"M. Joyeuse," said he thickly, "I have a very serious communication to make to you."
M. Joyeuse expresses astonishment.
"A communication? Ah, _mon Dieu_, you alarm me!"
And lowering his voice:
"Are the girls in the way?"
"No. Bonne Maman knows what I mean. Mlle. Elise also must have some suspicion of it. It is only the children."
Mlle. Henriette and her sister are asked to retire, which they immediately do, the one with a dignified and annoyed air, like a true daughter of the Saint-Amands, the other, the young Chinese Yaia, hardly hiding a wild desire to laugh.
Thereupon a great silence; after which, the lover begins his little story.
I quite believe that Mlle. Elise has some suspicion in her mind, for as soon as their young neighbour spoke of a communication, she drew her _Ansart et Rendu_ from her pocket and plunged precipitately into the adventures of somebody surnamed the Hutin, thrilling reading which makes the book tremble in her hands. There is reason for trembling, certainly, before the bewilderment, the indignant stupefaction into which M.
Joyeuse receives this request for his daughter"s hand.
"Is it possible? How has it happened? What an extraordinary event! Who could ever have suspected such a thing?"
And suddenly the good old man burst into a great roar of laughter. Well, no, it is not true. He had heard of the affair; knew about it, a long time ago.
Her father knew all about it! Bonne Maman had betrayed them then! And before the reproachful glances cast in her direction, the culprit comes forward smiling:
"Yes, my dears, it is I. The secret was too much for me. I found I could not keep it to myself alone. And then, father is so kind--one cannot hide anything from him."
As she says this she throws her arms round the little man"s neck; but there is room enough for two, and when Mlle. Elise in her turn takes refuge there, there is still an affectionate, fatherly hand stretched out towards him whom M. Joyeuse considers thenceforward as his son.
Silent embraces, long looks meeting each other full of emotion, blessed moments that one would like to hold forever by the fragile tips of their wings. There is chat, and gentle laughter when certain details are recalled. M. Joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him in the first instance by tapping spirits, one day when he was alone in Andre"s apartment. "How is business going, M. Maranne?" the spirits had inquired, and he himself had replied in Maranne"s absence: "Fairly well, for the season, Sir Spirit." The little man repeats, "Fairly well for the season," in a mischievous way, while Mlle. Elise, quite confused at the thought that it was with her father that she talked that day, disappears under her fair curls.
After the first stress of emotion they talk more seriously. It is certain that Mme. Joyeuse, _nee_ de Saint-Amand, would never have consented to this marriage. Andre Maranne is not rich, still less n.o.ble; but the old accountant, luckily, has not the same ideas of grandeur that his wife possessed. They love each other; they are young, healthy, and good-looking--qualities that in themselves const.i.tute fine dowries, without involving any heavy registration fees at the notary"s. The new household will be installed on the floor above. The photography will be continued, unless _Revolt_ should produce enormous receipts. (The Visionary may be trusted to see to that.) In any case, the father will still remain near them; he has a good place at his stockbroker"s office, some expert business in the courts; provided that the little ship continue to sail in deep enough water, all will go well, with the aid of wave, wind, and star.
Only one question preoccupies M. Joyeuse: "Will Andre"s parents consent to this marriage? How will Dr. Jenkins, so rich, so celebrated, take it?"
"Let us not speak of that man," said Andre, turning pale; "he is a wretch to whom I owe nothing--who is nothing to me."
He stops, embarra.s.sed by this explosion of anger, which he was unable to restrain and cannot explain, and goes on more gently:
"My mother, who comes to see me sometimes in spite of the prohibition laid upon her, was the first to be told of our plans. She already loves Mlle. Elise as her daughter. You will see, mademoiselle, how good she is, and how beautiful and charming. What a misfortune that she belongs to such a wicked man, who tyrannizes over her, and tortures her even to the point of forbidding her to utter her son"s name."
