DOCTOR JENKIN'S PATIENTS
Standing on the steps of his little town-house in the Rue de Lisbonne,freshly shaven, with sparkling eyes, and lips parted in easy enjoyment,his long hair slightly gray flowing over a huge coat collar, squareshouldered, strong as an oak, the famous Irish doctor, Robert Jenkins,Knight of the Medjidjieh and of the distinguished order of Charles IIIof Spain, President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society. Jenkins in aword, the Jenkins of the Jenkins Pills with an arsenical base--thatis to say, the fashionable doctor of the year 1864, the busiest man inParis, was preparing to step into his carriage when a casement openedon the first floor looking over the inner court-yard of the house, and awoman's voice asked timidly:
"Shall you be home for luncheon, Robert?"
Oh, how good and loyal was the smile that suddenly illumined thefine apostle-like head with its air of learning, and in the tender"good-morning" which his eyes threw up towards the warm, whitedressing-gown visible behind the raised curtains; how easy it was todivine one of those conjugal passions, tranquil and sure, which habitre-enforces and with supple and stable bonds binds closer.
"No, Mrs. Jenkins." He was fond of thus bestowing upon her publiclyher title as his lawful wife, as if he found in it an intimategratification, a sort of acquittal of conscience towards the woman whomade life so bright for him. "No, do not expect me this morning. I lunchin the Place Vendome."
"Ah! yes, the Nabob," said the handsome Mrs. Jenkins with a very markednote of respect for this personage out of the _Thousand and One Nights_of whom all Paris had been talking for the last month; then, after alittle hesitation, very tenderly, in a quite low voice, from between theheavy tapestries, she whispered for the ears of the doctor only:
"Be sure you do not forget what you promised me."
Apparently it was something very difficult to fulfil, for at thereminder of this promise the eyebrows of the apostle contracted intoa frown, his smile became petrified, his whole visage assumed anexpression of incredible hardness; but it was only for an instant. Atthe bedside of their patients the physiognomies of these fashionabledoctors become expert in lying. In his most tender, most cordial manner,he replied, disclosing a row of dazzling white teeth:
"What I promised shall be done, Mrs. Jenkins. And now, go in quickly andshut your window. The fog is cold this morning."
Yes, the fog was cold, but white as snow mist; and, filling the airoutside the glasses of the large brougham, it brightened with softgleams the unfolded newspaper in the doctor's hands. Over yonder, in thepopulous quarters, confined and gloomy, in the Paris of tradesmanand mechanic, that charming morning haze which lingers in the greatthoroughfares is not known. The bustle of awakening, the going andcoming of the market-carts, of the omnibuses, of the heavy trucksrattling their old iron, have early and quickly cut it up, unravelledand scattered it. Every passer-by carries away a little of it in athreadbare overcoat, a muffler which shows the woof, and coarse glovesrubbed one against the other. It soaks through the thin blouses, andthe mackintoshes thrown over the working skirts; it melts away at everybreath that is drawn, warm from sleeplessness or alcohol; it is engulfedin the depths of empty stomachs, dispersed in the shops as they areopened, and the dark courts, or even to the fireless attics. That isthe reason why there remains so little of it out of doors. But in thatspacious and grandiose region of Paris, which was inhabited by Jenkins'sclients, on those wide boulevards planted with trees, and those desertedquays, the fog hovered without a stain, like so many sheets, withwaverings and cotton wool-like flakes. The effect was of a placeinclosed, secret, almost sumptuous, as the sun after his slothfulrising began to diffuse softly crimsoned tints, which gave to the mistenshrouding the rows of houses to their summits the appearance of whitemuslin thrown over some scarlet material. One might have fancied it agreat curtain beneath which nothing could be heard save the cautiousclosing of some court-yard gate, the tin measuring-cans of the milkmen,the little bells of a herd of she-asses passing at a quick trot followedby the short and panting breath of their shepherd, and the dull rumbleof Jenkins's brougham commencing its daily round.
