quietly disposed daughter-in-law who will be will- 
 ing to pass nine months of the year at Lizerolles, and 
 Jacqueline is quite cured of her Paris fever." 
 
 "A fever too often mortal," murmured the Abbe; 
 "oh, for the simplicity of nature! A priest whose lot 
 is cast in the country is fortunate, Madame, but we 
 can not choose our vocation. We may do good any- 
 where, especially in cities. Are you sure, however, 
 that Jacqueline ' 
 
 "She loves Monsieur d'Argy." 
 
 "Well, if that is so, we are all right. The great mis- 
 fortune with many of these poor girls is that they have 
 never learned to love anything; they know nothing but 
 agitations, excitements, curiosities, and fancies. All 
 that sort of thing runs through their heads." 
 
 "You are speaking of a Jacqueline before the duel. 
 I can assure you that ever since yesterday, if not before, 
 she has loved Monsieur d'Argy, who on his part for a long 
 time a very long time has been in love with her." 
 
 Giselle spoke eagerly, as if she forced herself to say 
 the words that cost her pain. Her cheeks were flushed 
 under her veil. The Abbe, who was keen-sighted, ob- 
 served these signs. 
 
 "But," continued Giselle, "if he is forced to forget 
 her he may try to expend elsewhere the affection he 
 feels for her ; he may trouble the peace of others, while 
 deceiving himself. He might make in the world one 
 of those attachments Do not fail to represent all 
 these dangers to Madame d'Argy when you plead the 
 cause of Jacqueline." 
 
 [295]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 "Humph! You are evidently much attached, Ma- 
 dame, to Mademoiselle de Nailles." 
 
 "Very much, indeed," she answered, bravely, "very 
 much attached to her, and still more to him; therefore 
 you understand that this marriage must absolutely 
 must take place." 
 
 She had risen and was folding her cloak round her, 
 looking straight into the Abbe's eyes. Small as she 
 was, their height was almost the same; she wanted 
 him to understand thoroughly why this marriage must 
 take place. 
 
 He bowed. Up to that time he had not been quite 
 sure that he had not to do with one of those wolves 
 dressed in fleece whose appearance is as misleading 
 as that of sheep disguised as wolves: now his opinion 
 was settled. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! Madame," he said, "your reasons seem 
 to me excellent a duel to be prevented, a son to be 
 kept by the side of his sick mother, two young people 
 who love each other to be married, the saving, possibly, 
 of two souls ' 
 
 "Say three souls, Monsieur PAbbe!" 
 
 He did not ask whose was the third, nor even why 
 she had insisted that this delicate commission must be 
 executed that same day. He only bowed when she 
 said again: "At four o'clock: Madame d'Argy will 
 be prepared to see you. Thank you, Monsieur PAbbe." 
 And then, as she descended the staircase, he bestowed 
 upon her silently his most earnest benediction, before 
 returning to the cold cutlet that was on his breakfast- 
 table. 
 
 [296]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 Giselle did not breakfast much better than he. In 
 truth, M. de Talbrun being absent, she sat looking at 
 her son, who was eating with a good appetite, while 
 she drank only a cup of tea ; after which, she dressed 
 herself, with more than usual care, hiding by rice-pow- 
 der the trace of recent tears on her complexion, and 
 arranging her fair hair in the way that was most be- 
 coming to her, under a charming little bonnet covered 
 with gold net-work which corresponded with the em- 
 broidery on an entirely new costume. 
 
 When she went into the dining-room Enguerrand, 
 who was there with his nurse finishing his dessert, 
 cried out: "Oh! mamma, how pretty you are!" which 
 went to her heart. She kissed him two or three times 
 one kiss after another. 
 
 "I try to be pretty for your sake, my darling." 
 
 "Will you take me with you?" 
 
 "No, but I will come back for you, and take you 
 out." 
 
 She walked a few steps, and then turned to give him 
 such a kiss as astonished him, for he said : 
 
 "Is it really going to be long?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Before you come back? You kiss me as if you 
 were going for a long time, far away." 
 
 "I kissed you to give myself courage." 
 
 Enguerrand, who, when he had a hard lesson to 
 learn, always did the same thing, appeared to under- 
 stand her. 
 
 "You are going to do some thing you don't 
 like." 
 
 [297]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 "Yes, but I have to do it, because you see it is my 
 duty." 
 
 "Do grown people have duties?" 
 
 "Even more than children." 
 
