Part 3
"Nothing," he replied. "She is coming, I hear her! It is joy, but it overpowers me. It seems to be falling on me and burying me beneath its weight like a snowdrift. Winter will be a dreary time for lovers. Oh, doctor, see what is the matter with my head!"
But his uncle rushed up to him, crying:
"Enough, enough! Don't rave so! I don't want people to think you mad. They will say I stole your reason from you. I'm an honest man. Doctor, look at my hands, examine my pockets, send to my house on the Rue Charonne. Search the cupboard. Open all the drawers. You will find I have nothing that belongs to any other person."
Between his two patients the doctor was at his wits' end, when a door opened, and Claire came in to tell her father that breakfast was on the table.
Francis leaped up out of his chair, as if moved by a spring, but though his will prompted him to rush toward Mlle. Auvray, his flesh proved weak, and he fell back in his chair like lead. He could scarcely murmur the words:
"Claire, it is I! I love you. Will you--"
He passed his hand over his forehead. His pale face became a vivid scarlet. His temples throbbed almost to bursting; it seemed to him that an iron band was contracting more and more around his head, just above his brows. Claire, frightened nearly to death, seized both his hands; his skin was so dry, and his pulse so rapid that the poor girl was terrified. It was not thus that she had hoped to see him again. In a few minutes, a yellowish tinge appeared about his nostrils; nausea ensued, and Dr. Auvray recognized all the symptoms of a bilious fever.
"How unfortunate!" he said to himself. "If this fever had only attacked his uncle, it would have cured him!"
He rang. A servant appeared, and shortly afterward Mme. Auvray, who scarcely knew Francis, so greatly had he changed. It was necessary that the sick man should be got to bed without delay, and Claire relinquished her own pretty room to him. While they were installing him there, his uncle wandered excitedly about the parlor, tormenting the doctor with questions, embracing the sick man, seizing Mme. Auvray's hand and exclaiming wildly: "Save him, save him! He shall not die! I will not have him die! I forbid it. I have a right to. I am his uncle and guardian. If you do not care for him, people will say I killed him. You are witnesses to the fact that I ask for none of his property! I shall give all his possessions to the poor! Some water--please give me some water to wash my hands!" He was taken to the building occupied by the patients, where he became so violent that it was necessary to put him in a strait-jacket.
Mme. Auvray and her daughter nursed Francis with the tenderest care. Confined in the sick-room day and night, the mother and daughter spent most of their leisure time discussing the situation. They could not explain the lover's long silence or his sudden reappearance. If he loved Claire, why had he left her in suspense for three dreary months? Why did he feel obliged to give his uncle's malady as an excuse for presenting himself at Dr. Auvray's house? But if he had recovered from his infatuation, why did he not take his uncle to some other physician? There were plenty of them in Paris. Possibly he had believed himself cured of his folly until the sight of Claire undeceived him? But no, he had asked her father for her hand in marriage before he saw her again. But, in his delirium, Francis answered all or nearly all of these questions. Claire, bending tenderly over him, listened breathlessly to his every word, and afterward repeated them to her mother and to the doctor, who was not long in discovering the truth. They soon knew that he had lost his reason and under what circumstances; they even learned how he had been the innocent cause of his uncle's insanity. Fears of an entirely different nature now began to assail Mlle. Auvray. Was the terrible crisis which she had unwittingly brought about likely to cure his mental disorder? The doctor assured his daughter that a fever, under such circumstances, was almost certain to put an end to the insanity, but there is no rule without its exception, especially in medicine. And even if he seemed to be cured, was there not danger of a recurrence of the malady?
"So far as I am concerned, I am not in the least afraid," said Claire, smiling sadly. "I am the cause of all his troubles. Therefore, it is my duty to console him. After all, his madness consists merely in continually asking my hand. There will be no need of doing that after I become his wife, so we really have nothing to fear. The poor fellow lost his reason through his excessive love; so cure him, my dear father, but not entirely. Let him remain insane enough to love me as much as I love him!"
"We will see," replied Dr. Auvray. "Wait until this fever passes off. If he seems ashamed of having been demented, if he appears gloomy, or melancholy after his recovery, I can not vouch for him; if, on the contrary, he remembers his temporary aberration of mind without mortification or regret--if he speaks of it without any reserve, and if he is not averse to seeing the persons who nursed him through his illness, there is not the slightest reason to apprehend a return of the malady."