Poor Maranne heaves a sign that speaks volumes on the great grief which he hides in the depths of his heart. But what sadness would not have been vanquished in presence of that dear face lighted up with its fair curls and the radiant perspective of the future? These serious questions having been settled, they are able to open the door and recall the two exiles. In order to avoid filling their little heads with thoughts above their age, it has been agreed to say nothing about the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they have all to make haste and dress, breakfast still more quickly, so as to be able to spend the afternoon in the Bois, where Maranne will read his play to them, before they go on to Suresnes to have dinner at Kontzen"s: a whole programme of delights in honour of the acceptance of _Revolt_, and of another piece of good news which they will hear later.
"Ah, really--what is it, then?" ask the two little girls, with an innocent air.
But if you fancy they don"t know what is in the air, if you think that when Mlle. Elise used to give three raps on the ceiling they imagined that it was for information on business, you are more ingenuous even than _le pere_ Joyeuse.
"That"s all right--that"s all right, children; go and dress, in any case."
Then there begins another refrain:
"What frock must I put on, Bonne Maman--the gray?"
"Bonne Maman, there is a string off my hat."
"Bonne Maman, my child, have I no more starched cravats left?"
For ten minutes the charming grandmother is besieged with questions and entreaties. Every one needs her help in some way; it is she who had the keys of everything, she who gives out the pretty, white, fine goffered linen, the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the dainty things which, taken out from drawers and wardrobes, spread over the bed, fill a house with a bright Sunday gaiety.
The workers, the people with tasks to fulfil, alone know that delight which returns each week consecrated by the customs of a nation. For these prisoners of the week, the almanac with its closed prison-like gratings opens at regular intervals into luminous s.p.a.ces, with breaths of refreshing air. It is Sunday, the day that seems so long to fashionable folk, to the Parisians of the boulevard whose habits it disturbs, so gloomy to people far from their homes and relatives, that const.i.tutes for a mult.i.tude of human beings the only recompense, the one aim of the desperate efforts of six days of toil. Neither rain nor hail, nothing makes any difference, nothing will prevent them from going out, from closing behind them the door of the deserted workshop, of the stuffy little lodging. But when the springtime is come, when the May sunshine glitters on it as this morning, and it can deck itself out in gay colours, then indeed Sunday is the holiday of holidays.
If one would know it well, it must be seen especially in the working quarters of the town, in those gloomy streets which it lights up and enlarges by closing the shops, keeping in their sheds the heavy drays and trucks, leaving the s.p.a.ce free for wandering bands of children washed and in their Sunday clothes, and for games of battledore and shuttlec.o.c.k played amid the great circlings of the swallows beneath some porch of old Paris. It must be seen in the densely populated, feverishly toiling suburbs, where, as soon as morning is come, you may feel it hovering, resposeful and sweet, in the silence of the factories, pa.s.sing with the ringing of church-bells and that sharp whistle of the railways, and filling the horizon, all around the outskirts of the city, with an immense song, as it were, of departure and of deliverance. Then one understands it and loves it.
O Sunday of Paris, Sunday of the toilers and the humble, often have I cursed thee without reason, I have poured whole streams of abusive ink over thy noisy and extravagant joys, over the dust of railway stations filled by thy uproar and the maddening omnibuses that thou takest by a.s.sault, over thy tavern songs bawled everywhere from carts adorned with green and pink dresses, on thy barrel-organs grinding out their tunes beneath the balconies of deserted court-yards; but to-day, abjuring my errors, I exalt thee, and I bless thee for all the joy and relief thou givest to courageous and honest labour, for the laughter of the children who greet thee with acclamation, the pride of mothers happy to dress their little ones in their best clothes in thy honour, for the dignity thou dost preserve in the homes of the poorest, the glorious raiment set aside for thee at the bottom of the old shaky chest of drawers; I bless thee especially by reason of all the happiness thou hast brought that morning to the great new house in the old faubourg.
Toilettes having been completed, the _dejeuner_ finished, taken on the thumb, as they say--and you can imagine what quant.i.ty these young ladies" thumbs would carry--they came to put on their hats before the mirror in the drawing-room. Bonne Maman threw around her supervising glance, inserted a pin here, retied a ribbon there, straightened her father"s cravat; but while all this little world was stamping with impatience, beckoned out of doors by the beauty of the day, there came a ring at the bell, echoing through the apartment and disturbing their gay proceedings.
"Suppose we don"t open the door?" propose the children.
And what a relief, with a cry of delight, they see their friend Paul come in!
