Books: Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v2

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This etext was produced by David Widger

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MONSIEUR, MADAME AND BEBE

By GUSTAVE DROZ

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BLUE NOTE-BOOK

Toward midnight mamma made a sign to me with her eyes, and under cover of
a lively waltz we slipped out of the drawing-room. In the hall the
servants, who were passing to and fro, drew aside to let us go by them,
but I felt that their eyes were fixed upon me with the curiosity which
had pursued me since the morning. The large door giving on to the park
was open, although the night was cool, and in the shadow I could make out
groups of country folk gathered there to catch a glimpse of the
festivities through the windows. These good people were laughing and
whispering; they were silent for a moment as we advanced to ascend the
staircase, but I once more felt that I was the mark of these inquisitive
looks and the object of all these smiles. The face of mamma, who
accompanied me, was much flushed, and large tears were flowing from her
eyes.

How was it that an event so gay for some was so sad for others?

When I think over it now I can hardly keep my countenance. What silly
terrors at that frightful yet charming moment! Yet, after all, one
exaggerates things a great deal.

On reaching the first floor mamma stopped, choking, took my head in her
hands, and kissed me on the forehead, and exclaimed, "Valentine!" I was
not greatly moved by this outburst, knowing that mamma, since she has
grown a little too stout, has some difficulty in getting upstairs.
I judged, therefore, that the wish to take breath for a moment without
appearing to do so had something to do with this sudden halt.

We entered the nuptial chamber; it was as coquettish as possible,
refreshing to the eye, snug, elegant, and adorned with fine Louis XVI
furniture, upholstered in Beauvais tapestry. The bed, above all, was a
marvel of elegance, but to tell the truth I had no idea of it till a week
later. At the outside it seemed to me that I was entering an austere-
looking locality; the very air we breathed appeared to me to have
something solemn and awe-striking about it.

"Here is your room, child," said mamma; "but first of all come and sit
here beside me, my dear girl."

At these words we both burst into tears, and mamma then expressed herself
as follows:

"The kiss you are giving me, Valentine, is the last kiss that I shall
have from you as a girl. Your husband--for Georges is that now--"

At these words I shuddered slightly, and by a singular freak of my brain
pictured to myself Monsieur Georges--Georges--my husband--in a cotton
night cap and a dressing-gown. The vision flashed across my mind in the
midst of the storm. I saw him just as plainly as if he had been there.
It was dreadful. The nightcap came over his forehead, down to his
eyebrows, and he said to me, pressing my hand; "At last, Valentine; you
are mine; do you love me? oh! tell me, do you love me?" And as his
head moved as he uttered these words, the horrible tuft at the end of his
nightcap waggled as an accompaniment.

"No," I said to myself, "it is impossible for my husband to appear in
such a fashion; let me banish this image--and yet my father wears the
hideous things, and my brother, who is quite young, has them already.
Men wear them at all ages, unless though--" It is frightful to relate,
but Georges now appeared to me with a red-and-green bandanna handkerchief
tied round his head. I would have given ten years of my life to be two
hours older, and hurriedly passed my hand across my eyes to drive away
these diabolical visions.

However, mamma, who had been still speaking all the time, attributing
this movement to the emotion caused by her words, said, with great
sweetness:

"Do not be alarmed, my dear Valentine; perhaps I am painting the picture
in too gloomy colors; but my experience and my love render this duty
incumbent upon me."

I have never heard mamma express herself so fluently. I was all the more
surprised as, not having heard a word of what she had already said, this
sentence seemed suddenly sprung upon me. Not knowing what to answer,
I threw myself into the arms of mamma, who, after a minute or so, put me
away gently, saying, "You are suffocating me, dear."

She wiped her eyes with her little cambric handkerchief, which was damp,
and said, smilingly:

"Now that I have told you what my conscience imposed on me, I am strong.
See, dear, I think that I can smile. Your husband, my dear child, is a
man full of delicacy. Have confidence; accept all without misgiving."

Mamma kissed me on the forehead, which finished off her sentence, and
added:

"Now, dear one, I have fulfilled a duty I regarded as sacred. Come here
and let me take your wreath off."

"By this time," I thought, "they have noticed that I have left the
drawing-room. They are saying, 'Where is the bride?' and smiling,
'Monsieur Georges is getting uneasy. What is he doing? what is he
thinking? where is he?'"

