Books: Jezebel

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The tone in which those words fell from her lips was so unnaturally
quiet, that Mrs. Wagner suddenly turned again with a start, and faced
her.

"What do you mean by impossibilities? Explain yourself."

"You are an honest woman, and I am a thief," Madame Fontaine answered,
with the same ominous composure. "How can explanations pass between you
and me? Have I not spoken plainly enough already? In my position, I say
again, your conditions are impossibilities--especially the first of
them."

There was something in the bitterly ironical manner which accompanied
this reply that was almost insolent. Mrs. Wagner's color began to rise
for the first time. "Honest conditions are always possible conditions to
honest people," she said.

Perfectly unmoved by the reproof implied in those words, Madame Fontaine
persisted in pressing her request. "I only ask you to modify your terms,"
she explained. "Let us understand each other. Do you still insist on my
replacing what I have taken, by the morning of the sixth of this month?"

"I still insist."

"Do you still expect me to resign my position here as director of the
household, on the day when Fritz and Minna have become man and wife?"

"I still expect that."

"Permit me to set the second condition aside for awhile. Suppose I fail
to replace the five thousand florins in your reserve fund?"

"If you fail, I shall do my duty to Mr. Keller, when we divide profits on
the sixth of the month."

"And you will expose me in this way, knowing that you make the marriage
impossible--knowing that you doom my daughter to shame and misery for the
rest of her life?"

"I shall expose you, knowing that I have kept your guilty secret to the
last moment--and knowing what I owe to my partner and to myself. You have
still four days to spare. Make the most of your time."

"I can do absolutely nothing in the time."

"Have you tried?"

The suppressed fury in Madame Fontaine began to get beyond her control.

"Do you think I should have exposed myself to the insults that you have
heaped upon me if I had _not_ tried?" she asked. "Can I get the money
back from the man to whom it was paid at Wurzburg, when my note fell due
on the last day of the old year? Do I know anybody who will lend me five
thousand florins? Will my father do it? His house has been closed to me
for twenty years--and my mother, who might have interceded for me, is
dead. Can I appeal to the sympathy and compassion (once already refused
in the hardest terms) of my merciless relatives in this city? I have
appealed! I forced my way to them yesterday--I owned that I owed a sum of
money which was more, far more, than I could pay. I drank the bitter cup
of humiliation to the dregs--I even offered my daughter's necklace as
security for a loan. Do you want to know what reply I received? The
master of the house turned his back on me; the mistress told me to my
face that she believed I had stolen the necklace. Was the punishment of
my offense severe enough, when I heard those words? Surely I have
asserted some claim to your pity, at last? I only want more time. With a
few months before me--with my salary as housekeeper, and the sale of my
little valuables, and the proceeds of my work for the picture-dealers--I
can, and will, replace the money. You are rich. What is a loan of five
thousand florins to you? Help me to pass through the terrible ordeal of
your day of reckoning on the sixth of the month! Help me to see Minna
married and happy! And if you still doubt my word, take the pearl
necklace as security that you will suffer no loss."

Struck speechless by the outrageous audacity of this proposal, Mrs.
Wagner answered by a look, and advanced to the door. Madame Fontaine
instantly stopped her.

"Wait!" cried the desperate creature. "Think--before you refuse me!"

Mrs. Wagner's indignation found its way at last into words. "I deserved
this," she said, "when I allowed you to speak to me. Let me pass, if you
please."

Madame Fontaine made a last effort--she fell on her knees. "Your hard
words have roused my pride," she said; "I have forgotten that I am a
disgraced woman; I have not spoken humbly enough. See! I am humbled
now--I implore your mercy on my knees. This is not only _my_ last chance;
it is Minna's last chance. Don't blight my poor girl's life, for my
fault!"

"For the second time, Madame Fontaine, I request you to let me pass.

"Without an answer to my entreaties? Am I not even worthy of an answer?"

"Your entreaties are an insult. I forgive you the insult."

Madame Fontaine rose to her feet. Every trace of agitation disappeared
from her face and her manner. "Yes," she said, with the unnatural
composure that was so strangely out of harmony with the terrible position
in which she stood--"Yes, from your point of view, I can't deny that it
may seem like an insult. When a thief, who has already robbed a person of
money, asks that same person to lend her more money, by way of atoning
for the theft, there is something very audacious (on the surface) in such
a request. I can't fairly expect you to understand the despair which
wears such an insolent look. Accept my apologies, madam; I didn't see it
at first in that light. I must do what I can, while your merciful silence
still protects me from discovery--I must do what I can between this and
the sixth of the month. Permit me to open the door for you." She opened
the drawing-room door, and waited.