"Quick! quick! Come and let us tell you the good news."
He knew well, before any of them, that the play had been accepted. He had had a good deal of trouble to get it read by Cardailhac, who, the moment he saw its "short lines," as he called verse, wished to send the ma.n.u.script to the Levantine and her _ma.s.seur_, as he was wont to do in the case of all beginners in the writing of drama. But Paul was careful not to refer to his own intervention. As for the other event, the one of which nothing was said, on account of the children, he guessed it easily by the trembling greeting of Maranne, whose fair mane was standing straight up over his forehead by reason of the poet"s two hands having been pushed through it so many times, a thing he always did in his moments of joy, by the slightly embarra.s.sed demeanour of Elise, by the triumphant airs of M. Joyeuse, who was standing very erect in his new summer clothes, with all the happiness of his children written on his face.
Bonne Maman alone preserved her usual peaceful air; but one noticed, in the eager alacrity with which she forestalled her sister"s wants, a certain attention still more tender than before, an anxiety to make her look pretty. And it was delicious to watch the girl of twenty as she busied herself about the adornment of others, without envy, without regret, with something of the gentle renunciation of a mother welcoming the young love of her daughter in memory of a happiness gone by. Paul saw this; he was the only one who did see it; but while admiring Aline, he asked himself sadly if in that maternal heart there would ever be place for other affections, for preoccupations outside the tranquil and bright circle wherein Bonne Maman presided so prettily over the evening work.
Love is, as one knows, a poor blind creature, deprived of hearing and speech, and only led by presentiments, divinations, the nervous faculties of a sick man. It is pitiable indeed to see him wandering, feeling his way, constantly making false steps, pa.s.sing his hands over the supports by which he guides himself with the distrustful awkwardness of the infirm. At the very moment when Paul was doubting Aline"s sensibility, in announcing to his friends that he was about to start on a journey which would occupy several days, perhaps several weeks, did not remark the girl"s sudden paleness, did not hear the distressed cry that escaped her lips:
"You are going away?"
He was going away, going to Tunis, very much troubled at leaving his poor Nabob in the midst of the pack of furious wolves that surrounded him. Mora"s protection, however, gave him some rea.s.surance; and then, the journey in question was absolutely necessary.
"And the Territorial?" asked the old accountant, ever returning to the subject in his mind. "How are things standing there? I see Jansoulet"s name still at the head of the board. You cannot get him out, then, from that Ali-Baba"s cave? Take care--take care!"
"Ah, I know all about that, M. Joyeuse. But, to leave it with honour, money is needed, much money, a fresh sacrifice of two or three millions, and we have not got them. That is exactly the reason why I am going to Tunis to try to wrest from the rapacity of the Bey a slice of that great fortune which he is retaining in his possession so unjustly. At present I have still some chance of succeeding, while later on, perhaps--"
"Go, then, and make haste, my dear lad, and if you return, as I wish you may, with a heavy bag, see that you deal first of all with the Paganetti gang. Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest has the power to smash the whole thing up, to demand an inquiry; and you know what the inquiry would reveal. Now I come to think of it," added M.
Joyeuse, whose brow had contracted a frown, "I am even surprised that Hemerlingue, in his hatred for you, has not secretly brought up a few shares."
He was interrupted by the chorus of imprecations which the name of Hemerlingue raised from all the young people, who detested the fat banker for the injury he had done their father, and for the ill-will he bore that good Nabob, who was adored in the house through Paul de Gery.
"Hemerlingue, the heartless monster! Wretch! That wicked man!"
But amid all these exclamations, the Visionary was following up his idea of the fat baron becoming a shareholder in the Territorial for the purpose of dragging his enemy into the courts. And you may imagine the stupefaction of Andre Maranne, a complete stranger to the whole affair, when he saw M. Joyeuse turn to him, and, with face purple and swollen with rage, point his finger at him, with these terrible words:
"The greatest rascal, after all, in this affair, is you, sir!"
"Oh, papa, papa! what are you saying?"
"Eh, what? Ah, forgive me, my dear Andre. I was fancying myself in the examining magistrate"s private room, face to face with that rogue. It is my confounded brain that is always running away with me."