On the 25th of December, Francis, fortified by a cup of chicken broth and half the yolk of a soft boiled egg, sat up in bed, and without the slightest hesitancy or mortification, and in a perfectly lucid manner, gave the history of the past three months without any emotion save that of quiet joy. Claire and Mme. Auvray wept as they listened to him; the doctor pretended to be taking notes, or rather to be writing under dictation, but something besides ink fell on the paper. When the story ended, the convalescent added, by way of conclusion:
"And now on this, the 25th day of December, I say to my good doctor, and much loved father--Dr. Auvray, whose street and number I shall never again forget--'Sir, you have a daughter, Mlle. Claire Auvray, whom I met at Ems, with her mother. I love her; she has proved that she loves me in return, and if you have no fears that I will become insane again, I have the honor to ask her hand in marriage."
The doctor was so deeply affected that he could only bow his head in token of assent, but Claire put her arms around the sick man's neck and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. I am sure I should desire no better response under like circumstances.
That same day, M. Morlot, who had become much more quiet and tractable, and who had long since been released from the bondage of a strait jacket, rose about eight o'clock in the morning, as usual. On getting out of bed, he picked up his slippers, examined and reexamined them inside and out, then handed them to a nurse for inspection, begging him to see for himself that they contained no thirty thousand francs. Until positively assured of this fact he would not consent to put them on. Then he carefully shook each of his garments out of the window, but not until after he had searched every fold and pocket in them. After his toilet was completed, he called for a pencil, and wrote on the walls of his chamber:
"_Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's money, nor anything that is his._"
Dr. Auvray is confident of his ability to cure him, but it will take time. It is in the summer and autumn that physicians are most successful in their endeavors to cure insanity.
THE GRAND MARRIAGE BY LUDOVIC HALÉVY
[Illustration]
_Ludovic Halévy was born at Paris in 1834, and began to write for the theatre when very young. He is the author of the opera librettos, "Orphée aux Enfers," 1861, "Carmen," 1875, etc.; besides a number of vaudevilles, such as "Froufrou," etc. Most of his pieces are written in collaboration with Meilhac. Outside of the theatre he has published a collection of little scenes in the paper called "La Vie Parisienne," under the title of "Madame Cardinal" and "Les Petits Cardinal"; impressions of war under the title "L'Invasion," and some novels, such as "L'Abbé Constantin," 1882. In 1884 he was elected a member of the Academy._
_Halévy tempered the fantastic humors of Meilhac, and restrained the more far-fetched of his own, bringing them down to earth. His theatre paints what is called Parisian life, remarkable for ease, delicacy, grace, but without much substance. His novels have a very delicate flavor, with a combination of suavity and irony._
[Illustration]
THE GRAND MARRIAGE BY LUDOVIC HALÉVY
Translated by J. Matthewman. Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
_Nov. 25th, 1893. 4 o'clock._
This morning at ten o'clock I was just settling down to attack Beethoven's Twenty-fifth symphony, when the door opened, and who should walk in but mama. Mama awake and stirring at ten o'clock! And not only awake and stirring, but dressed and ready to go out--mantled and bonneted.
I could not remember ever to have seen her stirring so early before. She never manages to get to church on Sunday before the middle of the one o'clock mass. The other evening she said, laughingly, to Abbé Pontal:
"Monsieur l'Abbé, our dear religion would be absolutely perfect if you substituted a mass at two for that at one. Then the concerts at the _Conservatoire_ could be put an hour later, and Sunday in winter would be all that could be desired."
At mama's entrance I was stupefied, and exclaimed: "You are going out, mama?"
"No, I've just come in."
"You've just come in?"
"Yes, I had something to do this morning--to choose some stuffs for the hangings--that blue, you know, which is so difficult to find."
"Have you found it?"
"No--no. But that they say they can get it for me--and I hope that--They are going to send it by the day after to-morrow at the latest."
Mama got quite confused in her explanation. She finally announced that we were going to a _soirée_ at the Mercerey's. There was to be a little music. She had known of it for several days, but had forgotten to mention it to me before. I didn't show the slightest sign of surprise, but while listening to mama, I studied her carefully, and thought to myself: "What's the meaning of all this? Mama rambling about at this unearthly hour, matching blues! A _soirée musicale_ at the Mercerey's! Mama evidently confused, too! There's something hidden."
So I let her flounder and never uttered a sound. When she had finished she took a few steps toward the door, just as actors do in a theatre when they pretend they are going out, then she turned back and tried to say with an air of indifference, as if the thought had only just occurred to her: "Which gown do you think of putting on to-night?"
"To-night, mama? Really, I don't know. I might put the gray on--or the blue--or the rose."
"No, no; not the rose. Put the blue on. You looked quite nice in it the day before yesterday at Aunt Clarice's. Besides, your papa doesn't like the rose, and as he is going with us to the Mercerey's--"
"Papa going to the Mercerey's!"
