Part 27 (1/2)
And Modeste, full of heartfelt pity, promised to hide her ”dear child”
from every one, which promise, however, did not prevent her, for she was very self-willed, from going, without Jacqueline's knowledge, to see Madame de Talbrun and tell her all that had taken place. She was hurt and amazed at her reception by Giselle, and at her saying, without any offer of help or words of sympathy, ”She has only reaped what she has sown.” Giselle would have been more than woman had not Fred, and a remembrance of the wrongs that he had suffered through Jacqueline, now stood between them. For months he had been the prime object in her life; her mission of comforter had brought her the greatest happiness she had ever known. She tried to make him turn his attention to some serious work in life; she wanted to keep him at home, for his mother's sake, she thought; she fancied she had inspired him with a taste for home life. If she had examined herself she might have discovered that the task she had undertaken of doing good to this young man was not wholly for his sake but partly for her own. She wanted to see him nearly every day and to occupy a place in his life ever larger and larger. But for some time past the conscientious Giselle had neglected the duty of strict self-examination. She was thankful to be happy--and though Fred was a man little given to self-flattery in his relations with women, he could not but be pleased at the change produced in her by her intercourse with him.
But while Fred and Giselle considered themselves as two friends trying to console each other, people had begun to talk about them. Even Madame d'Argy asked herself whether her son might not have escaped from the cruel claws of a young coquette of the new school to fall into a worse sc.r.a.pe with a married woman. She imagined what might happen if the jealousy of ”that wild boar of an Oscar de Talbrun” were aroused; the dangers, far more terrible than the perils of the sea, that might in such a case await her only son, the child for whose safety her mother-love caused her to suffer perpetual torments. ”O mothers!
mothers!” she often said to herself, ”how much they are to be pitied.
And they are very blind. If Fred must get into danger and difficulty for any woman, it should not have been for Giselle de Talbrun.”
CHAPTER XVIII. ”AN AFFAIR OF HONOR”
A meeting took place yesterday at Vesinet between the Vicomte de Cymier, secretary of Emba.s.sy at Vienna, and M. Frederic d'Argy, ensign in the navy. The parties fought with swords. The seconds of M. de Cymier were the Prince de Moelk and M. d'Etaples, captain in the--th Hussars; those of M. d'Argy Hubert Marien, the painter.
M. d'Argy was wounded in the right arm, and for the present the affair is terminated, but it is said it will be resumed on M.
d'Argy's recovery, although this seems hardly probable, considering the very slight cause of the quarrel--an altercation at the Cercle de la Rue Boissy d'Anglas, which took place over the card-table.
Such was the announcement in a daily paper that met the eyes of Jacqueline, as she lay hidden in Modeste's lodging, like a fawn in its covert, her eyes and ears on the alert, watching for the least sign of alarm, in fear and trembling. She expected something, she knew not what; she felt that her sad adventure at Monaco could not fail to have its epilogue; but this was one of which she never had dreamed.
”Modeste, give me my hat! Get me a carriage! Quick! Oh, my G.o.d, it is my fault!--I have killed him!”
These incoherent cries came from her lips while Modeste, in alarm, picked up the newspaper and adjusted her silver spectacles upon her nose to read the paragraph. ”Monsieur Fred wounded! Holy Virgin! His poor mother! That is a new trouble fallen on her, to be sure. But this quarrel had nothing to do with you, my pet; you see they say it was about cards.”
And folding up the Figaro, while Jacqueline in all haste was wrapping her head in a veil, Modeste, with the best intentions, went on to say: ”n.o.body ever dies of a sword-thrust in the arm.”
”But you see it says that they are going to fight all over again--don't you understand? You are so stupid! What could they have had to quarrel about but me? O G.o.d! Thou art just! This is indeed punishment--too much punishment for me!”
So saying, she ran down the many stairs that led up to Modeste's little lodging in the roof, her feet hardly touching them as she ran, while Modeste followed her more slowly, crying: ”Wait for me! Wait for me, Mademoiselle!”
Calling a fiacre, Jacqueline, almost roughly, pushed the old woman into it, and gave the coachman the address of Madame d'Argy, having, in her excitement, first given him that of their old house in the Parc Monceau, so much was she possessed by the idea that this was a repet.i.tion of that dreadful day, when with Modeste, just as now, she went to meet an irreparable loss. She seemed to see before her her dead father--he looked like Fred, and now, as before, Marien had his part in the tragedy. Could he not have prevented the duel? Could he not have done something to prevent Fred from exposing himself? The wound might be no worse than it was said to be in the newspaper--but then a second meeting was to take place. No!--it should not, she would stop it at any price!
And yet, as the coach drew nearer to the Rue de Varenne, where Madame d'Argy had her winter residence, a little calm, a little sense returned to Jacqueline. She did not see how she could dare to enter that house, where probably they cursed her very name. She would wait in the street with the carriage-blinds pulled down, and Modeste should go in and ask for information. Five minutes pa.s.sed--ten minutes pa.s.sed--they seemed ages. How slow Modeste was, slow as a tortoise! How could she leave her there when she knew she was so anxious? What could she be doing? All she had to do was to ask news of M. Fred in just two words!
At last, Jacqueline could bear suspense no longer. She opened the coach-door and jumped out on the pavement. Just at that moment Modeste appeared, brandis.h.i.+ng the umbrella that she carried instead of a stick, in a manner that meant something. It might be bad news, she would know in a moment; anything was better than suspense. She sprang forward.
”What did they say, Modeste? Speak!--Why have you been such a time?”
”Because the servants had something else to do than to attend to me. I wasn't the only person there--they were writing in a register. Get back into the carriage, Mademoiselle, or somebody will see you--There are lots of people there who know you--Monsieur and Madame d'Etaples--”
”What do I care?--The truth! Tell me the truth--”
”But didn't you understand my signals? He is going on well. It was only a scratch--Ah! Madame that's only my way of talking. He will be laid up for a fortnight. The doctor was there--he has some fever, but he is not in any danger.”
”Oh! what a blessing! Kiss me, Modeste. We have a fortnight in which we may interfere--But how--Oh, how?--Ah! there is Giselle! We will go to Giselle at once!”
And the 'fiacre' was ordered to go as fast as possible to the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. This time Jacqueline herself spoke to the concierge.
”Madame la Comtesse is out.”
”But she never goes out at this hour. I wish to see her on important business. I must see her.”
And Jacqueline pa.s.sed the concierge, only to encounter another refusal from a footman, who insisted that Madame la Comtesse was at home to no one.