Books: Serge Panine, v1
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Georges Ohnet >> Serge Panine, v1
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He suffered in silence. But he no longer suffered alone. Like an
overflowing river that finds an outlet in the valley, which it inundates,
the longings for maternity, hitherto repressed by the preoccupations of
business, had suddenly seized Madame Desvarennes.
Strong and unyielding, she struggled and would not own herself conquered.
Still she became sad. Her voice sounded less sonorously in the offices
where she gave an order; her energetic nature seemed subdued. Now she
looked around her. She beheld prosperity made stable by incessant work,
respect gained by spotless honesty; she had attained the goal which she
had marked out in her ambitious dreams, as being paradise itself.
Paradise was there; but it lacked the angel. They had no child.
From that day a change came over this woman, slowly but surely; scarcely
perceptible to strangers, but easy to be seen by those around her.
She became benevolent, and gave away considerable sums of money,
especially to children's "Homes." But when the good people who governed
these establishments, lured on by her generosity, came to ask her to be
on their committee of management, she became angry, asking them if they
were joking with her? What interest could those brats have for her?
She had other fish to fry. She gave them what they needed, and what
more could they want? The fact was she felt weak and troubled before
children. But within her a powerful and unknown voice had arisen, and
the hour was not far distant when the bitter wave of her regrets was to
overflow and be made manifest.
She did not like Savinien, her nephew, and kept all her sweetness for the
son of one of their old neighbors in the Rue Neuve-Coquenard, a small
haberdasher, who had not been able to get on, but continued humbly to
sell thread and needles to the thrifty folks of the neighborhood. The
haberdasher, Mother Delarue, as she was called, had remained a widow
after one year of married life. Pierre, her boy, had grown up under the
shadow of the bakery, the cradle of the Desvarennes's fortunes.
On Sundays the mistress would give him a gingerbread or a cracknel, and
amuse herself with his baby prattle. She did not lose sight of him when
she removed to the Rue Vivienne. Pierre had entered the elementary
school of the neighborhood, and by his precocious intelligence and
exceptional application, had not been long in getting to the top of his
class. The boy had left school after gaining an exhibition admitting him
to the Chaptal College. This hard worker, who was in a fair way of
making his own position without costing his relatives anything, greatly
interested Madame Desvarennes. She found in this plucky nature a
striking analogy to herself. She formed projects for Pierre's future;
in fancy she saw him enter the Polytechnic school, and leave it with
honors. The young man had the choice of becoming a mining or civil
engineer, and of entering the government service.
He was hesitating what to do when the mistress came and offered him a
situation in her firm as junior partner; it was a golden bridge that she
placed before him. With his exceptional capacities he was not long in
giving to the house a new impulse. He perfected the machinery, and
triumphantly defied all competition. All this was a happy dream in which
Pierre was to her a real son; her home became his, and she monopolized
him completely. But suddenly a shadow came o'er the spirit of her
dreams. Pierre's mother, the little haberdasher, proud of her son, would
she consent to give him up to a stranger? Oh! if Pierre had only been an
orphan! But one could not rob a mother of her son! And Madame
Desvarennes stopped the flight of her imagination. She followed Pierre
with anxious looks; but she forbade herself to dispose of the youth: he
did not belong to her.
This woman, at the age of thirty-five, still young in heart, was
disturbed by feelings which she strove, but vainly, to rule. She hid
them especially from her husband, whose repining chattering she feared.
If she had once shown him her weakness he would have overwhelmed her
daily with the burden of his regrets. But an unforeseen circumstance
placed her at Michel's mercy.
Winter had come, bringing December and its snow. The weather this year
was exceptionally inclement, and traffic in the streets was so difficult,
business was almost suspended. The mistress left her deserted offices
and retired early to her private apartments. The husband and wife spent
their evenings alone. They sat there, facing each other, at the
fireside. A shade concentrated the light of the lamp upon the table
covered with expensive knick-knacks. The ceiling was sometimes vaguely
lighted up by a glimmer from the stove which glittered on the gilt
cornices. Ensconced in deep comfortable armchairs, the pair respectively
caressed their favorite dream without speaking of it.
