Part 3 (1/2)
In Miss Ross's black eyes rose a sparkle that denoted intense love of mischief, rather than gratified vanity or demure self-applause.
”He _does_ wait for me, nevertheless, very often,” she answered; ”and I don't let him off because he hates it, you may be sure. Do you remember him that night at the French Play? Didn't he get savage? And wasn't it fun?”
Mrs. Lascelles laughed.
”You never spare him, Jin, that you must allow.”
”I spare n.o.body!” answered the other, and the dark eyes glittered fiercely.
Her friend looked at her with more than common interest, and something of pity no less than curiosity in her face.
”What makes you so wild, Jin,” said she, ”so wicked, so merciless, so unlike other people? I love you dearly, as you know, because I do believe you love _me_. But why should you hate everybody else? Above all, why are you so bitter, so unkind, so utterly without heart, towards those who show a regard for yourself? It seems to me, that directly a man betrays the slightest interest in you, down he goes in the Black List, and you pitch into him without compunction or remorse.”
”Shall I make a clean breast of it?” said Miss Ross, drawing her chair near her friend. ”You have often heard me say what a wretched childhood mine was, what an unhappy youth; but I have never told even _you_ of the one crowning sorrow of my life, the one outrage that turned my few good impulses and instincts into 'malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness.'
As a child, I had no parents, no relations. I was brought up by a stern old woman in black, whom I had been taught to call 'Aunty,' but who was careful to impress on me, nevertheless, that I was not her niece; and I had no playmates, nor companions of my own age. I could have clung very fondly to anything that showed interest in me or loved me. I know it, because when I was taken across the Channel to school at Dieppe, I made acquaintance with the steward's dog in the steamer, and I shall never forget the wrench of parting with that friend of six hours' standing, nor the look in his meek brown eyes when I kissed him and wished him good-bye. I remember I cried for two hours, and 'Aunty' thought it was at parting with her. She scolded me without pity; but even then I was wise enough to know she would have reviled me still more bitterly had I told her the truth. How I hated that school at Dieppe, the _cafe au lait_, the long rolls of bread, the _bouilli_, and the fast days. The lessons I didn't so much mind, but the 'recreations,' as they called them, I thought would have driven me mad! I was quite a little girl when I went there, but n.o.body petted me, nor seemed to care one snap of the fingers whether I was dead or alive; though they said I was pretty, I don't think I could have been what is called 'a taking child.' I was often punished too, and always more or less in disgrace for 'insubordination,' because I lifted up my young voice and protested against the injustice to which we were daily victims. The school consisted of French and English girls. I liked the latter least; they were the most prejudiced and overbearing, affecting airs of superiority, and calling the former 'foreigners' in their own country!
”When I left Dieppe and was removed to a convent in Paris everybody seemed glad, and I was delighted to go myself.
”Oh! Rose, you have never been in a convent! Thank your stars, my dear, or your G.o.ds, if you have any; and pray that you never may be. The discipline, the dulness, the wearisome routine, made one feel like a wild beast in a cage. I think I should have torn somebody in pieces if I had stayed. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, and nothing to learn. Though I was such a little rebel, I had neither been stupid nor idle at school, and there was little they taught in the convent, except needle-work, that I didn't know fully better than my instructors. So I ran away. I am ashamed to tell you how I managed it--what lies I told, what feelings I simulated, what smiles I lavished to induce a young man, whom I had only seen three times and spoken with twice, to a.s.sist me in my flight. He called it 'un enlevement;' but I think I managed all the details, and had, therefore, the less difficulty in giving him the slip within an hour of my escape from prison. He was a 'friseur,' I believe.
He told me he was an artist. I certainly shouldn't have known him again in a week's time, but he was useful to me, and I think he said his name was Adolphe.
”No friends--no money. A run-away school-girl, and loose in the streets of Paris. Can you wonder that my wits are sharpened, my opinions somewhat advanced? I was self-reliant, however, and had no intention of starving, so I p.a.w.ned a black silk jacket of my own, and a bracelet Adolphe had lately given me. I regret to say the latter ornament fetched but a few francs. I had capital enough now to keep me a few days, and felt that I could afford to make my own bargain with an employer, whatever might be the task or the terms.