 "But it isn't your duty to write a copy your writing 
 is so pretty. Oh! that's what I hate most. And you 
 always say it is my duty to write my copy. I'll go and 
 do it while you do your duty. So that will seem as if 
 we were both together doing something we don't like 
 won't it, mamma?" 
 
 She kissed him again, even more passionately. 
 
 "We shall be always together, we two, my love!" 
 
 This word love struck the little ear of Enguerrand 
 as having a new accent, a new meaning, and, boy-like, 
 he tried to turn this excess of tenderness to advantage. 
 
 "Since you love me so much, will you take me to see 
 the puppet-show?" 
 
 "Anywhere you like when I come back. Good- 
 by!" 
 
 [298]
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 A CHIVALROUS SOUL 
 
 fADAME D'ARGY sat knitting by 
 the window in Fred's chamber, with 
 that resigned but saddened air that 
 mothers wear when they are occu- 
 pied in repairing the consequences 
 of some rash folly. Fred had seen 
 her in his boyhood knitting in the 
 same way with the same look on her 
 face, when he had been thrown from his pony, or had 
 fallen from his velocipede. He himself looked ill at 
 ease and worried, as he lay on a sofa with his arm in 
 a sling. He was yawning and counting the hours. 
 From time to time his mother glanced at him. Her 
 look was curious, and anxious, and loving, all at the 
 same time. He pretended to be asleep. He did not 
 like to see her watching him. His handsome mascu- 
 line face, tanned that pale brown which tropical cli- 
 mates give to fair complexions, looked odd as it rose 
 above a light-blue cape, a very feminine garment 
 which, as it had no sleeves, had been tied round his 
 neck to keep him from being cold. He felt himself, 
 with some impatience, at the mercy of the most tender, 
 but the most sharp-eyed of nurses, a prisoner to her 
 devotion, and made conscious of her power every mo- 
 
 [299]
 
 BENTZON 
 
 ment. Her attentions worried him ; he knew that they 
 all meant "It is your own fault, my poor boy, that you 
 are in this state, and that your mother is so unhappy." 
 He felt it. He knew as well as if she had spoken that 
 she was asking him to return to reason, to marry, with- 
 out more delay, their little neighbor in Normandy, 
 Mademoiselle d'Argeville, a niece of M. Martel, whom 
 he persisted in not thinking of as a wife, always calling 
 her a "cider apple," in allusion to her red cheeks. 
 
 A servant came in, and said to Madame d'Argy that 
 Madame de Talbrun was in the salon. 
 
 "I am coming," she said, rolling up her knitting. 
 
 But Fred suddenly woke up: 
 
 "Why not ask her to come here?" 
 
 "Very good," said his mother, with hesitation. She 
 was distracted between her various anxieties; ex- 
 asperated against the fatal influence of Jacqueline, 
 alarmed by the increasing intimacy with Giselle, de- 
 sirous that all such complications should be put an 
 end to by his marriage, but terribly afraid that her 
 "cider apple" would not be sufficient to accomplish it. 
 
 "Beg Madame de Talbrun to come in here," she 
 said, repeating the order after her son; but she settled 
 herself in her chair with an air more patient, more 
 resigned than ever, and her lips were firmly closed. 
 
 Giselle entered in her charming new gown, and 
 Fred's first words, like those of Enguerrand, were: 
 "How pretty you are! It is charity," he added, smil- 
 ing, "to present such a spectacle to the eyes of a sick 
 man; it is enough to set him up again." 
 
 "Isn't it?" said Giselle, kissing Madame d'Argy on 
 [300]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 the forehead. The poor mother had resumed her 
 knitting with a sigh, hardly glancing at the pretty 
 walking-costume, nor at the bonnet with its network 
 of gold. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty?" repeated Giselle. "I am de- 
 lighted with this costume. It is made after one of 
 Rejane's. Oscar fell in love with it at a first represen- 
 tation of a vaudeville, and he gave me over into the 
 hands of the same dressmaker, who indeed was named 
 in the play. That kind of advertising seems very 
 effective." 
 
 She went on chattering thus to put off what she had 
 really come to say. Her heart was beating so fast 
 that its throbs could be seen under the embroidered 
 front of the bodice which fitted her so smoothly. She 
 wondered how Madame d'Argy would receive the sug- 
 gestion she was about to make. 
 
 She went on: "I dressed myself in my best to-day 
 because I am so happy." 
 
 Madame d'Argy's long tortoiseshell knitting-needles 
 stopped. 
 
 "I am glad to hear it, my dear," she said, coldly, 
 "I am glad anybody can be happy. There are so 
 many of us who are sad." 
 