First, to Mora House. This was a magnificent palace on the Quai d'Orsay,next door to the Spanish embassy, whose long terraces succeeded its own,having its principal entrance in the Rue de Lille, and a door upon theside next the river. Between two lofty walls overgrown with ivy, andunited by imposing vaulted arches, the brougham shot in, announced bytwo strokes of a sonorous bell which roused Jenkins from the reverieinto which the reading of his newspaper seemed to have plunged him.Then the noise of the wheels became deadened on the sand of a vastcourt-yard, and they drew up, after describing an elegant curve, beforethe steps of the mansion, which were surrounded by a large circularawning. In the obscurity of the fog, a dozen carriages could be seenranged in line, and along an avenue of acacias, quite withered atthat season and leafless in their bark, the profiles of English groomsleading out the saddle-horses of the duke for their exercise. Everythingrevealed a luxury thought-out, settled, grandiose, and assured.
"It is quite useless for me to come early; others always arrive beforeme," said Jenkins to himself as he saw the file in which his broughamtook its place; but, certain of not having to wait, with head carriedhigh, and an air of tranquil authority, he ascended that official flightof steps which is mounted every day by so many trembling ambitions, somany anxieties on hesitating feet.
From the very antechamber, lofty and resonant like a church, which,although calorifers burned night and day, possessed two great wood-firesthat filled it with a radiant life, the luxury of this interior reachedyou by warm and heady puffs. It suggested at once a hot-house anda Turkish bath. A great deal of heat and yet brightness; whitewainscoting, white marbles, immense windows, nothing stifling or shutin, and yet a uniform atmosphere meet for the surrounding of somerare existence, refined and nervous. Jenkins always expanded in thisfactitious sun of wealth; he greeted with a "good-morning, my lads,"the powdered porter, with his wide golden scarf, the footmen inknee-breeches and livery of gold and blue, all standing to do himhonour; lightly drew his finger across the bars of the large cages ofmonkeys full of sharp cries and capers, and, whistling under his breath,stepped quickly up the staircase of shining marble laid with a carpetas thick as the turf of a lawn, which led to the apartments of the duke.Although six months had passed since his first visit to Mora House,the good doctor was not yet become insensible to the quite physicalimpression of gaiety, of frivolity, which he received from thisdwelling.
Although you were in the abode of the first official of the Empire therewas nothing here suggestive of the work of government or its boxesof dusty old papers. The duke had only consented to accept his highdignitaries as Minister of State and President of the Council upon thecondition that he should not quit his private mansion; he only wentto his office for an hour or two daily, the time necessary to give theindispensable signatures, and held his receptions in his bed-chamber.At this moment, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, the hall wascrowded. You saw there grave, anxious faces, provincial prefects withshaven lips, and administrative whiskers, slightly less arrogant in thisantechamber than yonder in their prefectures, magistrates of austereair, sober in gesture, deputies important of manner, big-wigs of thefinancial world, rich and boorish manufacturers, among whom stood outhere and there the slender, ambitious figure of some substitute of aprefectorial councillor, in the garb of one seeking a favour, dress-coatand white tie; and all, standing, sitting in groups or solitary, soughtsilently to penetrate with their gaze that high door closed upon theirdestiny, by which they would issue forth directly triumphant or withcast-down head. Jenkins passed through the crowd rapidly, and every onefollowed with an envious eye this newcomer whom the doorkeeper, withhis official chain, correct and icy in his demeanour, seated at a tablebeside the door, greeted with a little smile at once respectful andfamiliar.
"Who is with him?" asked the doctor, indicating the chamber of the duke.
Hardly moving his lips, and not
without a slightly ironical glance ofthe eye, the doorkeeper whispered a name which, if they had heard it,would have roused the indignation of all these high personages who hadbeen waiting for an hour past until the costumier of the opera shouldhave ended his audience.
A sound of voices, a ray of light. Jenkins had just entered the duke'spresence; he never waited, he.
Standing with his back to the fireplace, closely wrapped in adressing-jacket of blue fur, the soft reflections from which gave anair of refinement to an energetic and haughty head, the President of theCouncil was causing to be designed under his eyes a Pierrette costumefor the duchess to wear at her next ball, and was giving his directionswith the same gravity with which he would have dictated the draft of anew law.
"Let the frill be very fine on the ruff, and put no frills on thesleeves.--Good-morning, Jenkins. I am with you directly."