Mrs. Wagner's heart suddenly quickened its beat.

Under what influence? Could it be fear? She was indignant with herself at
the bare suspicion of it. Her face flushed deeply, under the momentary
apprehension that some outward change might betray her. She left the
room, without even trusting herself to look at the woman who stood by the
open door, and bowed to her with an impenetrable assumption of respect as
she passed out.

Madame Fontaine remained in the drawing-room.

She violently closed the door with a stroke of her hand--staggered across
the room to a sofa--and dropped on it. A hoarse cry of rage and despair
burst from her, now that she was alone. In the fear that someone might
hear her, she forced her handkerchief into her mouth, and fastened her
teeth into it. The paroxysm passed, she sat up on the sofa, and wiped the
perspiration from her face, and smiled to herself. "It was well I stopped
here," she thought; "I might have met someone on the stairs."

As she rose to leave the drawing-room, Fritz's voice reached her from the
far end of the corridor.

"You are out of spirits, Minna. Come in, and let us try what a little
music will do for you."

The door leading into the recess was opened. Minna's voice became audible
next, on the inner side of the curtains.

"I am afraid I can't sing to-day, Fritz. I am very unhappy about mamma.
She looks so anxious and so ill; and when I ask what is troubling her,
she puts me off with an excuse."

The melody of those fresh young tones, the faithful love and sympathy
which the few simple words expressed, seemed to wring with an unendurable
pain the whole being of the mother who heard them. She lifted her hands
above her head, and clenched them in the agony which could only venture
to seek that silent means of relief. With swift steps, as if the sound of
her daughter's voice was unendurable to her, she made for the door. But
her movements, on ordinary occasions the perfection of easy grace, felt
the disturbing influence of the agitation that possessed her. In avoiding
a table on one side, as she passed it, she struck against a chair on the
other.

Fritz instantly opened the curtains, and looked through. "Why, here is
mamma!" he exclaimed, in his hearty boyish way.

Minna instantly closed the piano, and hastened to her mother. When Madame
Fontaine looked at her, she paused, with an expression of alarm. "Oh, how
dreadfully pale and ill you look!" She advanced again, and tried to throw
her arms round her mother, and kiss her. Gently, very gently, Madame
Fontaine signed to her to draw back.

"Mamma! what have I done to offend you?"

"Nothing, my dear."

"Then why won't you let me come to you?"

"No time now, Minna. I have something to do. Wait till I have done it."

"Not even one little kiss, mamma?"

Madame Fontaine hurried out of the room without answering and ran up the
stairs without looking back. Minna's eyes filled with tears. Fritz stood
at the open door, bewildered.

"I wouldn't have believed it, if anybody had told me," he said; "your
mother seems to be afraid to let you touch her."

Fritz had made many mistaken guesses in his time--but, for once, he had
guessed right. She _was_ afraid.

CHAPTER XII

As the presiding genius of the household, Madame Fontaine was always
first in the room when the table was laid for the early German dinner. A
knife with a speck on the blade, a plate with a suspicion of dirt on it,
never once succeeded in escaping her observation. If Joseph folded a
napkin carelessly, Joseph not only heard of it, but suffered the
indignity of seeing his work performed for him to perfection by the
housekeeper's dexterous hands.

On the second day of the New Year, she was at her post as usual, and
Joseph stood convicted of being wasteful in the matter of wine.

He had put one bottle of Ohligsberger on the table, at the place occupied
by Madame Fontaine. The wine had already been used at the dinner and the
supper of the previous day. At least two-thirds of it had been drunk.
Joseph set down a second bottle on the opposite side of the table, and
produced his corkscrew. Madame Fontaine took it out of his hand.

"Why do you open that bottle, before you are sure it will be wanted?" She
asked sharply. "You know that Mr. Keller and his son prefer beer."

"There is so little left in the other bottle," Joseph pleaded; "not a
full tumbler altogether."

"It may be enough, little as it is, for Mrs. Wagner and for me." With
that reply she pointed to the door. Joseph retired, leaving her alone at
the table, until the dinner was ready to be brought into the room.

In five minutes more, the family assembled at their meal.