 "But why are you pleased?" asked Fred, looking at 
 her, as if by some instinct he understood that he had 
 something to do with it. 
 
 "Our prodigal has returned," answered Giselle, 
 with a little air of satisfaction, very artificial, however, 
 for she could hardly breathe, so great was her fear and 
 her emotion. "My house is in the garb of rejoicing."
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 "The prodigal? Do you mean your husband?" 
 said Madame d'Argy, maliciously. 
 
 "Oh! I despair of him," replied Giselle, lightly. 
 "No, I speak of a prodigal who did not go far, and 
 who made haste to repent. I am speaking of Jacque- 
 line." 
 
 There was complete silence. The knitting-needles 
 ticked rapidly, a slight flush rose on the dark cheeks 
 of Fred. 
 
 "All I beg," said Madame d'Argy, "is that you will 
 not ask me to eat the fatted calf in her honor. The 
 comings and going of Mademoiselle de Nailles have 
 long ceased to have the slightest interest for me." 
 
 "They have for Fred at any rate; he has just proved 
 it, I should say," replied Giselle. 
 
 By this time the others were as much embarrassed 
 as Giselle. She saw it, and went on quickly : 
 
 "Their names are together in everybody's mouth; 
 you can not hinder it." 
 
 "I regret it deeply and allow me to make one re- 
 mark : it seems to me you show a want of tact such as 
 I should never have imagined in you, my dear, in tell- 
 ing us- 
 Giselle read in Fred's eyes, which were steadily 
 fixed on her, that he was, on that point, of his mother's 
 opinion. She went on, however, still pretending to 
 blunder. 
 
 "Forgive me but I have been so anxious about 
 you ever since I heard there was to be a second meet- 
 ing- 
 
 "A second meeting!" screamed Madame d'Argy, 
 
 [3 02 ]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 who, as she read no paper but the Gazette de France, 
 or occasionally the Debats, knew nothing of all the 
 rumors that find their echo in the daily papers. 
 
 "Oh, mon Dieu! I thought you knew 
 
 "You need not frighten my mother," said Fred, 
 almost angrily; "Monsieur de Cymier has written a 
 letter which puts an end to our quarrel. It is the let- 
 ter of a man of honor apologizing for having spoken 
 lightly, for having repeated false rumors without verify- 
 ing them in short, retracting all that he had said that 
 reflected in any way on Mademoiselle de Nailles, and 
 authorizing me, if I think best, to make public his 
 retraction. After that we can have nothing more to 
 say to each other." 
 
 "He who makes himself the champion to defend a 
 young girl's character," said Madame d'Argy, senten- 
 tiously, "injures her as much as those who have spo- 
 ken evil of her." 
 
 "That is exactly what I think," said Giselle. "The 
 self-constituted champion has given the evil rumor cir- 
 culation." 
 
 There was again a painful silence. Then the intre- 
 pid little woman resumed: "This step on the part of 
 Monsieur de Cymier seems to have rendered my 
 errand unnecessary. I had thought of a way to end 
 this sad affair; a very simple way, much better, most 
 certainly, than men cutting their own throats or those 
 of other people. But since peace has been made over 
 the ruins of Jacqueline's reputation, I had better say 
 nothing and go away." 
 
 "No no! Let us hear what you had to propose," 
 [3 3]
 
 THEO BENTZON 
 
 said Fred, getting up from his couch so quickly that 
 he jarred his bandaged arm, and uttered a cry of pain, 
 which seemed very much like an oath, too. 
 
 Giselle was silent. Standing before the hearth, she 
 was warming her small feet, watching, as she did so, 
 Madame d'Argy's profile, which was reflected in the 
 mirror. It was severe impenetrable. It was Fred 
 who spoke first. 
 
 "In the first place," he said, hesitating, "are you 
 sure that Mademoiselle de Nailles has not just arrived 
 from Monaco?" 
 
 "I am certain that for a week she has been living 
 quietly with Modeste, and that, though she passed 
 through Monaco, she did not stay there twenty-four 
 hours, finding that the air of that place did not agree 
 with her." 
 
 "But what do you say to what Monsieur Martel saw 
 with his own eyes, and which is confirmed by public 
 rumor?" cried Madame d'Argy, as if she were giving 
 a challenge. 
 
 "Monsieur Martel saw Jacqueline in bad company. 
 She was not there of her own will. As to public rumor, 
 we may feel sure that to make it as flattering to her 
 tomorrow as it is otherwise to-day only a marriage is 
 necessary. Yes, a marriage! That is the way I had 
 thought of to settle everything and make everybody 
 happy." 
 