"Have you tried on your nightcap, dear?" said mamma, who had recovered
herself; "it looks rather small to me, but is nicely embroidered. Oh, it
is lovely!"

And she examined it from every point of view.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. "It is I," said several
voices, among which I distinguished the flute-like tones of my aunt
Laura, and those of my godmother. Madame de P., who never misses a
chance of pressing her two thick lips to some one's cheeks, accompanied
them. Their eyes glittered, and all three had a sly and triumphant look,
ferreting and inquisitive, which greatly intimidated me. Would they also
set about fulfilling a sacred duty?

"Oh, you are really too pretty, my angel!" said Madame de P., kissing me
on the forehead, after the moist fashion peculiar to her, and then
sitting down in the large Louis XVI armchair.

My maid had not been allowed to undress me, so that all of them, taking
off their gloves, set to work to render me this service. They tangled
the laces, caught their own lace in the hooks, and laughed heartily all
the while.

"It is the least that the oldest friend of the family," --she loved to
speak of herself as such-- "should make herself useful at such a moment,"
muttered Madame de P., holding her eyeglass in one hand and working with
the other.

I passed into a little boudoir to complete my toilette for the night,
and found on the marble of the dressing-table five or six bottles of
scent, tied up with red, white, and blue ribbons--an act of attention on
the part of my Aunt Laura. I felt the blood flying to my head; there was
an unbearable singing in my ears. Now that I can coolly weigh the
impressions I underwent, I can tell that what I felt above all was anger.
I would have liked to be in the farthest depths of the wildest forest in
America, so unseemly did I find this curious kindness which haunted me
with its attentions. I should have liked to converse a little with
myself, to fathom my own emotion somewhat, and, in short, to utter a
brief prayer before throwing myself into the torrent.

However, through the open door, I could hear the four ladies whispering
together and stifling their outbursts of laughter; I had never seen them
so gay. I made up my mind. I crossed the room, and, shaking off the
pretty little white slippers which my mother had embroidered for me,
jumped into bed. I was not long in finding out that it was no longer my
own narrow little bed. It was immense, and I hesitated a moment, not
knowing which way to turn. I felt nevertheless a feeling of physical
comfort. The bed was warm, and I do not know what scent rose from its
silken coverlet. I felt myself sink into the mass of feathers, the
pillows, twice over too large and trimmed with embroidery, gave way as it
were beneath me, burying me in a soft and perfumed abyss.

At length the ladies rose, and after giving a glance round the room,
doubtless to make sure that nothing was lacking, approached the bed.

"Good-night, my dear girl," said my mother, bending over me.

She kissed me, carried her handkerchief, now reduced to a wet dab, to her
eyes, and went out with a certain precipitation.

"Remember that the old friend of the family kissed you on this night, my
love," said Madame de P., as she moistened my forehead.

"Come, my little lamb, good-night and sleep well," said my aunt, with her
smile that seemed to issue from her nose. She added in a whisper: "You
love him, don't you? The slyboots! she won't answer! Well, since you
love him so much, don't tell him so, my dear. But I must leave you; you
are sleepy. Goodnight."

And she went away, smiling.

At length I was alone. I listened; the doors were being closed, I heard
a carriage roll along the road; the flame of the two candles placed upon
the mantelshelf quivered silently and were reflected in the looking-
glass.

I thought about the ceremony of that morning, the dinner, the ball.
I said to myself, clenching my fists to concentrate my thoughts: "How was
Marie dressed? She was dressed in--dressed in--dressed in--" I repeated
the words aloud to impart more authority to them and oblige my mind to
reply; but do what I would, it was impossible for me to drive away the
thought that invaded my whole being.

"He is coming. What is he doing? Where is he? Perhaps he is on the
stairs now. How shall I receive him when he comes?"

I loved him; oh! with my whole soul, I can acknowledge it now; but I
loved him quite at the bottom of my heart. In order to think of him I
went down into the very lowest chamber of my heart, bolted the door, and
crouched down in the darkest corner.

At last, at a certain moment, the floor creaked, a door was opened in the
passage with a thousand precautions, and I heard the tread of a boot--a
boot!