Joseph performed his customary duties sulkily, resenting the
housekeeper's reproof. When the time came for filling the glasses, he had
the satisfaction of hearing Madame Fontaine herself give him orders to
draw the cork of a new bottle, after all.

Mrs. Wagner turned to Jack, standing behind her chair as usual, and asked
for some wine. Madame Fontaine instantly took up the nearly empty bottle
by her side, and, half-filling a glass, handed it with grave politeness
across the table. "If you have no objection," she said, "we will finish
one bottle, before we open another."

Mrs. Wagner drank her small portion of wine at a draught. "It doesn't
seem to keep well, after it has once been opened," she remarked, as she
set down her glass. "The wine has quite lost the good flavor it had
yesterday."

"It ought to keep well," said Mr. Keller, speaking from his place at the
top of the table. "It's old wine, and good wine. Let me taste what is
left."

Joseph advanced to carry the remains of the wine to his master. But
Madame Fontaine was beforehand with him. "Open the other bottle
directly," she said--and rose so hurriedly to take the wine herself to
Mr. Keller, that she caught her foot in her dress. In saving herself from
falling, she lost her hold of the bottle. It broke in two pieces, and the
little wine left in it ran out on the floor.

"Pray forgive me," she said, smiling faintly. "It is the first thing I
have broken since I have been in the house."

The wine from the new bottle was offered to Mrs. Wagner. She declined to
take any: and she left her dinner unfinished on her plate.

"My appetite is very easily spoilt," she said. "I dare say there might
have been something I didn't notice in the glass--or perhaps my taste may
be out of order."

"Very likely," said Mr. Keller. "You didn't find anything wrong with the
wine yesterday. And there is certainly nothing to complain of in the new
bottle," he added, after tasting it. "Let us have your opinion, Madame
Fontaine."

He filled the housekeeper's glass. "I am a poor judge of wine," she
remarked humbly. "It seems to me to be delicious."

She put her glass down, and noticed that Jack's eyes were fixed on her,
with a solemn and scrutinizing attention. "Do you see anything remarkable
in me?" she asked lightly.

"I was thinking," Jack answered.

"Thinking of what?"

"This is the first time I ever saw you in danger of tumbling down. It
used to be a remark of mine, at Wurzburg, that you were as sure-footed as
a cat. That's all."

"Don't you know that there are exceptions to all rules?" said Madame
Fontaine, as amiably as ever. "I notice an exception in You," she
continued, suddenly changing the subject. "What has become of your
leather bag? May I ask if you have taken away his keys, Mrs. Wagner?"

She had noticed Jack's pride in his character as "Keeper of the Keys."
There would be no fear of his returning to the subject of what he had
remarked at Wurzburg, if she stung him in _that_ tender place. The result
did not fail to justify her anticipations. In fierce excitement, Jack
jumped up on the hind rail of his mistress's chair, eager for the most
commanding position that he could obtain, and opened his lips to tell the
story of the night alarm. Before he could utter a word, Mrs. Wagner
stopped him, with a very unusual irritability of look and manner. "The
question was put to _me,"_ she said. "I am taking care of the keys,
Madame Fontaine, at Jack's own request. He can have them back again,
whenever he chooses to ask for them."

"Tell her about the thief," Jack whispered.

"Be quiet!"

Jack was silenced at last. He retired to a corner. When he followed Mrs.
Wagner as usual, on her return to her duties in the office he struck his
favorite place on the window seat with his clenched fist. "The devil take
Frankfort!" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I hate Frankfort. You were always kind to me in London. You do nothing
but lose your temper with me here. It's really too cruel. Why shouldn't I
have told Mrs. Housekeeper how I lost my keys in the night? Now I come to
think of it, I believe she was the thief."

"Hush! hush! you must not say that. Come and shake hands, Jack, and make
it up. I do feel irritable--I don't know what's the matter with me.
Remember, Mr. Keller doesn't like your joining in the talk at
dinner-time--he thinks it is taking a liberty. That was one reason why I
stopped you. And you might have said something to offend Madame
Fontaine--that was another. It will not be long before we go back to our
dear old London. Now, be a good boy, and leave me to my work."

Jack was not quite satisfied; but he was quiet again.

For awhile he sat watching Mrs. Wagner at her work. His thoughts went
back to the subject of the keys. Other people--the younger clerks and the
servants, for example--might have observed that he was without his bag,
and might have injuriously supposed that the keys had been taken away
from him. Little by little, he reached the conclusion that he had been in
too great a hurry perhaps to give up the bag. Why not prove himself to be
worthier of it than ever, by asking to have it back again, and taking
care always to lock the door of his bedroom at night? He looked at Mrs.
Wagner, to see if she paused over her work, so as to give him an
opportunity of speaking to her.

