I.
DOCTOR JENKINS' PATIENTS.
Standing on the stoop of his little house on Rue de Lisbonne, freshlyshaved, with sparkling eye, lips slightly parted, long hair tinged withgray falling over a broad coat-collar, square-shouldered, robust, andsound as an oak, the illustrious Irish doctor, Robert Jenkins,chevalier of the Medjidie and of the distinguished order of CharlesIII. of Spain, member of several learned and benevolent societies,founder and president of the Work of Bethlehem,--in a word, Jenkins,the Jenkins of the Jenkins Arsenical Pills, that is to say, thefashionable physician of the year 1864, and the busiest man in Paris,was on the point of entering his carriage, one morning toward the endof November, when a window on the first floor looking on the innercourtyard was thrown open, and a woman's voice timidly inquired:
"Shall you return to breakfast, Robert?"
Oh! what a bright, affectionate smile it was that suddenly illuminedthat handsome, apostle-like face, and how readily one could divine, inthe loving good-morning that his eyes sent up to the warm whitepeignoir visible behind the parted hangings, one of those tranquil,undoubting conjugal passions, which custom binds with its most flexibleand strongest bonds.
"No, Madame Jenkins"--he loved to give her thus publicly her title oflegitimate wife, as if he felt a secret satisfaction therein, a sort ofsalve to his conscience with respect to the woman who made life soattractive to him--"No, do not expect me this morning. I am tobreakfast on Place Vendome."
"Ah! yes, the Nabob," said the lovely Madame Jenkins, with a verymarked inflection of respect for that personage out of the _Thousandand One Nights_, of whom all Paris had been talking for a month; then,after a moment's hesitation, she whispered between the heavy hangings,very softly, very lovingly, for the doctor's ear alone: "Be sure andnot forget what you promised me."
It was probably a promise very difficult to keep, for, at the reminder,the apostle's brows contracted, his smile froze upon his lips, hiswhole face assumed an incredibly harsh expression; but it was a matterof a moment. The faces of these fashionable physicians become veryexpert in lying, by the bedsides of their wealthy patients. With hismost affectionate, most cordial manner, and showing a row of dazzlingteeth, he replied:
"What I promised shall be done, Madame Jenkins. Now, go in at once andclose your window. The mist is cold this morning."
Yes, the mist was cold, but white as snow; and, hovering outside thewindows of the comfortable coupe, it lighted up with soft reflectionsthe newspaper in the doctor's hands. Over yonder in the dark, crowded,populous quarters, in the Paris of tradesmen and workmen, they knownothing of the pretty morning mist that loiters on the broad avenues;the bustle of the waking hours, the passing and repassing ofmarket-gardeners' wagons, omnibuses, drays loaded with old iron, soonchop it and rend it and scatter it. Each passer-by carries away alittle of it on a threadbare coat, a worn muffler, or coarse glovesrubbing against each other. It drenches the shivering blouses, thewaterproofs thrown over working dresses; it blends with all thebreaths, hot with insomnia or alcohol, buries itself in the depths ofempty stomachs, penetrates the shops which are just opening theirdoors, dark courtyards, staircases, where it stands on the balustersand walls, and fireless garrets. That is why so little of it remainsout-of-doors. But in that open, stately portion of Paris where Dr.Jenkins' patients lived, on those broad tree-lined boulevards, thosedeserted quays, the mist soared immaculate, in innumerable waves, aslight and fleecy as down. It was compact, discreet, almost luxurious,because the sun, slothful in his rising, was beginning to diffuse soft,purplish tints, which gave to the mist that enveloped everything, eventhe roofs of the rows of mansions, the aspect of a sheet of whitemuslin spread over scarlet cloth. One would have said that it was agreat curtain sheltering the long, untroubled sleep of wealth, a thickcurtain behind which nothing could be heard save the soft closing of aporte-cochere, the rattling of the milkmen's tin cans, the bells of aherd of asses trotting by, followed by the short, panting breath oftheir conductor, and the rumbling of Jenkins' coupe beginning its dailyround.
First of all, to the hotel de Mora. On the Quai d'Orleans, beside theSpanish embassy, stood a superb palace with its principal entrance onRue de Lille, and a door on the riverside, and long terraces whichformed a continuation of those of the embassy. Between two high,ivy-covered walls, connected by imposing stone arches, the coupe flewlike an arrow, announced by two strokes of a clanging bell, whicharoused Jenkins from the trance in which the perusal of his newspaperseemed to have plunged him. Then the wheels rolled less noisily overthe gravel of a vast courtyard and stopped, after a graceful sweep, atthe front steps, above which was spread a circular awning. One couldsee indistinctly through the mist half a score of carriages in a line,and the silhouettes of English grooms leading the duke's saddle-horseup and down an avenue of acacias, all leafless at that season andstanding naked in their bark. Everything revealed well-ordered,pompous, assured luxury.