The boot ceased to creak, and I heard quite close to me, on the other
side of the wall, which was nothing but a thin partition, an armchair
being rolled across the carpet, and then a little cough, which seemed to
me to vibrate with emotion. It was he! But for the partition I could
have touched him with my finger. A few moments later I could distinguish
the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps on the carpet; this faint
sound rang violently in my head. All at once my breathing and my heart
both stopped together; there was a tap at the door. The tapping was
discreet, full of entreaty and delicacy. I wanted to reply, "Come in,"
but I had no longer any voice; and, besides, was it becoming to answer
like that, so curtly and plainly? I thought "Come in" would sound
horribly unseemly, and I said nothing. There was another tap. I should
really have preferred the door to have been broken open with a hatchet or
for him to have come down the chimney. In my agony I coughed faintly
among my sheets. That was enough; the door opened, and I divined from
the alteration in the light shed by the candles that some one at whom I
did not dare look was interposing between them and myself.

This some one, who seemed to glide across the carpet, drew near the bed,
and I could distinguish out of the corner of my eye his shadow on the
wall. I could scarcely restrain my joy; my Captain wore neither cotton
nightcap nor bandanna handkerchief. That was indeed something. However,
in this shadow which represented him in profile, his nose had so much
importance that amid all my uneasiness a smile flitted across my lips.
Is it not strange how all these little details recur to your mind? I did
not dare turn round, but I devoured with my eyes this shadow representing
my husband; I tried to trace in it the slightest of his gestures; I even
sought the varying expressions of his physiognomy, but, alas! in vain.

I do not know how to express in words all that I felt at that moment; my
pen seems too clumsy to write my sensations, and, besides, did I really
see deep into my heart?

Do men comprehend all this? Do they understand that the heart requires
gradual changes, and that if a half-light awakens, a noon-day blaze
dazzles and burns? It is not that the poor child, who is trembling in
a corner, refuses to learn; far from that, she has aptitude, good-will,
and a quick and ready intelligence; she knows she has reached the age at
which it is necessary to know how to read; she rejects neither the
science nor even the teacher. It is the method of instruction that makes
her uneasy. She is afraid lest this young professor, whose knowledge is
so extensive, should turn over the pages of the book too quickly and
neglect the A B C.

A few hours back he was the submissive, humble lover, ready to kneel down
before her, hiding his knowledge as one hides a sin, speaking his own
language with a thousand circumspections. At any moment it might have
been thought that he was going to blush. She was a queen, he a child;
and now all at once the roles are changed; it is the submissive subject
who arrives in the college cap of a professor, hiding under his arm an
unknown and mysterious book. Is the man in the college cap about to
command, to smile, to obtrude himself and his books, to speak Latin, to
deliver a lecture?

She does not know that this learned individual is trembling, too; that he
is greatly embarrassed over his opening lesson, that emotion has caused
him to forget his Latin, that his throat is parched and his legs are
trembling beneath him. She does not know this, and I tell you between
ourselves, it is not her self-esteem that suffers least at this
conjecture. She suffers at finding herself, after so many signatures,
contracts, and ceremonies-still a charming child, and nothing more.

I believe that the first step in conjugal life will, according to the
circumstances accompanying it, give birth to captivating sympathies or
invincible repulsion. But to give birth to these sympathies, to strike
the spark that is to set light to this explosion of infinite gratitude
and joyful love--what art, what tact, what delicacy, and at the same time
what presence of mind are needed.

How was it that at the first word Georges uttered my terrors vanished?
His voice was so firm and so sweet, he asked me so gayly for leave to
draw near the fire and warm his feet, and spoke to me with such ease and
animation of the incidents of the day. I said to myself, "It is
impossible for the least baseness to be hidden under all this."
In presence of so much good-humor and affability my scaffolding fell to
pieces. I ventured a look from beneath the sheets: I saw him comfortably
installed in the big armchair, and I bit my lips. I am still at a loss
to understand this little fit of ill-temper. When one is reckoning on a
fright, one is really disappointed at its delaying itself. Never had
Georges been more witty, more affectionate, more well-bred; he was still
the man of the day before. He must really have been very excited.

"You are tired out, I am certain, darling," he said.

The word "darling" made me start, but did not frighten me; it was the
first time he had called me so, but I really could not refuse him the
privilege of speaking thus. However it may be, I maintained my reserve,
and in the same tone as one replies, "No thanks, I don't take tea,"
I answered:

"Oh, yes! I am worn out."

