Books: Jacqueline, v3

T >> Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) >> Jacqueline, v3

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JACQUELINE

By THERESE BENTZON (MME. BLANC)

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XIV

BITTER DISILLUSION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Jacqueline began vaguely to comprehend that Madame Saville's husband
might have had serious reasons 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 herself 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 made her when, in the evening, she
returned from giving 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 without 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 another 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 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 mourning seemed out
of place among them. Then Madame d'Avrigny would make whispered
explanations, which Jacqueline was conscious of, and which were very
painful 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
sentiments!" Of course, everyone added that they excused her toilette.
Then when she tried to escape such remarks 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 Madame 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 wedding 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
perceiving 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 convent, 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 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 reblossoming
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 forgive him for talking always of his stud and of his kennel, and then
he was so obliging! Every day he proposed some new jaunt, an excursion
to see some view, to visit all the ruined chateaux or abbeys in the
neighborhood. And, with surprising delicacy, M. de Talbrun 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, 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 Francais', decorated
with art and kept up carefully. Everything, indeed, that pertained to
that high life which to Giselle had so little importance, 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."

"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 slumber; 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 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
unnecessary 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 outrageous, 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 critical 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 advantage 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 reached the gate of
the Chateau de Fresne, which they entered at the same moment, their
horses covered with foam.

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