Madame Desvarennes saw beside her a little pink-and-white baby girl,
toddling on the carpet. She heard her words, understood her language,
untranslatable to all others than a mother. Then bedtime came. The
child, with heavy eyelids, let her little fair-haired head fall on her
shoulders. Madame Desvarennes took her in her arms and undressed her
quietly, kissing her bare and dimpled arms. It was exquisite enjoyment
which stirred her heart deliciously. She saw the cradle, and devoured
the child with her eyes. She knew that the picture was a myth. But what
did it matter to her? She was happy. Michel's voice broke on her
reverie.
"Wife," said he, "this is Christmas Eve; and as there are only us two,
suppose you put your slipper on the hearth."
Madame Desvarennes rose. Her eyes vaguely turned toward the hearth on
which the fire was dying, and beside the upright of the large sculptured
mantelpiece she beheld for a moment a tiny shoe, belonging to the child
which she loved to see in her dreams. Then the vision vanished, and
there was nothing left but the lonely hearth. A sharp pain tore her
swollen heart; a sob rose to her lips, and, slowly, two tears rolled down
her cheeks. Michel, quite pale, looked at her in silence; he held out
his hand to her, and said, in a trembling voice:
"You were thinking about it, eh?"
Madame Desvarennes bowed her head, twice, silently, and without adding
another word, the pair fell into each other's arms and wept.
From that day they hid nothing from each other, and shared their troubles
and regrets in common. The mistress unburdened her heart by making a
full confession, and Michel, for the first time in his life, learned the
depth of soul of his companion to its inmost recesses. This woman, so
energetic, so obstinate, was, as it were, broken down. The springs of
her will seemed worn out. She felt despondencies and wearinesses until
then unknown. Work tired her. She did not venture down to the offices;
she talked of giving up business, which was a bad sign. She longed for
country air. Were they not rich enough? With their simple tastes so
much money was unnecessary. In fact, they had no wants. They would go
to some pretty estate in the suburbs of Paris, live there and plant
cabbages. Why work? they had no children.
Michel agreed to these schemes. For a long time he had wished for
repose. Often he had feared that his wife's ambition would lead them too
far. But now, since she stopped of her own accord, it was all for the
best.
At this juncture their solicitor informed them that, near to their works,
the Cernay estate was to be put up for sale. Very often, when going from
Jouy to the mills, Madame Desvarennes had noticed the chateau, the slate
roofs of the turrets of which rose gracefully from a mass of deep
verdure. The Count de Cernay, the last representative of a noble race,
had just died of consumption, brought on by reckless living, leaving
nothing behind him but debts and a little girl two years old. Her
mother, an Italian singer and his mistress, had left him one morning
without troubling herself about the child. Everything was to be sold,
by order of the Court.
Some most lamentable incidents had saddened the Count's last hours. The
bailiffs had entered the house with the doctor when he came to pay his
last call, and the notices of the sale were all but posted up before the
funeral was over. Jeanne, the orphan, scared amid the troubles of this
wretched end, seeing unknown men walking into the reception-rooms with
their hats on, hearing strangers speaking loudly and with arrogance, had
taken refuge in the laundry. It was there that Madame Desvarennes found
her, playing, plainly dressed in a little alpaca frock, her pretty hair
loose and falling on her shoulders. She looked astonished at what she
had seen; silent, not daring to run or sing as formerly in the great
desolate house whence the master had just been taken away forever.
With the vague instinct of abandoned children who seek to attach
themselves to some one or some thing, Jeanne clung to Madame Desvarennes,
who, ready to protect, and longing for maternity, took the child in her
arms. The gardener's wife acted as guide during her visit over the
property. Madame Desvarennes questioned her. She knew nothing of the
child except what she had heard from the servants when they gossiped in
the evenings about their late master. They said Jeanne was a bastard.
Of her relatives they knew nothing. The Count had an aunt in England who
was married to a rich lord; but he had not corresponded with her lately.
The little one then was reduced to beggary as the estate was to be sold.
The gardener's wife was a good woman and was willing to keep the child
until the new proprietor came; but when once affairs were settled, she
would certainly go and make a declaration to the mayor, and take her to
the workhouse. Madame Desvarennes listened in silence. One word only
had struck her while the woman was speaking. The child was without
support, without ties, and abandoned like a poor lost dog. The little
one was pretty too; and when she fixed her large deep eyes on that
improvised mother, who pressed her so tenderly to her heart, she seemed
to implore her not to put her down, and to carry her away from the
mourning that troubled her mind and the isolation that froze her heart.