She was not at work; she was not pausing over it. Her head hung down over
her breast; her hands and arms lay helpless on the desk.

He got up and crossed the room on tiptoe, to look at her.

She was not asleep.

Slowly and silently, she turned her head. Her eyes stared at him awfully.
Her mouth was a little crooked. There was a horrid gray paleness all over
her face.

He dropped terrified on his knees, and clasped her dress in both hands.
"Oh, Mistress, Mistress, you are ill! What can I do for you?"

She tried to reassure him by a smile. Her mouth became more crooked
still. "I'm not well," she said, speaking thickly and slowly, with an
effort. "Help me down. Bed. Bed."

He held out his hands. With another effort, she lifted her arms from the
desk, and turned to him on the high office-stool.

"Take hold of me," she said.

"I have got hold of you, Mistress! I have got your hands in my hands.
Don't you feel it?"

"Press me harder."

He closed his hands on hers with all his strength. Did she feel it now?

Yes; she could just feel it now.

Leaning heavily upon him, she set her feet on the floor. She felt with
them as if she was feeling the floor, without quite understanding that
she stood on it. The next moment, she reeled against the desk. "Giddy,"
she said, faintly and thickly. "My head." Her eyes looked at him, cold
and big and staring. They maddened the poor affectionate creature with
terror. The frightful shrillness of the past days in Bedlam was in his
voice, as he screamed for help.

Mr. Keller rushed into the room from his office, followed by the clerks.

"Fetch the doctor, one of you," he cried. "Stop."

He mastered himself directly, and called to mind what he had heard of the
two physicians who had attended him, during his own illness. "Not the old
man," he said. "Fetch Doctor Dormann. Joseph will show you where he
lives." He turned to another of the clerks, supporting Mrs. Wagner in his
arms while he spoke. "Ring the bell in the hall--the upstairs bell for
Madame Fontaine!"

CHAPTER XIII

Madame Fontaine instantly left her room. Alarmed by the violent ringing
of the bell, Minna followed her mother downstairs. The door of the office
was open; they both saw what had happened as soon as they reached the
hall. In sending for Madame Fontaine, Mr. Keller had placed a natural
reliance on the experience and presence of mind of a woman of her age and
character. To his surprise, she seemed to be as little able to control
herself as her daughter. He was obliged to summon the assistance of the
elder of the female servants, in carrying Mrs. Wagner to her room. Jack
went with them, holding one of his mistress's helpless hands.

His first paroxysm of terror had passed away with the appearance of Mr.
Keller and the clerk, and had left his weak mind stunned by the shock
that had fallen on it. He looked about him vacantly. Once or twice, on
the slow sad progress up the stairs, they heard him whispering to
himself, "She won't die--no, no, no; she won't die." His only consolation
seemed to be in that helpless confession of faith. When they laid her on
the bed, he was close at the side of the pillow. With an effort, her eyes
turned on him. With an effort she whispered, "The Key!"

He understood her--the desk downstairs had been left unlocked.

"I'll take care of the key, Mistress; I'll take care of them all," he
said.

As he left the room, he repeated his comforting words, "She won't
die--no, no, no; she won't die." He locked the desk and placed the key
with the rest in his bag.

Leaving the office with the bag slung over his shoulder, he stopped at
the door of the dining-room, on the opposite side of the hall. His head
felt strangely dull. A sudden suspicion that the feeling might show
itself in his face, made him change his mind and pause before he ascended
the stairs. There was a looking-glass in the dining-room. He went
straight to the glass, and stood before it, studying the reflection of
his face with breathless anxiety. "Do I look stupid-mad?" he asked
himself. "They won't let me be with her; they'll send me away, if I look
stupid-mad."

He turned from the glass, and dropped on his knees before the nearest
chair. "Perhaps God will keep me quiet," he thought, "if I say my
prayers."

Repeating his few simple words, the poor creature's memory vaguely
recalled to him the happy time when his good mistress had first taught
him his prayers. The one best relief that could come to him, came--the
relief of tears. Mr. Keller, descending to the hall in his impatience for
the arrival of the doctor, found himself unexpectedly confronted by Mrs.
Wagner's crazy attendant.