"It makes no difference how early I come, others are always here beforeme," said Jenkins, glancing at the line in which his coupe took itsplace; but, certain of not being compelled to wait, with head erect anda tranquil air of authority, he went up the official steps, over whichso many trembling ambitions, so many stumbling anxieties passed everyday.
Even in the reception-room, high-studded, and resonant as a church,which two huge fires filled with gleaming life, notwithstanding thegreat stoves burning day and night, the magnificence of theestablishment burst upon one in warm and heady puffs. There was asuggestion of the hot-house and the drying-room as well. Great heat andabundant light; white wainscoting, white marble statues, immensewindows, nothing confined or close, and yet an equable atmosphere wellfitted to encompass the existence of some delicate, over-refined,nervous mortal. Jenkins expanded in that factitious sunlight of wealth;he saluted with a "good-morning, boys," the powdered Swiss with thebroad gilt baldric and the footmen in short clothes and blue and goldlivery, all of whom had risen in his honor, touched lightly with hisfinger the great cage of monkeys capering about with shrill cries, anddarted whistling up the white marble stairs covered with a carpet softand dense as a lawn, to the duke's apartments. Although he had beencoming to the hotel de Mora for six months, the good doctor had not yetbecome hardened to the purely physical impression of cheerfulness andlightness of heart caused by the atmosphere of that house.
Although it was the abode of the highest functionary of the Empire,there was nothing to suggest the departments or their boxes of dustydocuments. The duke had consented to accept the exalted post ofMinister of State and President of the Council only on condition thathe need not leave his house; that he should go to the department onlyan hour or two a day, long enough to affix his signatures to documentsthat required it, and that he should hold his audiences in his bedroom.At that moment, although it was so early, the salon was full. Therewere serious, anxious faces, provincial prefects with shaven lips andadministrative whiskers, something less arrogant in that reception-roomthan in their prefectures; magistrates, stern of manner, dignified ofgesture; deputies full of importance, shining lights of finance,substantial manufacturers from the country; and among them could bedistinguished, here and there, the thin ambitious face of a deputycouncillor to some prefecture, in the garb of a solicitor, black coatand white cravat; and one and all, standing or seated, alone or ingroups, silently forced with a glance the lock of that lofty door,closed upon their destinies, from which they would come forth in amoment, triumphant or crestfallen. Jenkins walked rapidly through thecrowd, and every one followed with an envious eye this new arrival,whom the usher, in his chain of office, frigid and correct in hisbearing, seated at a table beside the door, greeted with a smile thatwas both respectful and familiar.
"Who is with him?" the doctor inquired, pointing to the duke's room.
With the end of his lips, and not without a slightly ironical twinkleof the eye, the usher murmured a name, which, if they had heard it,would have angered all those exalted personages who had been waiting anhour for t
he _costumier_ of the opera to finish his audience.
A murmur of voices, a flash of light--Jenkins had entered the duke'spresence; _he_ never waited.
Standing with his back to the fire, dressed in a blue fur-trimmedjacket, which heightened by its soft reflection the strength andhaughtiness of his face, the President of the Council wassuperintending the drawing of a Pierrette's costume for the duchess towear at her next ball, and giving directions with as much gravity as ifhe were dictating the draft of a law.
"Have very fine pleats on the ruff and none at all on thesleeves.--Good-morning, Jenkins. At your service."
Jenkins bowed and stepped forward into the enormous room, whosewindows, opening on a garden that extended to the Seine, commanded oneof the loveliest views in all Paris, the bridges, the Tuileries, theLouvre, interlaced with trees as black as if they were drawn in Indiaink on the wavering background of the mist. A broad, very low bed on aplatform a few steps above the floor, two or three small lacquerscreens with vague fanciful decorations in gold, denoting, as did thedouble doors and the heavy woollen carpet, a dread of cold carried toexcess, chairs of various styles, long chairs and low chairs, placed atrandom, all well-stuffed and of lazy or voluptuous shapes, composed thefurniture of that famous room, where the most momentous and the mosttrivial questions were discussed with the same gravity of tone andmanner. There was a beautiful portrait of the duchess on the wall; andon the mantel a bust of the duke, the work of Felicia Ruys, which hadreceived the honor of a medal of the first class at the recent Salon.