Madame Desvarennes, very superstitious, like a woman of the people, began
to think that, perhaps, Providence had brought her to Cernay that day and
had placed the child in her path. It was perhaps a reparation which
heaven granted her, in giving her the little girl she so longed for.
Acting unhesitatingly, as she did in everything, she left her name with
the woman, carried Jeanne to her carriage, and took her to Paris,
promising herself to make inquiries to find her relatives.
A month later, the property of Cernay pleasing her, and the researches
for Jeanne's friends not proving successful, Madame Desvarennes took
possession of the estate and the child into the bargain.
Michel welcomed the child without enthusiasm. The little stranger was
indifferent to him; he would have preferred adopting a boy. The mistress
was delighted. Her maternal instincts, so long stifled, developed fully.
She made plans for the future. Her energy returned; she spoke loudly and
firmly. But in her appearance there was revealed an inward contentment
never remarked before, which made her sweeter and more benevolent. She
no longer spoke of retiring from business. The discouragement which had
seized her left her as if by magic. The house which had been so dull for
some months became noisy and gay. The child, like a sunbeam, had
scattered the clouds.
It was then that the most unlooked-for phenomenon, which was so
considerably to influence Madame Desvarennes's life, occurred. At the
moment when the mistress seemed provided by chance with the heiress so
much longed for, she learned with surprise that she was about to become a
mother! After sixteen years of married life, this discovery was almost a
discomfiture. What would have been delight formerly was now a cause for
fear. She, almost an old woman!
There was an incredible commotion in the business world when the news
became known. The younger branch of Desvarennes had witnessed Jeanne's
arrival with little satisfaction, and were still more gloomy when they
learned that the chances of their succeeding to great wealth were over.
Still they did not lose all hopes. At thirty-five years of age one
cannot always tell how these little affairs will come off. An accident
was possible. But none occurred; all passed off well.
Madame Desvarennes was as strong physically as she was morally, and
proved victorious by bringing into the world a little girl, who was named
Michelins in honor of her father. The mistress's heart was large enough
to hold two children; she kept the orphan she had adopted, and brought
her up as if she had been her very own. Still there was soon an enormous
difference in her manner of loving Jeanne and Michelins. This mother had
for the long-wished-for child an ardent, mad, passionate love like that
of a tigress for her cubs. She had never loved her husband. All the
tenderness which had accumulated in her heart blossomed, and it was like
spring.
This autocrat, who had never allowed contradiction, and before whom all
her dependents bowed either with or against the grain, was now led in her
turn; the bronze of her character became like wax in the little pink
hands of her daughter. The commanding woman bent before the little fair
head. There was nothing good enough for Micheline. Had the mother owned
the world she would have placed it at the little one's feet. One tear
from the child upset her. If on one of the most important subjects
Madame Desvarennes had said "No," and Micheline came and said "Yes," the
hitherto resolute will became subordinate to the caprice of a child.
They knew it in the house and acted upon it. This manoeuvre succeeded
each time, although Madame Desvarennes had seen through it from the
first. It appeared as if the mother felt a secret joy in proving under
all circumstances the unbounded adoration which she felt for her
daughter. She often said:
"Pretty as she is, and rich as I shall make her, what husband will be
worthy of Micheline? But if she believes me when it is time to choose
one, she will prefer a man remarkable for his intelligence, and will give
him her fortune as a stepping-stone to raise him as high as she chooses
him to go."
Inwardly she was thinking of Pierre Delarue, who had just taken honors at
the Polytechnic school, and who seemed to have a brilliant career before
him. This woman, humbly born, was proud of her origin, and sought a
plebeian for her son-in-law, to put into his hand a golden tool powerful
enough to move the world.
Micheline was ten years old when her father died. Alas, Michel was not a
great loss. They wore mourning for him; but they hardly noticed that he
was absent. His whole life had been a void. Madame Desvarennes, it is
sad to say, felt herself more mistress of her child when she was a widow.