"May I go upstairs to Mistress?" Jack asked humbly. "I've said my
prayers, sir, and I've had a good cry--and my head's easier now."

Mr. Keller spoke to him more gently than usual. "You had better not
disturb your mistress before the doctor comes."

"May I wait outside her door, sir? I promise to be very quiet."

Mr. Keller consented by a sign. Jack took off his shoes, and noiselessly
ascended the stairs. Before he reached the first landing, he turned and
looked back into the hall. "Mind this!" he announced very earnestly; "I
say she won't die--_I_ say that!"

He went on up the stairs. For the first time Mr. Keller began to pity the
harmless little man whom he had hitherto disliked. "Poor wretch!" he said
to himself, as he paced up and down the hall, "what will become of him,
if she does die?"

In ten minutes more, Doctor Dormann arrived at the house.

His face showed that he thought badly of the case, as soon as he looked
at Mrs. Wagner. He examined her, and made all the necessary inquiries,
with the unremitting attention to details which was part of his
professional character. One of his questions could only be answered
generally. Having declared his opinion that the malady was paralysis, and
that some of the symptoms were far from being common in his medical
experience, he inquired if Mrs. Wagner had suffered from any previous
attack of the disease. Mr. Keller could only reply that he had known her
from the time of her marriage, and that he had never (in the course of a
long and intimate correspondence with her husband) heard of her having
suffered from serious illness of any kind. Doctor Dormann looked at his
patient narrowly, and looked back again at Mr. Keller with unconcealed
surprise.

"At her age," he said, "I have never seen any first attack of paralysis
so complicated and so serious as this."

"Is there danger?" Mr. Keller asked in a whisper.

"She is not an old woman," the doctor answered; "there is always hope.
The practice in these cases generally is to bleed. In this case, the
surface of the body is cold; the heart's action is feeble--I don't like
to try bleeding, if I can possibly avoid it."

After some further consideration, he directed a system of treatment
which, in some respects, anticipated the practice of a later and wiser
time. Having looked at the women assembled round the bed--and especially
at Madame Fontaine--he said he would provide a competent nurse, and would
return to see the effect of the remedies in two hours.

Looking at Madame Fontaine, after the doctor had gone away, Mr. Keller
felt more perplexed than ever. She presented the appearance of a woman
who was completely unnerved. "I am afraid you are far from well
yourself," he said.

"I have not felt well, sir, for some time past," she answered, without
looking at him.

"You had better try what rest and quiet will do for you," he suggested.

"Yes, I think so." With that reply--not even offering, for the sake of
appearances, to attend on Mrs. Wagner until the nurse arrived--she took
her daughter's arm, and went out.

The woman-servant was fortunately a discreet person. She remembered the
medical instructions, and she undertook all needful duties, until the
nurse relieved her. Jack (who had followed the doctor into the room, and
had watched him attentively) was sent away again for the time. He would
go no farther than the outer side of the door. Mr. Keller passed him,
crouched up on the mat, biting his nails. He was apparently thinking of
the doctor. He said to himself, "That man looked puzzled; that man knows
nothing about it."

In the meantime, Madame Fontaine reached her room.

"Where is Fritz?" she asked, dropping her daughter's arm.

"He has gone out, mamma. Don't send me away! You seem to be almost as ill
as poor Mrs. Wagner--I want to be with you."

Madame Fontaine hesitated. "Do you love me with all your heart and soul?"
she asked suddenly. "Are you worthy of any sacrifice that a mother can
make for her child?"

Before the girl could answer, she spoke more strangely still.

"Are you just as fond of Fritz as ever? would it break your heart if you
lost him?"

Minna placed her mother's hand on her bosom.

"Feel it, mamma," she said quietly. Madame Fontaine took her chair by the
fire-side--seating herself with her back to the light. She beckoned to
her daughter to sit by her. After an interval, Minna ventured to break
the silence.

"I am very sorry for Mrs. Wagner, mamma; she has always been so kind to
me. Do you think she will die?" Resting her elbows on her knees, staring
into the fire, the widow lifted her head--looked round--and looked back
again at the fire.

"Ask the doctor," she said. "Don't ask me."

There was another long interval of silence. Minna's eyes were fixed
anxiously on her mother. Madame Fontaine remained immovable, still
looking into the fire.

Afraid to speak again, Minna sought refuge from the oppressive stillness
in a little act of attention. She took a fire-screen from the
chimney-piece, and tried to place it gently in her mother's hand.

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