"Well, Jenkins, how goes it this morning?" said His Excellency, walkingto meet the doctor, while the costumer was collecting his fashionplates, which were strewn about over all the chairs.
"And you, my dear duke? I fancied that you were a little pale lastnight at the Varietes."
"Nonsense! I was never so well. Your pills have a most amazing effecton me. I feel so lively, so vigorous. When I think how completelyfoundered I was six months ago!"
Jenkins, without speaking, had put his great head against theminister's jacket, at the spot where the heart beats in the majority ofmankind. He listened a moment while His Excellency continued to talk inthe indolent, listless tone which was one of his chief claims todistinction.
"Whom were you with last night, doctor? That great bronzed Tartar wholaughed so loud at the front of your box?"
"That was the Nabob, Monsieur le Duc. The famous Jansoulet, who is somuch talked about just now."
"I might have suspected it. The whole audience was looking at him. Theactresses played at him all the time. Do you know him? What sort of aman is he?"
"I know him. That is, I am treating him. Thanks, my dear duke, that'sall. Everything is all right there. When he arrived in Paris a monthago, the change of climate disturbed him a little. He sent for me, andsince then has taken a great fancy to me. All that I know of him isthat he has a colossal fortune, made in Tunis, in the Bey's service,that he has a loyal heart, a generous mind in which ideas ofhumanity--"
"At Tunis?" the duke interposed, being naturally far from sentimentaland humanitarian. "Then, why the name of Nabob?"
"Bah! Parisians don't look so deep as that. In their eyes every richstranger is a nabob, no matter where he comes from. This one, however,has just the physique for the part, coppery complexion, eyes like coalsof fire, and in addition a gigantic fortune, of which he makes, I haveno hesitation in saying, a most noble and most intelligent use. I oweit to him"--here the doctor assumed an air of modesty--"I owe it to himthat I have succeeded at last in inaugurating the Work of Bethlehem fornursing infants, which a morning newspaper that I was looking over justnow--the _Messager_, I think,--calls 'the great philanthropic idea ofthe century.'"
The duke glanced in an absent-minded way at the sheet the doctor handedhim. He was not the man to be taken in by paid puffs.
"This Monsieur Jansoulet must be very wealthy," he said coldly. "He isa partner in Cardailhac's theatre. Monpavon persuades him to pay hisdebts, Bois-l'Hery stocks his stable for him and old Schwalbachfurnishes a picture gallery. All that costs money."
Jenkins began to laugh.
"What can you expect, my dear duke; you are an object of great interestto the poor Nabob. Coming to Paris with a firm purpose to become aParisian, a man of the world, he has taken you for his model ineverything, and I do not conceal from you that he would be very glad tostudy his model at closer quarters."
"I know, I know, Monpavon has already asked leave to bring him here.But I prefer to wait and see. One must be on one's guard with thesegreat fortunes that come from such a distance. _Mon Dieu_, I don'tsay, you know, that if I should meet him elsewhere than in my ownhouse, at the theatre, or in somebody's salon--"
"It happens that Madame Jenkins intends to give a little party nextmonth. If you would do us the honor--"
"I shall be very glad to go to your house, my dear doctor, and if theNabob should be there, I should not object to his being presented tome."
At that moment the usher opened the door.
"Monsieur le Ministre de l'Interieur is in the blue salon. He has but aword to say to Your Excellency. Monsieur le Prefet de Police is stillwaiting below, in the gallery."
"Very good," said the duke, "I will go to him. But I should like tomake a definite arrangement about this costume first. Let us see,friend What's-your-name, what do we decide about those ruffs? _Aurevoir_, doctor. Nothing to do but keep on with the pearls, is there?"
"Keep on with the pearls," said Jenkins, bowing; and he took his leave,radiant over the two bits of good fortune that fell to his lot at thesame time--the honor of entertaining the duke, and the pleasure ofgratifying his dear Nabob. The crowd of petitioners through whom hepassed in the ante-chamber was even greater than when he entered; newarrivals had joined the patient waiters of the first hour, others werehurrying upstairs, pale-faced and full of business, and in thecourtyard carriages continued to arrive, to range themselves gravelyand solemnly in a double circle, while the question of ruffed sleeveswas discussed upstairs with no less solemnity.
"To the club," said Jenkins to his coachman.