She was jealous of Micheline's affections, and each kiss the child gave
her father seemed to the mother to be robbed from her. With this fierce
tenderness, she preferred solitude around this beloved being.
At this time Madame Desvarennes was really in the zenith of womanly
splendor. She seemed taller, her figure had straightened, vigorous and
powerful. Her gray hair gave her face a majestic appearance. Always
surrounded by a court of clients and friends, she seemed like a
sovereign. The fortune of the firm was not to be computed. It was said
Madame Desvarennes did not know how rich she was.
Jeanne and Micheline grew up amid this colossal prosperity. The one,
tall, brown-haired, with blue eyes changing like the sea; the other,
fragile, fair, with dark dreamy eyes. Jeanne, proud, capricious, and
inconstant; Micheline, simple, sweet, and tenacious. The brunette
inherited from her reckless father and her fanciful mother a violent and
passionate nature; the blonde was tractable and good like Michel, but
resolute and firm like Madame Desvarennes. These two opposite natures
were congenial, Micheline sincerely loving Jeanne, and Jeanne feeling the
necessity of living amicably with Micheline, her mother's idol, but
inwardly enduring with difficulty the inequalities which began to exhibit
themselves in the manner with which the intimates of the house treated
the one and the other. She found these flatteries wounding, and thought
Madame Desvarennes's preferences for Micheline unjust.
All these accumulated grievances made Jeanne conceive the wish one
morning of leaving the house where she had been brought up, and where she
now felt humiliated. Pretending to long to go to England to see that
rich relative of her father, who, knowing her to be in a brilliant
society, had taken notice of her, she asked Madame Desvarennes to allow
her to spend a few weeks from home. She wished to try the ground in
England, and see what she might expect in the future from her family.
Madame Desvarennes lent herself to this whim, not guessing the young
girl's real motive; and Jeanne, well attended, went to her aunt's home in
England.
Madame Desvarennes, besides, had attained the summit of her hopes, and an
event had just taken place which preoccupied her. Micheline, deferring
to her mother's wishes, had decided to allow herself to be betrothed to
Pierre Delarue, who had just lost his mother, and whose business improved
daily. The young girl, accustomed to treat Pierre like a brother, had
easily consented to accept him as her future husband.
Jeanne, who had been away for six months, had returned sobered and
disillusioned about her family. She had found them kind and affable,
had received many compliments on her beauty, which was really remarkable,
but had not met with any encouragement in her desires for independence.
She came home resolved not to leave until she married. She arrived in
the Rue Saint-Dominique at the moment when Pierre Delarue, thirsting with
ambition, was leaving his betrothed, his relatives, and gay Paris to
undertake engineering work on the coasts of Algeria and Tunis that would
raise him above his rivals. In leaving, the young man did not for a
moment think that Jeanne was returning from England at the same hour with
trouble for him in the person of a very handsome cavalier, Prince Serge
Panine, who had been introduced to her at a ball during the London
season. Mademoiselle de Cernay, availing herself of English liberty, was
returning escorted only by a maid in company with the Prince. The
journey had been delightful. The tete-a-tete travelling had pleased the
young people, and on leaving the train they had promised to see each
other again. Official balls facilitated their meeting; Serge was
introduced to Madame Desvarennes as being an English friend, and soon
became the most assiduous partner of Jeanne and Micheline. It was thus,
under the most trivial pretext, that the man gained admittance to the
house where he was to play such an important part.
CHAPTER II
THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF PLEASURE
One morning in the month of May, 1879, a young man, elegantly attired,
alighted from a well-appointed carriage before the door of Madame
Desvarennes's house. The young man passed quickly before the porter in
uniform, decorated with a military medal, stationed near the door. The
visitor found himself in an anteroom which communicated with several
corridors. A messenger was seated in the depth of a large armchair,
reading the newspaper, and not even lending an inattentive ear to the
whispered conversation of a dozen canvassers, who were patiently awaiting
their turn for gaining a hearing. On seeing the young man enter by the
private door, the messenger rose, dropped his newspaper on the armchair,
hastily raised his velvet skullcap, tried to smile, and made two steps
forward.
"Good-morning, old Felix," said the young man, in a friendly tone to the
messenger. "Is my aunt within?"