"Yes, certainly."
"Does he know that there's to be some music?"
"Yes."
"He knows--and yet he is going?"
"Yes. What is there surprising in that?"
"Oh, nothing, mama; nothing at all."
Whereupon she really left the room, and I was quite alone. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I said to myself: "A marriage on the _tapis_. They're going to show me off to some one. _That's_ why pap is obliged to go."
Fancy papa letting himself be dragged by mama to a _soirée musicale_! The whole world will seem topsy-turvy. There are only three places which he finds bearable in the evening--the club, the opera during the ballet, and the little theatres where people go to laugh and amuse themselves generally--the theatres where young girls are not allowed to go, but where I intend to go when I am married.
Yes, I'm sure there's an interview in the wind. It must be something of great importance, for mama has been in a state of the highest excitement ever since this morning. She ate no breakfast, and didn't manage to conceal her unrest at all. Not only has she inspected my blue dress carefully, but she has also examined me with equal thoroughness. She fell into a fit of veritable despair on verifying the fact that there was a slight flaw on my features.
"What's that?" she cried.
"Where? What? mama!"
"On the tip of your nose."
"Have I anything on the tip of my nose?"
"Yes, a horrid gash."
"Oh, good gracious! A gash?"
Quite horrified, I rushed to the mirror. Then I breathed freely again. It was the merest trifle--where the kitten had given me a pat with its paw. Nothing worth mentioning--a little reddish mark that was hardly visible to the naked eye, and which could easily be got rid of before evening.
But in mama's solicitous eyes the little mark assumed the proportions of a disfiguring wound. The tip of my nose has never received so much touching attention before. Mama made me sit still in an armchair during half of the day, with cold-water cloths fixed like a pair of goggles on the said tip of the aforementioned nose.
Poor mama! She's so anxious to see me married. It's quite natural, after all. She looks very well herself yet in the evening, and it is awkward to have to drag a big marriageable daughter around at her heels.
I don't like it, either, for that matter. I know that I make her look older, and, therefore, as soon as we enter a room in the evening I slip away from her, and try to see as little as possible of her afterward until the carriage is announced. So each goes her own way, and interferes as little as possible with the other.
She's a dear, good old soul. There are mothers who simply bully their daughters, and worry them into marrying at five minutes' notice. Quite a leap in the dark. Mama isn't one of them.
Besides, she knows I have made up my mind not to be hurried--and not to decide carelessly. Marriage is not a trifling thing. If a mistake is made it is for life; so it's well to know what one is doing when one takes the plunge. When I get married it will be in all seriousness. I don't intend to tumble head over ears in love with the first newcomer, be he fair or dark, who says to his mother: "I've found the girl of my choice. I love her, and her alone. I'll have her or nobody."
Oh, no! I'm not going into that stupidity. I intend to keep my eyes open, and my wits about me.
Last spring I declined five very likely wooers simply because none of them offered all the advantages of birth, fortune, and position which I consider I am justified in demanding.
I shall follow the same course of action during the winter campaign--the same calm prudence. I am not yet twenty, so I can afford to wait.
Since this morning I have felt highly satisfied with myself--_very_ highly satisfied. I have not been in the least affected by mother's open agitation. To-day, as usual, I have glanced through my notes.
On my eighteenth birthday I find I wrote the following simple words on the first page of my notebook, which I still keep carefully under lock and key:
MY MARRIAGE.
"And so five have bitten the dust already." I'm sure there'll be a sixth combatant in the lists to-night. Is he the one who will finally become my very humble and very obedient servant and lord?
In any case, he had better get ready to undergo the most rigorous and searching examination.
I'm not like mama. I don't lose _my_ head.
_Nov. 26th. Four o'clock._
I wasn't mistaken. It _was_ the sixth.
But let me be orderly, and write the events, both small and great, in their due sequence.
After dinner mama and I went upstairs to dress. I took a long time over it, and was very careful, too. I may as well tell the truth. I worked at my toilet. It took me an hour and a half to dress to my own complete satisfaction. On coming downstairs I found all the doors open, and as I noiselessly approached the drawing-room I heard papa and mama talking. Papa said:
"You think it _absolutely_ necessary, then?"
"_Absolutely_ necessary. Just think of it. Your presence is indispensable."
The temptation was too great. I stopped to listen. Was it not right, or at least justifiable curiosity on my part?
"Why indispensable?" replied papa. "I know the young fellow. I've often met him at the club. I've even played whist with him. He doesn't play badly, either. He saw Irene on horseback, and thought she was superb. That settles the whole affair as far as I am concerned. What business is it of mine? It's only your affair--your's and Irene's."