* * *
The coupe rolled along the quays, recrossed the bridges, and turnedinto Place de la Concorde, which already wore a different aspect fromthat it had worn a short time before. The mist had lifted in thedirection of the Garde-Meuble and the Greek temple of the Madeleine,revealing here and there the white spray of a fountain, the arcade of apalace, the top of a statue, the shrubbery of the Tuileries, shiveringby the gates. The veil, not raised but rent in spots, discoveredpatches of blue sky: and, on the avenue leading to the Arc de Triomphe,one could see breaks driving swiftly along, filled with coachmen andjockeys, dragoons of the Empress's corps, body-guards in gorgeousfur-lined coats riding two by two in long lines, with a great clankingof bits and spurs and neighing of fresh horses, all in the light of astill invisible sun, emerging from the vague depths of the mist,plunging into it again in masses, like a swiftly-vanishing vision ofthe morning splendor of that quarter.
Jenkins alighted at the corner of Rue Royale. From roof to cellar ofthe great gambling-house servants were bustling about, shaking rugs,airing the salons where the odor of cigar-smoke still lingered, whereheaps of fine ashes were blowing about in the fireplaces, while on thegreen tables, still quivering with the games of the night, the candleswere still burning in silver candelabra, the flame ascending straightinto the pallid light of day. The uproar and the going and comingceased on the third floor, where several members of the club had theirapartments. Of the number was the Marquis de Monpavon, to whose doorJenkins bent his steps.
"Ah! is it you, doctor? Deuce take it! What time is it, pray? I'm notat home."
"Not even to the doctor?"
"Oh! not to anybody. A question of costume, my dear fellow. Never mind,come in all the same. Toast your feet a moment while Francois finishesmy hair."
Jenkins entered the bedroom, which was as prosaic a place as allfurnished
apartments are, and approached the fire, where curling-tongsof all dimensions were heating, while from the adjoining laboratory,separated from the bedroom by an Algerian curtain, the Marquis deMonpavon submitted to the manipulations of his valet. Odors ofpatchouli, cold cream, burned horn and burned hair escaped from therestricted quarters; and from time to time, when Francois came out totake a fresh pair of tongs, Jenkins caught a glimpse of an enormousdressing-table laden with innumerable little instruments of ivory,steel, and mother-of-pearl, files, scissors, powder-puffs and brushes,phials, cups, cosmetics, labelled, arranged in lines, and amid all thatrubbish, petty ironmongery and dolls' playthings, a hand, the hand ofan old man, awkward and trembling, dry and long, with nails ascarefully kept as a Japanese painter's.
While making up his face, the longest and most complicated of hismatutinal occupations, Monpavon chatted with the doctor, told him ofhis aches and pains and of the good effect of the pearls, which weremaking him younger, he said. And listening to him thus, at a littledistance, without seeing him, one would have believed he was the Duc deMora, he had so faithfully copied his way of speaking. There were thesame unfinished sentences, ending in a _ps_--_ps_--_ps_--utteredbetween the teeth. "What's-his-names" and "What-d'ye-call-'ems" atevery turn, a sort of lazy, bored, aristocratic stammer, in which onedivined profound contempt for the vulgar art of speech. In the duke'scircle everybody strove to copy that accent, those disdainfulintonations, in which there was an affectation of simplicity.
Jenkins, finding the session a little tedious, rose to go.
"Adieu, I am going. Shall I see you at the Nabob's?"
"Yes, I expect to breakfast there--promised to take What's-his-name,Thingumbob, you know, about our great affair--ps--ps--ps. Weren't forthat, I'd stay away--downright menagerie, that house."
The Irishman, despite his kindly feeling, agreed that the society athis friend's house was a little mixed. But what of that! they must notblame him for that. He didn't know any better, poor man.
"Doesn't know and won't learn," said Monpavon sourly. "Instead ofconsulting men of experience--ps--ps--ps--takes the first sycophantthat comes. Did you see the horses Bois-l'Hery bought for him?Downright swindle, those beasts. And he paid twenty thousand francs forthem. I'll wager Bois-l'Hery got 'em for six thousand."
"Oh! fie, fie--a gentleman!" said Jenkins, with the indignation of anoble soul refusing to believe in evil.
Monpavon went on, as if he did not hear:
"And all because the horses came from Mora's stable!"
"To be sure, the dear Nabob's heart is set on the duke. So that I shallmake him very happy when I tell him--"
The doctor stopped, in some embarrassment.
"When you tell him what, Jenkins?"
Jenkins, looking decidedly sheepish, was forced to admit that he hadobtained permission from His Excellency to present his friendJansoulet. He had hardly finished his sentence when a tall spectre withflabby cheeks and multicolored hair and whiskers darted from thedressing-room into the chamber, holding together with both hands at hisskinny but very straight neck, a dressing-gown of light silk withviolet dots, in which he had enveloped himself like a bonbon in itspaper wrapper. The most salient feature in that heroi-comic countenancewas a great arched nose shining with cold cream, and a keen, piercingeye, too youthful, too clear for the heavy, wrinkled lid that coveredit. All of Jenkins' patients had that same eye.
