Margot had gathered into her room all the futile little treasures for which the pawnbroker had no desire, and these touched Jean most of all. There they were, all set out in order to comfort Margot’s heart—embroidered table-cloths, antimacassars, carved picture-frames, and Jean’s photograph in a white and gilt frame Margot had made herself, embroidered with blue forget-me-nots.
Poor Jean covered his face with his hands and crept back to his room. He flung himself on his bed and cried like a child. What could he do in the face of this cruel and appalling tenderness that had stripped itself bare to the verge of starvation for him, that had kept nothing back, and had paid the utmost price with smiling, mendacious eyes?
For a time he did not see what he could do, he felt no anger at all, for Margot’s love had gone too deep for mere resentment. It had touched the core of Jean’s nature, and the core of his nature was sound and ready to respond.
Nor did he feel even anger with his aunt now; on the contrary, he felt a vague gratitude to her, for she had showed him what to do. If his aunt could think evil of Margot, there was perhaps left after all a way of serving her. Jean no longer thought of paying back an obligation; his pride had been not so much broken as absorbed in a deeper feeling; but if he could serve her!
He had only the shelter of his name to give her, but that she should have! He had never dreamed of Margot as his wife before. His strangely lucid and passionate nature caused him to divide all the relations of his life with a definiteness that never confused the issue.
Margot was to be his friend and pupil; he was not to make love to her even if he wanted to; it would not be fair. Now it appeared she was shaken out of this pigeon-hole into another, one wholly unoccupied so far. She was to be his wife. He flushed with the magnanimity of his scheme. After all he could be very happy with her; they would make an arrangement about Madame Selba (he passed as quickly as possible over this part of his plan); then he would take Margot back to Ucelles. There they would live very simply and quietly for art, and art only. As for happiness—what, after all, was happiness? The pursuit of a rapid inconstant image which only waited to be reached to vanish as you grasped it, or turned into the horrible familiarity of the thing possessed? Surely it was best to try simply for contentment, and to look for that in work, obligation, and pleasant human ties, without excitement, perhaps. But Jean felt to-day as if he would never care for excitement again, and then there would always be that happy, grateful light in Margot’s eyes! All men like to be worshipped, especially when they are not feeling very strong and there is nothing else to do. Normally, perhaps, they may seek for a more active rôle; but Jean was not feeling very normal at the moment; his temperature had risen several degrees, and he felt all the sober exultation of sacrifice before the sacrifice is made.
He was very anxious for Margot to come back.
When she came he could hardly wait for her to light the candles behind him before he seized her hands and told her to sit down, he had something particular to say to her, and he must say it at once, and she mustn’t get his supper till then.
Margot gave him a quick look, then she drew her chair near the bed and laid her hand on his pulse.
“No, Margot, don’t. I’m not the least excited,” Jean said impatiently.