”Perhaps it was because I could do without it for the moment, that I obtained an engagement the same day to sing at one of the 'Cafes Chantants' that abound in the outskirts of Paris. In a low dress, at sixteen, singing to two hundred people I had never seen before, I give you my word I wasn't the least shy. Truth to tell, my blood was up. I had detected in the Manager's politeness, and the readiness with which he met my terms, something of that predatory tendency which I had already learned from books, from reflection, from the experience of others, affects the dealings of men towards ourselves. I was ten times better in defence, I knew, than he could be in attack; and I felt a fierce pleasure in pondering how I could turn his own weapons against himself.
”So I ran through a succession of shakes, and squeals, and shrieks, and sometimes sang false, to the delight of an enthusiastic audience and my own intense gratification. One man never took his eyes off me; and, somehow, before I had finished my third or fourth bar, I found I had forgotten Manager, self, and company, and was singing to this man alone.
When I went back at night to the bare little room I had hired during the afternoon, shall I confess to you that his face haunted me in the dark?
And I dreamt of him--I did, upon my word--though I was so tired I fell dead asleep the instant I lay down.”
”My dear, you had fallen in love,” observed her listener.
”No, I hadn't,” answered the other; ”at least, not then. Next day I found a note and a bouquet from the Manager. I did wish for a moment it had been from somebody else; but it proved to me, at least, I was admired by an old fool, who might have been my grandfather, and so my vanity should have been gratified, but it only made me savage and irritable. I don't think I ever liked people one bit because they liked _me_!
”That evening the same man was there to hear me sing again. I confess my heart gave a jump when I saw him, and I knew that _he_ knew it! He never applauded but once, and he shook his head whenever I made a false note.
What pains I took, and how pleased I was, when he said 'Bravo!' out loud as I made my curtsy! I _was_ in love with him that night when I went to bed, and felt I had a right to dream of him as much as ever I liked.
”It is not difficult to make acquaintance with a friendless girl singing for bread in a place like Paris. I thought it very hard that a whole week should pa.s.s without his speaking to me, though I saw him every night, always staring, and always in the same place. Of course the time came at last, and when I had him all to myself on two chairs, with a _deux-sous_ newspaper, in the Tuileries gardens, I did feel that life was something to enjoy, to revel in, to be grateful for. Mrs. Lascelles, I shall never be near heaven now, but I think I was then. I was so happy that it made me good.
”I wonder if he knew what he was doing. Sometimes I think men are often brutes, only because they are fools. We were married though. I protest to you solemnly, as I am a living woman, we were married in a church! I took his name, such as it was, and when next I sang they put me in the bills as Madame Picquard. He did not like me to leave off my profession, he said, and I would have gone out willingly with a rake and a basket to earn my day's wages as a scavenger in the streets if he had only said it was a pleasant life.
”We were not rich, though he always seemed to have plenty of money. I lived in a very modest apartment, and I used to think I saw less of my husband after he was my husband. I imagine this is sometimes the case, but it grieved me then. I was even fool enough to cry about it. Fancy my crying with nothing to gain, and n.o.body to dry my eyes. A good joke, isn't it? But we have changed all that. How I used to laugh at his French! He said he was an Alsatian, that was why it was so bad. I never heard him speak English but once. I was nearly run over by a _fiacre_, and he said, 'Take care, dear!' just as you or I might. His mother, he told me, had been an Englishwoman, but he scarcely knew another word of the language.
”Soon after this my boy was born. Such a n.o.ble little fellow, Mrs.
Lascelles--so strong, so handsome, with beautiful little hands and finger-nails as perfect as a model. My darling boy! He knew me, I am sure he did, when he was ten days old, and--and--it's nonsense, of course, and they hate one when they're grown up. But I wasn't such a bad mother to him, after all!
”Did I tell you my husband's name was Achille? Well, Achille was _very_ good to me at first--sending in flowers, and things for baby, and coming to see me every day. To be sure, the doctor wouldn't let him stay above five minutes. I was very happy, and looked forward to getting well and singing again, and working hard at home and abroad for the comfort of my husband and child.
”But I didn't get well. I was very young, you know, and it was weeks before I was able to walk into the next room, so that I couldn't accompany my husband anywhere out-of-doors, and I dare say I was a sadly stupid companion in the house. Perhaps that was why he got tired of me.