Verily Monpavon must have been deeply moved to show himself thus shornof all prestige. In fact it was with white lips and in a changed voicethat he now addressed the doctor, without the affected stammer,speaking rapidly and without stopping to breathe:--
"Come, come, my dear fellow, there's no nonsense between us, is there?We have met in front of the same porringer; but I let you have yourshare and I propose that you shall let me have mine." Jenkins' air ofamazement did not check him. "Let it be understood once for all. Ipromised the Nabob that I'd present him to the duke as I presented youlong ago. Don't you interfere in what concerns me and me alone."
Jenkins, with his hand upon his heart, protested his innocence. He hadnever had any such intention. Of course Monpavon was too close a friendof the duke for any one else to--How could he have imagined such athing?
"I imagine nothing," said the old nobleman, more subdued, but stillvery cold. "I simply wanted to have a perfectly frank explanation withyou on this subject."
The Irishman held out his broad open palm.
"My dear marquis, explanations are always frank between men of honor."
"Honor is a great word, Jenkins. Let us say men of good-breeding. Thatis sufficient."
And as that same good-breeding, which he put forward as a supreme guideof conduct, suddenly reminded him of his absurd plight, the marquisoffered a finger for his friend's demonstrative grasp and passedhastily behind his curtain, while the other took his leave, in haste tocontinue his round of visits.
* * *
What a magnificent practice this Jenkins had, to be sure! Nothing butprincely mansions, halls comfortably heated and filled with flowers onevery floor, downy, silk-lined alcoves, wherein disease became quietand refined, where nothing suggested the brutal hand that tosses upon abed of misery those who cease to work only to die. To tell the truth,these clients of Dr. Jenkins were not patients at all. They would nothave been received at a hospital. As their organs had not even strengthenough to feel a shock, it was impossible to find the seat of theirtrouble, and the physician leaning over them would have listened invain for the palpitation of suffering in those bodies which werealready inhabited by the inertia and silence of death. They wereweakened, exhausted, anaemic, consumed by their absurd mode of life, andyet so attached to it that they strove desperately to prolong it. Andthe Jenkins Pearls became famous just because of the lashing theyadministered to jaded constitutions.
"Doctor, I implore you, let me go to the ball this evening!" a youngwoman would say, as she lay, utterly prostrated, in her invalid'schair, her voice hardly more than a breath.
"You shall go, my dear child."
And go she would, and look lovelier than ever before.
"Doctor, at any price, even if it's the death of me, I must be at thecouncil of ministers to-morrow morning."
He would be there and would win new triumphs by his eloquence andambitious diplomacy. And afterward--oh! afterward, indeed. But nomatter! to their last day Jenkins' patients went about, showedthemselves, deceived the consuming selfishness of the multitude. Theydied on their feet, like men and women of the world.
After innumerable turns on the Chaussee d'Antin and Champs-Elysees,after visiting all the millionaires and titled personages in FaubourgSaint-Honore, the doctor drew up at the corner of Cours-la-Reine andRue Francois I., before a house with a swell front which stood atthe corner of the quay, and entered an apartment on the ground floorwhich in no wise resembled those he had visited since the morning.Immediately upon entering, the tapestries that covered the walls, theold stained glass windows intersecting with their lead sashes the soft,many-hued light, a gigantic saint in carved wood facing a Japanesemonster with bulging eyes and back covered with highly polished scales,indicated the imaginative and eccentric taste of an artist. The smallservant who opened the door held in leash an Arabian greyhound largerthan himself.
"Madame Constance is at mass," he said, "and mademoiselle is in thestudio, alone. We have been working since six o'clock this morning,"the child added, with a terrible yawn, which the dog caught on thewing, and which caused him to open wide his red mouth with its rows ofsharp teeth.
Jenkins, whom we have seen enter the private apartments of the Ministerof State with such perfect tranquillity, trembled slightly as he raisedthe portiere that hid the open doorway of the studio. It was amagnificent sculptor's workroom, the rounded front being entirely ofglass, with columns at either side: a large bay-window flooded withlight and at that moment tinged with opal by the mist. More ornate thanthe majority of these workrooms, to which the daubs of
plaster, themodelling tools, the clay scattered about and the splashes of watergive something of the appearance of a mason's yard, this one blended alittle coquetry with its artistic equipment. Green plants in everycorner, a few good pictures hanging on the bare wall, and here andthere--on oak pedestals--two or three of the works of Sebastien Ruys,whose very last work, not exhibited until after his death, was coveredwith black gauze.