 "What man would marry a girl who had comprom- 
 ised herself?" said Madame d'Argy, indignantly. 
 
 "He who has done his part to compromise her." 
 
 "Then go and propose it to Monsieur de Cyrnier!" 
 [34]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 "No. It is not Monsieur de Cymier whom she 
 loves." 
 
 "Ah!" Madame d'Argy was on her feet at once. 
 "Indeed, Giselle, you are losing your senses. If I 
 were not afraid of agitating Fred- 
 He was, in truth, greatly agitated. The only hand 
 that he could use was pulling and tearing at the little 
 blue cape crossed on his breast, in which his mother 
 had wrapped him ; and this unsuitable garment formed 
 such a queer contrast to the expression of his face that 
 Giselle, in her nervous excitement, burst out laughing, 
 an explosion of merriment which completed the ex- 
 asperation of Madame d'Argy. 
 
 "Never!" she cried, beside herself. "You hear me 
 never will I consent, whatever happens!" 
 
 At that moment the door was partly opened, and a 
 servant announced "Monsieur 1'Abbe Bardin." 
 
 Madame d'Argy made a gesture which was anything 
 but reverential. 
 
 "Well, to be sure this is the right moment with a 
 vengeance! What does he want! Does he wish me 
 to assist in some good work or to undertake to collect 
 money, which I hate 
 
 "Above all, mother," cried Fred, "don't expose me 
 to the fatigue of receiving his visit. Go and see him 
 yourself. Giselle will take care of your patient while 
 you are gone. Won't you, Giselle?" 
 
 His voice was soft, and very affectionate. He evi- 
 dently was not angry at what she had dared to say, 
 and she acknowledged this to herself with an aching 
 heart. 
 
 20 [ 305 ]
 
 TH^O BENTZON 
 
 "I don't exactly trust your kind of care," said Ma- 
 dame d'Argy, with a smile that was not gay, and 
 certainly not amiable. 
 
 She went, however, because Fred repeated: 
 
 "But go and see the Abbe Bardin." 
 
 Hardly had she left the room when Fred got up from 
 his sofa and approached Giselle with passionate eager- 
 ness. 
 
 "Are you sure I am not dreaming," said he. "Is it 
 you really you who advise me to marry Jacqueline?" 
 
 "Who else should it be?" she answered, very calm 
 to all appearance. "Who can know better than I? 
 But first you must oblige me by lying down again, or 
 else I will not say one word more. That is right. 
 Now keep still. Your mother is furiously displeased 
 with me I am sorry but she will get over it. I know 
 that in Jacqueline you would have a good wife a wife 
 far better than the Jacqueline you would have married 
 formerly. She has paid dearly for her experience of 
 life, and has profited by its lessons, so that she is now 
 worthy of you, and sincerely repentant for her childish 
 peccadilloes." 
 
 "Giselle," said Fred, "look me full in the face yes, 
 look into my eyes frankly and hide nothing. Your 
 eyes never told anything but the truth. Why do you 
 turn them away? Do you really and truly wish this 
 marriage?" 
 
 She looked at him steadily as long as he would, and 
 let him hold her hand, which was burning inside her 
 glove, and which with a great effort she prevented 
 from trembling. Then her nerves gave way under his 
 
 [306]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 long and silent gaze, which seemed to question her, 
 and she laughed, a laugh that sounded to herself very 
 unnatural. 
 
 "My poor, dear friend," she cried, "how easily you 
 men are duped! You are trying to find out, to dis- 
 cover whether, in case you decide upon an honest act, ci 
 perfectly sensible act, to which you are strongly inclined 
 don't tell me you are not whether, in short, you 
 marry Jacqueline, I shall be really as glad of it as I 
 pretend. But have you not found out what I have 
 aimed at all along? Do you think I did not know 
 from the very first what it was that made you seek me ? 
 I was not the rose, but I had lived near the rose ; I. re- 
 minded you of her continually. We two loved her; 
 each of us felt we did. Even when you said harm of 
 her, I knew it was merely because you longed to utter 
 her name, and repeat to yourself her perfections. I 
 laughed, yes, I laughed to myself, and I was careful 
 how I contradicted you. I tried to keep you safe for 
 her, to prevent your going elsewhere and forming 
 attachments which might have resulted in your forget- 
 ting her. I did my best do me justice I did my 
 best; perhaps sometimes I pushed things a little far 
 in her interest, in that of your mother, but in yours 
 more than all; in yours, for God knows I am all for 
 you," said Giselle, with sudden and involuntary fervor. 
 "Yes, I am all yours as a friend, a faithful friend," she 
 resumed, almost frightened by the tones of her own 
 voice; "but as to the slightest feeling of love between 
 us, love the most spiritual, the most platonic yes, all 
 men, I fancy, have a little of that kind of self-conceit. 
 