"My dear, I assure you that propriety demands--"
"Well, well; I'll go, I'll go."
Then silence fell. Not another word was spoken. I waited to hear the man's name, but it didn't come. My heart beat a little quicker as I stood there in expectancy--in fact, I distinctly heard its tick-tack. I stood two or three minutes, but as they did not think fit to resume the conversation, I entered, and had to pretend to know nothing.
But I did know something, and that something was of importance, too. He is a member of the "Jockey." To me that means everything. If I attach too much importance to it, it is papa's fault, for he thinks that any one who is not a member of the Jockey is simply nobody. The world, as far as papa is concerned, begins with the Jockey, and ends at those who are not of the charmed circle. I have been brought up with those ideas. My husband must be a member of the Jockey.
Well, the three of us set off in the landau--papa gloomy, depressed, silent; mama in the same state of eager excitement; I outwardly cool and indifferent, but thinking hard all the same.
What could be the meaning of so much mystery? This gentleman has seen me on horseback, and had though I was bewitching, which was very sweet of him. Was it he who had asked to see me in a brilliantly-lighted room--_décolletée_?
That, it seemed to me, was scarcely the correct thing. He ought to have been shown to _me_ before I was so liberally shown to him on horseback and on foot. But, after all, it didn't matter much.
We got to the Mercerey's at half-past ten. I was very sorry for papa, for it really was a _soirée musicale_, and there was a quartet, too, which is about the most trying thing in the world for one who does not care for music, and has not been broken in into bearing it. In addition, the music was highly and wearily classical.
There were not many people present--only about a score. The company was very mixed, and it was evident that the affair had been arranged in a hurry, for the people seemed to have been picked up haphazard, with no thought for their peculiarities and idiosyncrasies--nobody knew anybody, and there was an evident lack of sympathy.
We entered just when the andante movement of a sonata was in full swing, and we went on tiptoe to seats. I settled myself snugly in a quiet corner and cast a rapid, furtive glance round the battlefield. At first I only saw a few old men--_blasé_ looking individuals--evidently not for me.
Then, in the opposite corner, I noticed a little knot of four young men. There could be no doubt that there was the enemy.
Yes, but which of the four? In my simplicity I thought: "It must be he who is looking at me most devotedly and attentively." I modestly lowered my eyes, and assumed the attitude of a saint listening with inward rapture to the austere strains of a Haydn sonata.
Then suddenly I raised my eyes and let them fall full upon the group of young men. But I had to drop them more quickly than I had raised them, for all the four young men were studying me with an equal amount of curiosity and evident approbation. I let the sonata go a little longer, and again renewed the experiment--with the same result. The four pairs of eyes were fixed unflinchingly upon me.
I don't think I was much put out by so much attention. In fact, I wasn't at all put out. It was pleasant, very pleasant; and I rather liked it than otherwise.
The country did wonders for me last summer. I have grown a little--ever so little--fatter. Virginie, my maid, said to me the other evening while dressing me:
"Ah! Mademoiselle, you don't know how the summer has improved you." In which Virginie was very much mistaken. Mademoiselle _did_ know it very well. One always notices such things first one's self.
The quartet at last came to an end, and the usual confusion of tongues followed. I took mama aside and said:
"Mama, do point him out."
"Why, you little minx, have you guessed?"
"Yes, I've guessed. Show me him--quick--the music's going to start again."
"That's he--the tall dark man, on the left there--the man standing under the Meissonnier. Don't look just now. He's looking at you."
"He's not the only one. They're all doing that."
"He's not looking now, though. There he is. He's going to papa. He's talking to him."
"He's not bad looking."
"I should rather think he isn't!"
"But his mouth's too large."
"_I_ don't think so."
"Oh, yes it is. But that's a trifle. On the whole, he'll do."
"Oh, if you only knew all--birth, fortune, everything you could wish for. It was such an extraordinary accident, too--quite romantic."
"What's his name?"
"Comte de Martelle-Simieuse. Don't look at him; he's beginning to look at you again. As I was saying, he is a Martelle-Simieuse, and the Martelle-Simieuses are cousins of the Landry-Simieuses and of the Martelle-Jonzacs. You know the Martelle-Simieuses?"
At this point one of the musicians tapped on his desk, and mama's flow of genealogical eloquence was stopped. We resumed our seats, and the music commenced. Mozart this time. I sank back into my corner and settled down to my reflections. It was evident to me that he must be a splendid catch, for mama was so excited.
Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse. Two names. Just what I had dreamt of and longed for. Of course, I should have preferred to be a duchess; but then there are so few real dukes left--only twenty-two, I believe--so that is practically out of the question. But a countess is passable.