The mistress of the establishment, Felicia Ruys, daughter of the famoussculptor, and already known to fame herself by two masterpieces, thebust of her father and that of the Duc de Mora, stood in the centre ofthe studio, at work modelling a figure. Dressed in a blue clothriding-habit with long folds, a scarf of China silk twisted around herneck like a boy's cravat, her fine, black hair, gathered carelessly ontop of her little Grecian head, Felicia was working with extreme zeal,which added to her beauty by the condensation, so to speak, theconcentration of all her features in a scrutinizing and satisfiedexpression. But it changed abruptly on the doctor's arrival.
"Ah! it's you, is it?" she said brusquely, as if waking from a dream."Did you ring? I did not hear."
And in the ennui, the weariness that suddenly overspread that lovelyface, only the eyes retained their expression and brilliancy, eyes inwhich the factitious gleam of the Jenkins Pearls was heightened by anatural fierceness.
Oh! how humble and condescending the doctor's voice became, as hereplied:
"Your work absorbs you completely, does it not, my dear Felicia? Is itsomething new that you're doing? I should say that it is very pretty."
He drew near to the still formless sketch in which a group of twoanimals could be vaguely distinguished, one of them, a greyhound,flying over the ground at a truly extraordinary pace.
"The idea came to me last night. I began to work by lamplight. My poorKadour doesn't find it amusing," said the girl, looking with acaressing expression of affection at the greyhound, whose paws thesmall servant was trying to separate in order to force him into theproper pose.
Jenkins observed with a fatherly air that she did wrong to tire herselfso, and added, taking her wrist with ecclesiastical precautions:
"Let us see, I am sure that you are feverish."
At the touch of that hand Felicia had a feeling of something very likerepulsion.
"Let me alone--let me alone--your pearls can do nothing for me. When Iam not working, I am bored, bored to death, so bored that I could killmyself; my ideas are of the color of that thick, brackish water flowingyonder. To be just at the beginning of life and to be disgusted withit! It's hard. I am reduced to the point of envying my poor Constance,who passes her days in her chair, never opening her mouth, but smilingall by herself at her memories of the past. I have not even that, noteven any pleasant memories to recall. I have nothing but work--work!"
_In Felicia's Studio_]
As she spoke, she worked fiercely, sometimes with the tool, sometimeswith her fingers, which she wiped from time to time on a little spongekept on the wooden frame on which the group stood; so that hercomplaints, her lamentations, inexplicable in a mouth of twenty yearswhich had in repose the purity of a Grecian smile, seemed to be utteredat random, and addressed to no one in particular. And yet Jenkinsseemed anxious and disturbed, notwithstanding the apparent interest hedisplayed in the artist's work, or rather in the artist herself, in thequeenly grace of that mere girl, whose style of beauty seemed to havepredestined her to the study of the plastic arts.
Annoyed by that admiring glance, which she felt like a weight, Feliciaresumed:
"By the way, do you know that I saw your Nabob? He was pointed out tome at the Opera, Friday."
"Were you at the Opera, Friday?"
"Yes. The duke sent me his box."
Jenkins changed color.
"I persuaded Constance to go with me. It was the first time in twentyyears, since her farewell performance, that she had entered the Opera.It made a great impression on her. During the ballet especially, shetrembled, she beamed, all her former triumphs sparkled in her eyes. Howfortunate one is to have such emotions. A perfect type of his class,that Nabob. You must bring him to see me. It would amuse me to do hishead."
"What! why he is frightful! You can't have had a good look at him."
"Indeed I did, on the contrary. He was opposite us. That whiteEthiopian visage would be superb in marble. And not commonplace, at allevents. Moreover, if he's so ugly as all that, you won't be so unhappyas you were last year when I was doing Mora's bust. What a wicked faceyou had at that time, Jenkins!"
"Not for ten years of life," muttered Jenkins in a threatening voice,"would I go through those hours again. But it amuses you to see peoplesuffer."
"You know very well that nothing amuses me," she said, shrugging hershoulders with supreme impertinence.
Then, without looking at him, without another word, she plunged intoone of those periods of intense activity by means of which true artistsescape from themselves and all their surroundings.
Jenkins took a few hurried steps, deeply moved, his lip swollen withavowals that dared not come forth, and began two or three sentencesthat met with no reply; at last, feeling that he was dismissed, he tookhis hat and walked toward the door.
"It's understood then, is it? I am to bring him here?"