 [307]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 Dear Fred, don't imagine it Enguerrand would never 
 have allowed it." 
 
 She was smiling, half laughing, and he looked at her 
 with astonishment, asking himself whether he could 
 believe what she was saying, when he could recollect 
 what seemed to him so many proofs to the contrary. 
 Yet in what she said there was no hesitation, no inco- 
 herence, no false note. Pride, noble pride, upheld her 
 to the end. The first falsehood of her life was a mas- 
 terpiece. 
 
 "Ah, Giselle!" he said at last, not knowing what 
 to think, "I adore you! I revere you!" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, with a smile, gracious, yet with 
 a touch of sadness, "I know you do. But her you 
 love!" 
 
 Might it not have been sweet to her had he answered : 
 "No, I loved her once, and remembered that old love 
 enough to risk my life for her, but in reality I now love 
 only you all the more at this moment when I see you 
 love me more than yourself." But, instead, he mur- 
 mured only, like a man and a lover: "And Jacqueline 
 do you think she loves me?" His anxiety, a thrill 
 that ran through all his frame, the light in his eyes, his 
 sudden pallor, told more than his words. 
 
 If Giselle could have doubted his love for Jacque- 
 line before, she would have now been convinced of it. 
 The conviction stabbed her to the heart. Death is not 
 that last sleep in which all our faculties, weakened and 
 exhausted, fail us; it is the blow which annihilates our 
 supreme illusion and leaves us disabused in a cold and 
 empty world. People walk, talk, and smile after this 
 
 [308]
 
 JACQUELINE 
 
 death another ghost is added to the drama played on 
 the stage of the world; but the real self is dead. 
 
 Giselle was too much of a woman, angelic as she was, 
 to have any courage left to say: "Yes, I know she 
 loves you." 
 
 She said instead, in a low voice: "That is a question 
 you must ask of her." 
 
 Meantime, in the next room they could hear Ma- 
 dame d'Argy vehemently repeating: "Never! No, I 
 never will consent! Is it a plot between you?" 
 
 They heard also a rumbling monotone preceding 
 each of these vehement interruptions. The Abbe 
 Bardin was pointing out to her that, unmarried, her 
 son would return to Tonquin, that Lizerolles would be 
 left deserted, her house would be desolate without 
 daughter-in-law or grandchildren; and, as he drew 
 these pictures, he came back, again and again, to his 
 main argument: 
 
 "I will answer for their happiness: I will answer 
 for the future." 
 
 His authority as a priest gave weight to this assur- 
 ance, at least Madame d'Argy felt it so. She went on 
 saying never, but less and less emphatically, and ap- 
 parently she ceased to say it at last, for three months 
 later the d'Etaples, the Rays, the d'Avrignys and the 
 rest, received two wedding announcements in these 
 words: 
 
 "Madame d'Argy has the honor to inform you of the marriage 
 of her son, M. Frederic d'Argy, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, 
 to Mademoiselle de Nailles." 
 
 [309]
 
 THfiO BENTZON 
 
 The accompanying card ran thus: 
 
 "The Baroness de Nailles has the honor to inform you of the 
 marriage of Mademoiselle Jacqueline de Nailles, her stepdaughter, 
 to M. Frederic d'Argy." 
 
 Congratulations showered down on both mother and 
 stepmother. A love-match is nowadays so rare! It 
 turned out that every one had always wished all kinds 
 of good fortune to young Madame d'Argy, and every 
 one seemed to take a sincere part in the joy that was 
 expressed on the occasion, even Dolly, who, it was 
 said, had in secret set her heart on Fred for herself; 
 even Nora Sparks, who, not having carried out her 
 plans, had gone back to New York, whence she sent 
 a superb wedding present. Madame de Nailles ap- 
 parently experienced at the wedding all the emotions 
 of a real mother. 
 
 The roses at Lizerolles bloomed that year with un- 
 usual beauty, as if to welcome the young pair. Mo- 
 deste sang Nunc Dimittis. The least demonstrative 
 of all those interested in the event was Giselle.
 
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