Part 19 (1/2)

”These people insulted you; Rosine and you agreed to have nothing more to do with them, and now, _your daughter_ is making advances to this man who has refused her, and you say it is 'good enough.' I can't understand you any longer, you must be out of your mind.”

Clerambault tried to show her that his daughter's happiness did not consist in agreement with his ideas, and that Rosine was quite right to get rid of the consequences of his foolishness where they affected herself.

”Your foolishness ... that is the first word of sense that you have said in years.”

”You see yourself that I am right,” said he, and made her promise to let Rosine arrange her romance as she pleased.

The girl was radiant when she came in, but she said nothing of what had pa.s.sed. Madame Clerambault held her tongue with great difficulty, and the father saw with tender amus.e.m.e.nt the happiness that shone once more on the face of his child. He did not know exactly what had happened, but he guessed that Rosine had thrown him and his ideas overboard--sweetly of course, but still,--the lovers had made it up at their parents' expense, and both had blamed with admirable justice the old people's exaggerations on either side. The years in the trenches had emanc.i.p.ated Daniel from the narrow fanaticism of his family, without impairing his patriotism, and Rosine in exchange had gently admitted that her father had been mistaken. They agreed with little difficulty, for she was naturally calm and fatalistic, which suited perfectly with Daniel's stoical acceptance of things as they were.

They had decided, therefore, to go through life together, without paying any more attention to the disagreements of those who had come before them, as the saying is--though it would be more exact to say, those whom they were leaving behind them. The future also troubled them little; like millions of other human beings they only asked their share of happiness at the moment and shut their eyes to everything else.

Madame Clerambault was annoyed that her daughter said nothing of the events of the morning, and soon went out again; Rosine and her father sat dreamily, he by the window, smoking, and she with an unread magazine before her. She looked absently about the room, with happy eyes, trying to recall the details of the scene between her and Daniel; her glance fell on her father's weary face, and its melancholy expression struck her sharply. She got up, and standing behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder and said, with a little sigh of compa.s.sion that tried to conceal her inward joy:

”Poor little Papa!”

Clerambault looked at Rosine, whose eyes, in spite of herself, shone with happiness:

”And my little girl is not 'poor' any longer, is she?”

Rosine blushed: ”Why do you say that?” she asked.

Clerambault only shook his head at her, and she leaned forward laying her cheek against his:

”She is no longer poor,” he repeated.

”No,” she whispered, ”she is very, very rich.”

”Tell me about this fortune of hers?”

”She has--first of all--her dear Papa.”

”Oh, you little fraud!” said Clerambault, trying to move so that he could see her face, but Rosine put her hands over his eyes:

”No, I don't want you to look at me, or say anything to me....” She kissed him again, and said caressingly:

”Poor dear little Papa.”

Rosine had now escaped from the cares that weighed on the house, and it was not long before she flew away from the nest altogether, for she had pa.s.sed her examinations and was sent to a hospital in the South.

Both the Clerambaults felt painfully the loss to their empty fireside.

But the man was not the more lonely of the two. He knew this and was sincerely sorry for his wife, who had not either the strength of mind to follow his path, nor to leave him. As for him he felt that now, no matter what happened, he would never be bereft of sympathy; persecution would arouse it, and lead the most reserved people to express their feeling. A very precious evidence of this came to him at this time.

One day, when he was alone in the apartment, the bell rang and he went to open the door. A lady was there whom he did not know; she held out a letter, mentioning her name as she did so; in the dim light of the vestibule, she had taken him for the servant, but at once saw her mistake, as he tried to persuade her to come in. ”No,” said she, ”I am only a messenger,” and she went away; but when she had gone he found a little bunch of violets that she had laid on a table near the door.

The letter was as follows:

”_Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito_....

”You fight for us, and our hearts are with you. Pour out your troubles to us, and I will give you my hope, my strength, and my love. I am one who can act only through you.”

The youthful ardour of these last mysterious words, touched and puzzled Clerambault. He tried to remember the lady as she stood on his threshold; she was not very young; fine features, grave dark eyes in a worn face. Where had he seen her before? The fugitive impression faded as he tried to hold it.

He saw her again two or three days later, not far from him in the Luxembourg Gardens. She walked on and as he crossed the path to meet her she stopped and waited for him. He thanked her, and asked why she had gone away so quickly the other day, without saying who she was.