"Who, pray?"
"Why, the Nabob. Only a moment ago you said yourself--"
"Oh! yes," said the strange creature, whose caprices were not of longduration, "bring him if you choose; I don't care particularly aboutit."
And her musical, listless voice, in which something seemed to havebroken, the utter indifference of her whole bearing showed that it wastrue, that she cared for nothing on earth.
Jenkins went away in sore perplexity, with clouded brow. But as soon ashe had passed the door he resumed his smiling, cordial manner, beingone of those men who wear a mask on the street. The mist, still visiblein the neighborhood of the Seine, was reduced to a few floating shreds,which gave an air of vapory unsubstantiality to the houses on the quay,to the steam-boats of which only the paddle-wheels could be seen, andto the distant horizon, where the dome of the Invalides hovered like agilded balloon, whose netting shed rays of light. The increasingwarmth, the activity in the quarter indicated that noon was not faraway and that it would soon be announced by the ringing of all thebells.
Before calling upon the Nabob, however, Jenkins had another call tomake. But it seemed to be a great nuisance to him. However, as he hadpromised! So he said, with sudden decision, as he jumped into thecarriage:
"68 Rue Saint-Ferdinand, aux Ternes."
Joe, the coachman, was scandalized and made his master repeat theaddress; even the horse showed some little hesitation, as if thevaluable beast and the spotless new livery were disgusted at having tovisit a faubourg so far away, outside the restricted but brilliantcircle in which their master's patients were grouped together. Theyarrived, however, without hindrance, at the end of an unfinishedprovincial street, and at the last of its houses, a five-storybuilding, which the street seemed to have sent out to reconnoitre andascertain if it could safely continue in that direction, isolated as itwas between desolate tracts of land awaiting prospective buildings orfilled with the materials of demolished structures, with blocks ofstone, old blinds with no rooms to shelter, boards with hanging hinges,a vast boneyard of a whole demolished quarter.
Innumerable signs swayed in the wind over the door, which was adornedwith a large case of photographs, white with dust, before which Jenkinspaused for a moment. Had the illustrious physician come so far to havehis picture taken? One might have thought so from the interest whichdetained him in front of that case, containing fifteen or twentyphotographs representing the same family in different groups andattitudes and with different expressions: an old gentleman with hischin supported by a high white stock, and a leather satchel under hisarm, surrounded by a bevy of maidens with their hair arranged in braidsor in curls. Sometimes the old gentleman had sat with only two of hisdaughters; or perhaps one of those pretty, gra
ceful figures appearedalone, her elbow resting on a truncated column, her head bending over abook, in a natural and unstudied pose. But it was always the samemotive with variations, and there was no other male figure in the casebut the old gentleman in the white cravat, and no other female figuresthan those of his numerous daughters.
"Studios on the fifth floor," said a sign over the case. Jenkinssighed, measured with his eye the distance from the ground to thelittle balcony up among the clouds; then he made up his mind to enter.In the hall he passed a white cravat and a majestic leather satchel,evidently the old gentleman of the showcase. Upon being questioned, hereplied that M. Maranne did in fact live on the fifth floor. "But," headded with an engaging smile, "the floors are not high." With thatencouragement the Irishman started up an entirely new and narrowstaircase, with landings no larger than a stair, a single door on eachfloor and windows which afforded glimpses of a melancholy pavedcourtyard and other stairways, all empty: one of those horrible modernhouses, built by the dozen by contractors without a son, their greatestdisadvantage consisting in the thinness of the partitions, which forcesall the lodgers to live together as in a Fourierite community. For themoment that disadvantage was not of serious consequence, only thefourth and fifth floors being occupied, as if the tenants had fallenfrom the sky.
On the fourth, behind a door bearing a copper plate with the words: M.JOYEUSE, _Expert in Handwriting_, the doctor heard the sound of fresh,young laughter and conversation and active footsteps, which accompaniedhim to the door of the photographic establishment above.
These little industries, perching in out-of-the-way corners, andseeming to have no communication with the outer world, are one of thesurprises of Paris. We wonder how people live who take to them for aliving. What scrupulous providence, for instance, could send customersto a photographer on a fifth floor among waste lands, at the far end ofRue Ferdinand, or documents for examination to the expert on the floorbelow. Jenkins, as he made that reflection, smiled a pitying smile,then entered without ceremony as he was invited to do by thisinscription: "Walk in without knocking." Alas! the permission was notabused.--A tall youth in spectacles, who was writing at a small table,his legs wrapped in a traveling shawl, rose hurriedly to greet thevisitor, whom his short-sightedness prevented him from recognizing.
