Not a word of comment or surprise upon the bareness of the studio or the shabbiness of the single-cushioned chair upon which she sat; no allusion to his sacrifice, or wonder at it. The charming girl seemed to take it for granted that a lad of talent should find the atmosphere of commerce irksome, and gallantly admitted that such a choice would have been hers, had she been born a boy. To wander about the world with a knapsack, and eat in dear little cheap inns with rough peasants; to wear a silk kerchief and no collar, and have plenty of pockets filled with cord and penknives, and matches, and tobacco, and pencils, and pocketbooks; to sleep under the stars, and bear a wetting bravely,—this is the sort of thing she vowed she would have enjoyed, did petticoats and sex and other contrarieties not form an impediment.
Such pretty babble might not be intended to play into her elders’ hands, Madame Ulrich perhaps thought, but it was very wise play for that susceptible organ, a young man’s heart, whether conscious or not. And that once gained, one need never despair of the reversal of all his idols for love.
When they left the studio, Armand stood looking after them, with his hands in his pockets, under his linen blouse, plunged in profound meditation, the nature of which he revealed soon to his friend.
‘And to think there goes the biggest prey male rascal ever sighed for, Maurice. What title do you imagine will buy her? Prince or duke, for marquis is surely below the mark. Think of it, my friend. There is hardly a wish of hers that money cannot gratify, unless it be a throne or a cottage. And the throne itself is easier come by for such as she than the cottage. What an existence! What a dismal future! What lassitude! What hunger, by and by, for dry bread and cheese and common pewter! A more nauseous destiny must it be, that of the richest woman in the world than even that of the richest man. At least a man can smoke a clay pipe, and take to drink, or the road to the devil in any other way. But what is there left a woman whose wedding trousseau will contain pocket-handkerchiefs that cost a hundred pounds apiece! My aunt Mrs. Francillon’s handkerchiefs cost that. Mighty powers! what an awful way these charming and futile young creatures are brought up! And you see for yourself, this girl is no mere fashionable fool. She, too, would have sacrificed the title and the handkerchiefs, if it were not for the restrictions with which she has been hedged from birth. Let us bless our stars, Maurice, that we were not born girls, and equally bless our stars that girls are born for us.’
II
Madame Ulrich and her niece came again to the studio. They came very often. Armand began by counting the days between their visits, and ended in such a state of lyrical madness that Romeo was sobriety itself alongside of him. In anticipation of the sequel, Maurice supported the trial of his morning, midday, and evening confidences with a patience deserving the envy of angels. And not a thought of commiseration had the raving young madman for him, and only sometimes remembered, at the top of his laudatory bent, to break off with courteous regret for the unoccupied state of his friend’s heart.
‘I wish to God you were married to her,’ said Maurice one day, and Armand naturally trusted the prayer would be heard at no distant period.
It was the hour of Marguerite’s visit. To see the charming girl seated in the shabby arm-chair he had bought at a sale in the Hôtel Drouot, so perfectly at home, and so naïvely pleased with little inexpensive surprises, such as a bunch of flowers in a common jar, an improvised tea made over their daily spirit-lamp, much the worse for constant use; to see her so vividly interested in the everyday life of a couple of Bohemians, the cost of their marketings, their bargains, and the varieties of their meals, their cheap amusements, unspoiled by dress-suit or crush hat, and eager over that chapter of their distractions that may safely be recounted to a well-bred maiden. Armand had never known any pleasure in his life so full of freshness and untainted delight. Bitterly then did he regret that there should be episodes upon which a veil must be dropped. These, I suppose, are regrets common to most honest young fellows for the first time in love. He would have liked to be able to tell her everything, not even omitting his sins; as she sat there, and listened to him with an air so divinely confiding and credulous. He had a wild notion that he might be purified from past follies, and not a few dark scenes he dared not remember in her presence, if he might kneel and drop his humbled head in her lap, and feel the touch of her white hands as a benediction and an absolution upon his forehead. He was full of all sorts of romantic and sentimental ideas about her, little dreaming that the clock of fate was so close upon the midnight chimes of hope, and that the curtain was so soon to drop upon this pleasant pastoral played to city sounds.
One day his mother came alone. One glance took in the blank disappointment of his expression and all its meaning. She scrutinised him sharply, and found the ground well prepared for the words of wisdom she had come to sow. She spoke of Marguerite, and the troubled youth drank in the sound of her voice with avidity. Did he love his cousin? How could he tell? He knew nothing but that he lived upon her presence; that the thought of her filled the studio in her absence; that he dwelt incessantly upon the memory of her words and looks and gestures. This he supposed was love, only he wished the word were fresher. It was applied to the feeling inspired by ordinary girls, whereas she was above humanity, and he was quite ready to die for one kiss of her lips.
When the blank verse subsided, Madame Ulrich bespoke the commonplace adventure of marriage, and made mention of two serious rivals, an English marquis and his cousin Bernard Francillon. The mention of the marquis he endured, and sighed; but his cousin’s name stung his blood like a venomous bite, he could not tell why. His brain was on fire, and he sat with his head in his hands in great perplexity.