"Yes, Monsieur Savinien, Madame Desvarennes is in her office; but she has
been engaged for more than an hour with the Financial Secretary of the
War Department."
In uttering these words old Felix put on a mysterious and important air,
which denoted how serious the discussions going on in the adjoining room
seemed to his mind.
"You see," continued he, showing Madame Desvarennes's nephew the anteroom
full of people, "madame has kept all these waiting since this morning,
and perhaps she won't see them."
"I must see her though," murmured the young man.
He reflected a moment, then added:
"Is Monsieur Marechal in?"
"Yes, sir, certainly. If you will allow me I will announce you."
"It is unnecessary."
And, stepping forward, he entered the office adjoining that of Madame
Desvarennes.
Seated at a large table of black wood, covered with bundles of papers and
notes, a young man was working. He was thirty years of age, but appeared
much older. His prematurely bald forehead, and wrinkled brow, betokened
a life of severe struggles and privations, or a life of excesses and
pleasures. Still those clear and pure eyes were not those of a
libertine, and the straight nose solidly joined to the face was that of a
searcher. Whatever the cause, the man was old before his time.
On hearing the door of his office open, he raised his eyes, put down his
pen, and was making a movement toward his visitor, when the latter
interrupted him quickly with these words:
"Don't stir, Marechal, or I shall be off! I only came in until Aunt
Desvarennes is at liberty; but if I disturb you I will go and take a
turn, smoke a cigar, and come back in three quarters of an hour."
"You do not disturb me, Monsieur Savinien; at least not often enough,
for be it said, without reproaching you, it is more than three months
since we have seen anything of you. There, the post is finished.
I was writing the last addresses."
And taking a heavy bundle of papers off the desk, Marechal showed them to
Savinien.
"Gracious! It seems that business is going on well here."
"Better and better."
"You are making mountains of flour."
"Yes; high as Mont Blanc; and then, we now have a fleet."
"What! a fleet?" cried Savinien, whose face expressed doubt and
surprise at the same time.
"Yes, a steam fleet. Last year Madame Desvarennes was not satisfied with
the state in which her corn came from the East. The corn was damaged
owing to defective stowage; the firm claimed compensation from the
steamship company. The claim was only moderately satisfied, Madame
Desvarennes got vexed, and now we import our own. We have branches at
Smyrna and Odessa."
"It is fabulous! If it goes on, my aunt will have an administration as
important as that of a European state. Oh! you are happy here, you
people; you are busy. I amuse myself! And if you knew how it wearies
me! I am withering, consuming myself, I am longing for business."
And saying these words, young Monsieur Desvarennes allowed a sorrowful
moan to escape him.
"It seems to me," said Marechal, "that it only depends upon yourself to
do as much and more business than any one?"
"You know well enough that it is not so," sighed Savinien; "my aunt is
opposed to it."
"What a mistake!" cried Marechal, quickly. "I have heard Madame
Desvarennes say more than twenty times how she regretted your being
unemployed. Come into the firm, you will have a good berth in the
counting-house."
"In the counting-house!" cried Savinien, bitterly; "there's the sore
point. Now look here; my friend, do you think that an organization like
mine is made to bend to the trivialities of a copying clerk's work? To
follow the humdrum of every-day routine? To blacken paper? To become a
servant?--me! with what I have in my brain?"
And, rising abruptly, Savinien began to walk hurriedly up and down the
room, disdainfully shaking his little head with its low forehead on which
were plastered a few fair curls (made with curling-irons), with the
indignant air of an Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.
"Oh, I know very well what is at the bottom of the business--my aunt is
jealous of me because I am a man of ideas. She wishes to be the only one
of the family who possesses any. She thinks of binding me down to a
besotting work," continued he, "but I won't have it. I know what I want!
It is independence of thought, bent on the solution of great problems--
that is, a wide field to apply my discoveries. But a fixed rule, common
law, I could not submit to it."
"It is like the examinations," observed Marechal, looking slyly at young
Desvarennes, who was drawing himself up to his full height; "examinations
never suited you."
"Never," said Savinien, energetically. "They wished to get me into the
Polytechnic School; impossible! Then the Central School; no better.
I astonished the examiners by the novelty of my ideas. They refused me."
"Well, you know," retorted Marechal, "if you began by overthrowing their
theories--"
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