"Good-morning, Andre," said the doctor, extending his hand cordially.
"Monsieur Jenkins!"
"I am a good fellow as always, you see. Your conduct to us, yourpersistence in living apart from your relatives, commended to mydignity the utmost reserve in dealing with you; but your mother wept.And here I am."
As he was speaking, he glanced about the poor little studio, where thebare walls, the scanty furniture the brand-new photographic apparatus,the little fireplace _a la prussienne_, also new, which had never seena fire, were disastrously apparent in the bright light that fell fromthe glass roof. The drawn features and straggling beard of the youngman, whose very light eyes, high, narrow forehead, and long fair hairthrown back in disorder gave him the appearance of a visionary, allwere accentuated in the uncompromising light; and so was the doggedwill expressed in that limpid glance which met Jenkins' eye coldly, andoffered in anticipation an unconquerable opposition to all hisarguments, all his protestations.
But the excellent Jenkins pretended not to notice it.
"You know how it is, my dear Andre. From the day that I married yourmother, I have looked upon you as my son. I expected to leave you myoffice, my practice, to place your foot in a golden stirrup, and I wasoverjoyed to see you follow a career devoted to the welfare of mankind.Suddenly, without a word of explanation, without a thought for theeffect such a rupture might produce in the eyes of the world, you cutloose from us, you dropped your studies and renounced your futureprospects, to embark in some degrading mode of life, to adopt an absurdtrade, the refuge and the pretext of all those who are shut out fromthe society to which they belong."
"I am working at this trade for a living. It's a means of earning mybread while I wait."
"Wait for what?--literary renown?"
He glanced contemptuously at the papers scattered over the table.
"But all this does not touch the question; this is what I came here tosay to you: an opportunity is offered you, a door thrown wide open tothe future. The Work of Bethlehem is founded. The noblest of myhumanitarian dreams has taken shape. We have bought a magnificent villaat Nanterre in which to install our first branch. The superintendence,the management of that establishment is what it has occurred to me tooffer to you, as to another myself. A princely house to live in, thesalary of a major-general, and the satisfaction of rendering a serviceto the great human family. Say the word and I will take you to see theNabob, the noble-hearted man who pays the expenses of our undertaking.Do you accept?"
"No," said the author, so abruptly that Jenkins was disconcerted.
"That's it. I expected a refusal when I came here, but I came none theless. I took for my motto, 'Do what is right, without hope.' And I amfaithful to my motto. So, it's understood, is it--that you prefer alife dependent on chance, without prospects and without dignity, to thehonorable, dignified, useful life that I offer you?"
Andre made no reply; but his silence spoke for him.
"Beware--you know to what this decision of yours will lead, a finalestrangement; but you have always desired it. I need not tell you,"continued Jenkins, "that to break with me is to break with your motheralso. She and I are one."
The young man turned pale, hesitated a second, then said with aneffort:
"If my mother cares to come and see me here, I shall certainly be veryhappy--but my determination to remain apart from you, to have nothingin common with you, is irrevocable."
"At least, you will tell me why?"
He made a gesture signifying, "no," that he would not tell him.
For the moment the Irishman was really angry. His whole face assumed asavage, cunning expression which would have greatly surprised those whoknew only the good-humored, open-hearted Jenkins; but he was careful togo no farther in the direction of an explanation, which he dreadedperhaps no less than he desired it.
"Adieu," he said from the doorway, half turning his head. "Never applyto us."
"Never," replied his stepson in a firm voice.
This time, when the doctor said to Joe: "Place Vendome," the horse, asif he understood that they were going to call on the Nabob, proudlyshook his shining curb, and the coupe drove away at full speed,transforming the hub of each of its wheels into a gleaming sun. "Tocome such a distance to meet with such a reception! One of thecelebrities of the day treated so by that Bohemian! This comes oftrying to do good!" Jenkins vented his wrath in a long monologue inthat vein; then suddenly exclaimed with a shrug: "Oh! pshaw!" And suchtraces of care as remained on his brow soon vanished on the pavement ofPlace Vendome. On all sides the clocks were striking twelve in thesunshine. Emerging from her curtain of mist, fashionable Paris, awakeand on her feet, was beginning her day of giddy pleasure. Theshop-windows on Rue de la Paix shone resplendent. The mansions on thesquare seemed to be drawn up proudly in line for the afternoonreceptions; and, at the end of Rue Castiglione with its white arcades,the Tuileries, in the glorious sunlight of winter, marshalled itsshivering statues, pink with cold, among the leafless quincunxes.