"I thought so," he added, approaching the bed; "you can not keep your
eyes open; you can not even look at me, my dear little wife."

"I will leave you," continued he. "I will leave you; you need repose."
And he drew still more closely to me, which was not natural. Then,
stretching out his hand, which I knew was white and well cared for:
"Won't you give me a little shake of the hand, dear? I am half asleep,
too, my pretty little wife." His face wore an expression which was
alarming, though not without its charm; as he said this, I saw clearly
that he had lied to me like a demon, and that he was no more sleepy than
I was.

However that may be, I was guilty of the fault, the carelessness that
causes disaster, of letting him take my hand, which was straying by
chance under the lace of the pillows.

I was that evening in a special condition of nervous sensibility, for at
this contact a strange sensation ran through me from head to foot. It
was not that the Captain's hand had the softness of satin--I believe that
physical sensations, in us women, have causes directly contrary to those
which move men; for that which caused me such lively emotion was
precisely its firmness. There was something strong, manly, and powerful
about it. He squeezed my hand rather strongly.

My rings, which I have a fancy for wearing all at once, hurt me, and--
I really should not have believed it--I liked it very much, perhaps too
much. For the first time I found an inexplicable, an almost
intoxicating, charm in this intimate contact with a being who could have
crushed me between his fingers, and that in the middle of the night too,
in silence, without any possibility of help. It was horribly delicious.

I did not withdraw my hand, which he kissed, but lingeringly. The clock
struck two, and the last sound had long since died away when his lips
were still there, quivering with rapid little movements, which were so
many imperceptible kisses, moist, warm, burning. I felt gleams of fire
flashing around me. I wished to draw away my hand, but could not; I
remember perfectly well that I could not. His moustache pricked me, and
whiffs of the scent with which he perfumed it reached me and completed my
trouble. I felt my nostrils dilating despite myself, and, striving but
in vain to take refuge in my inmost being, I exclaimed inwardly: "Protect
me, Lord, but this time with all your might. A drop of water, Lord; a
drop of water!" I waited--no appreciable succor reached from above. It
was not till a week afterward that I understood the intentions of
Providence.

"You told me you were sleepy," I murmured, in a trembling voice. I was
like a shipwrecked person clutching at a floating match-box; I knew quite
well that the Captain would not go away.

"Yes, I was sleepy, pet," said Georges, approaching his face to mine;
"but now I am athirst." He put his lips to my ear and whispered softly,
"Athirst for a kiss from you, love."

This "love" was the beginning of another life. The spouse now appeared,
the past was fleeing away, I was entering on the future. At length I had
crossed the frontier; I was in a foreign land. Oh! I acknowledge--for
what is the use of feigning?--that I craved for this love, and I felt
that it engrossed me and spread itself through me. I felt that I was
getting out of my depth, I let go the last branch that held me to the
shore, and to myself I repeated: "Yes, I love you; yes, I am willing to
follow you; yes, I am yours, love, love, love!"

"Won't you kiss your husband; come, won't you?"

And his mouth was so near my own that it seemed to meet my lips.

"Yes," said I.

.............................

August 7th, 185- How many times have I not read through you during the
last two years, my little blue note-book! How many things I might add as
marginal notes if you were not doomed to the flames, to light my first
fire this autumn! How could I have written all this, and how is it that
having done so I have not dared to complete my confidences! No one has
seen you, at any rate; no one has turned your pages. Go back into your
drawer, dear, with, pending the first autumn fire, a kiss from your
Valentine.

NOTE.--Owing to what circumstances this blue note-book, doomed to the
flames, was discovered by me in an old Louis XVI chiffonnier I had just
bought does not greatly matter to you, dear reader, and would be out of
my power to explain even if it did.

CHAPTER XIV

THE BLUE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN

Only to think that I was going to throw you into the fire, poor dear!
Was I not foolish? In whom else could I confide? If I had not you,
to whom could I tell all those little things at which every one laughs,
but which make you cry!

This evening, for instance, I dined alone, for Georges was invited out;
well, to whom else can I acknowledge that when I found myself alone,
face to face with a leg of mutton, cooked to his liking, and with the
large carving-knife which is usually beside his plate, before me, I began
to cry like a child? To whom else can I admit that I drank out of the
Bohemian wine-glass he prefers, to console me a little?

