It was the hour of solemn choice; the renunciation of his liberty and pleasant vagabondage, or the hugging in private for evermore of a sweet dream that would make a symphonious accompaniment to his march upon the road of life. Could the flavour of his love survive the vulgarity of wealth, of newspaper-paragraphs, wedding-presents, insincere congratulations, a honeymoon enjoyed under the stare of the gazing multitude, the dust of social receptions, dinners, and all the ugly routine he had flown from? On the other hand, could he ask a daintily reared girl, like his cousin, to tramp the country roads and fields with him, to wander comfortless from wayside inn to hamlet, and back to an ill-furnished studio, at the mercy of the seasons, and with no other luxuries than kisses, which for him, he imagined, would ever hold the rapture and forgetfulness of the first one? The choice meant the clipping of his own wings, and perhaps moral death; for her, ultimate misery, or the tempered loveliness of a dream preserved, and substantial bliss rejected.
He could not make up his mind that day, and sent his mother away without an answer. Maurice Brodeau was not informed of his dilemma. It was matter too delicate in this stage for discussion. But the night brought him no nearer to decision, and standing before his easel, making believe to be engaged upon a sketch he had lately taken at Fontainebleau, he held serious debate within himself whether he ought to consult his friend or not.
In his studio upstairs, Maurice was loitering near the window in an idle mood, and saw a quiet brougham stop in front of their house in the Avenue Victor Hugo. He watched the slow descent of an old man dressed in a shabby frock-coat, untidily cravated, who leaned heavily upon a thick-headed cane. The old gentleman surveyed the green gate on which were nailed the visiting-cards of the two artists, and jerked up a sharp pugnacious chin.
‘Our ancient uncle, the respectable and mighty banker, of a surety,’ laughed Maurice, on fire for the explanation of the riddle.
The head of the firm of Ulrich pushed open the gate, sniffed the air of the damp courtyard, and solemnly mounted the wooden stairs, making a kind of judicial thud with his heavy stick.
‘The jackanapes!’ he muttered, for the benefit of a tame cat. ‘It is a miracle how these young fools escape typhoid fever, living in such places.’
Maurice cautiously peeped over the banisters, and saw the old gentleman turn the handle of Armand’s door without troubling to knock. ‘Good Lord!’ thought the watcher, ‘it is fortunate friend Armand has broken with that little devil Yvette, or the old bear might have had the chance of putting a fine spoke in his wheel with cousin Marguerite.’
Armand in his linen blouse was standing in front of his easel, with his back to the door. He was certainly working, but his mind was not so fixed upon his labour but that he had more than an odd thought for his cousin. Pretty phrases, gestures, and expressions of hers kept running through his thoughts, as an under-melody sometimes runs through a piece of music, unaggressively but soothingly claiming the ear. They brought her presence about him, to cheer him in the midst of his solemn preoccupations upon their mutual destiny. While his reason said no, and he regarded himself as a fine fellow for listening to reason at such a moment, her lips curved and smiled and bent to his in imagination’s first spontaneous kiss. And then he told himself pretty emphatically that he was growing too sentimental, and that it behoves a man to take his pleasure and his pains heartily and bravely, and not go abroad whimpering for the moon. Just when he had made up his mind to shoulder his moral baggage and, whistling merrily, face the solitary roads, he was made to jump and fall back into perplexity by a crusty, well-known voice.
‘Well, young man! So this is where you waste your time?’
Armand swung round in great alarm, and reddened painfully.