But if I were to mention this they would laugh in my face. Father
Cyprien himself, who nevertheless has a heart running over with kindness,
would say to me:

"Let us pass that by, my dear child; let us pass that by."

I know him so well, Father Cyprien; while you, you always listen to me,
my poor little note-book; if a tear escapes me, you kindly absorb it and
retain its trace like a good-hearted friend. Hence I love you.

And, since we are tete-a-tete, let us have a chat. You won't be angry
with me for writing with a pencil, dear. You see I am very comfortably
settled in my big by-by and I do not want to have any ink-stains. The
fire sparkles on the hearth, the street is silent; let us forget that
George will not return till midnight, and turn back to the past.

I can not recall the first month of that dear past without laughing and
weeping at one and the same time.

How foolish we were! How sweet it was! There is a method of teaching
swimming which is not the least successful, I am told. It consists in
throwing the future swimmer into the water and praying God to help him.
I am assured that after the first lesson he keeps himself afloat.

Well, I think that we women are taught to be wives in very much the same
fashion.

Happy or otherwise--the point is open to discussion marriage is a
hurricane--something unheard-of and alarming.

In a single night, and without any transition, everything is transformed
and changes color; the erst while-cravatted, freshly curled, carefully
dressed gentleman makes his appearance in a dressing-gown. That which
was prohibited becomes permissible, the code is altered, and words
acquire a meaning they never had before, et cetera, et cetera.

It is not that all this is so alarming, if taken the right way--a woman
with some courage in her heart and some flexibility in her mind supports
the shock and does not die under it; but the firmest of us are amazed at
it, and stand open-mouthed amid all these strange novelties, like a
penniless gourmand in the shop of Potel and Chabot.

They dare not touch these delicacies surrounding them, though invited to
taste. It is not that the wish or the appetite is lacking to them, but
all these fine fruits have been offered them so lately that they have
still the somewhat acid charm of green apples or forbidden fruit. They
approach, but they hesitate to bite.

After all, why complain? What would one have to remember if one had
entered married life like an inn, if one had not trembled a little when
knocking at the door? And it is so pleasant to recall things, that one
would sometimes like to deck the future in the garments of the past.

It was, I recollect, two days after the all-important one. I had gone
into his room, I no longer remember why--for the pleasure of going in,
I suppose, and thereby acting as a wife. A strong desire is that which
springs up in your brain after leaving church to look like an old married
woman. You put on caps with ribbons, you never lay aside your cashmere
shawl, you talk of "my home"--two sweet words--and then you bite your
lips to keep from breaking out into a laugh; and "my husband," and "my
maid," and the first dinner you order, when you forget the soup. All
this is charming, and, however ill at ease you may feel at first in all
these new clothes, you are quite eager to put them on.

So I had gone into the dressing-room of my husband, who, standing before
the glass, very lightly clad, was prosaically shaving.

"Excuse me, dear," said he, laughing, and he held up his shaving-brush,
covered with white lather. "You will pardon my going on with this. Do
you want anything?"

"I came, on the contrary," I answered, "to see whether you had need of
anything;" and, greatly embarrassed myself, for I was afraid of being
indiscreet, and I was not sure whether one ought to go into one's
husband's room like this, I added, innocently, "Your shirts have buttons,
have they not?"

"Oh, what a good little housewife I have married! Do not bother yourself
about such trifles, my pet. I will ask your maid to look after my
buttons," said he.

I felt confused; I was afraid of appealing too much of a schoolgirl in
his eyes. He went on working his soap into a lather with his shaving-
brush. I wanted to go away, but I was interested in such a novel fashion
by the sight of my husband, that I had not courage to do so. His neck
was bare--a thick, strong neck, but very white and changing its shape at
every movement--the muscles, you know. It would have been horrible in a
woman, that neck, and yet it did not seem ugly to me. Nor was it
admiration that thus inspired me; it was rather like gluttony. I wanted
to touch it. His hair, cut very short--according to regulation--grew
very low, and between its beginning and the ear there was quite a smooth
white place. The idea at once occurred to me that if ever I became brave
enough, it was there that I should kiss him oftenest; it was strange,
that presentiment, for it is in fact on that little spot that I--

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