Jenkins bowed, and took a few steps in the immense room, of which thewindows, opening on a garden that extended as far as the Seine, framedone of the finest views of Paris, the bridges, the Tuileries, theLouvre, in a network of black trees traced as it were in Indian ink uponthe floating background of fog. A large and very low bed, raised bya few steps above the floor, two or three little lacquer screens withvague and capricious gilding, indicating, like the double doors and thecarpets of thick wool, a fear of cold pushed even to excess, variousseats, lounges, warmers, scattered about rather indiscriminately, alllow, rounded, indolent, or voluptuous in shape, composed the furnitureof this celebrated chamber in which the gravest questions and the mostfrivolous were wont to be treated alike with the same seriousness. Onthe wall was a handsome portrait of the duchess; on the chimneypiece abust of the duke, the work of Felicia Ruys, which at the recent Salonhad received the honours of a first medal.
"Well, Jenkins, how are we this morning?" said his excellency,approaching, while the costumier was picking up his fashion-plates,scattered over all the easy chairs.
"And you, my dear duke? I thought you a little pale last evening at theVarietes."
"Come, come! I have never felt so well. Your pills have a mostmarvellous effect upon me. I am conscious of a vivacity, a freshness,when I remember how run down I was six months ago."
Jenkins, without saying anything, had laid his great head against thefur-coat of the minister of state, at the place where, in common men,the heart beats. He listened a moment while his excellency continued tospeak in the indolent, bored tone which was one of the characteristicsof his distinction.
"And who was your companion, doctor, last night? That huge, bronzedTartar who was laughing so loudly in the front of your box."
"It was the Nabob, _Monsieur le Duc_. The famous Jansoulet, about whompeople are talking so much just now."
"I ought to have guessed it. The whole house was watching him. Theactresses played for him alone. You know him? What sort of man is he?"
"I know him. That is to say, I attend him professionally.--Thank you,my dear duke, I have finished. All is right in that region.--Whenhe arrived in Paris a month ago, he had found the change of climatesomewhat trying. He sent for me, and since then has received me uponthe most friendly footing. What I know of him is that he possesses acolossal fortune, made in Tunis, in the service of the Bey, that he hasa loyal heart, a generous soul, in which the ideas of humanity--"
"In Tunis?" interrupted the duke, who was by nature very littlesentimental and humanitarian. "In that case, why this name of Nabob?"
"Bah! the Parisians do not look at things so closely. For them, everyrich foreigner is a nabob, no matter whence he comes. Furthermore, thisnabob has all the physical qualities for the part--a copper-colouredskin, eyes like burning coals, and, what is more, gigantic wealth, ofwhich he makes, I do not fear to say it, the most noble and the mostintelligent use. It is to him that I owe"--here the doctor assumed amodest air--"that I owe it that I have at last been able to found theBethlehem Society for the suckling of infants, which a morning paper,that I was looking over just now--the _Messenger_, I think--calls 'thegreat philanthropic idea of the century.'"
The duke threw a listless glance over the sheet which Jenkins held outto him. He was not the man to be caught by the turn of an advertisement.
"He must be very rich, this M. Jansoulet," said he, coldly. "He financesCardailhac's theatre; Monpavon gets him to pay his debts; Bois l'Herystarts a stable for him; old Schwalbach a picture gallery. It meansmoney, all that."
Jenkins laughed.
"What will you have, my dear duke, this poor Nabob, you are his greatoccupation. Arriving here with the firm resolution to become a Parisian,a man of the world, he has taken you for his model in everything, and Ido not conceal from you that he would very much like to study his modelfrom a nearer standpoint."
"I know, I know. Monpavon has already asked my permission to bringhim to see me. But I prefer to wait; I wish to see. With these greatfortunes that come from so far away one has to be careful. _Mon Dieu_! Ido not say that if I should meet him elsewhere than in my own house, atthe theatre, in a drawing-room----"
"As it just happens, Mrs. Jenkins is proposing to give a small partynext month. If you would do us the honour----"
"I shall be glad to come, my dear doctor, and if your Nabob shouldchance to be there I should make no objection to his being presented tome."
At this moment the usher on duty opened the door.
"Monsieur the Minister of the Interior is in the blue salon. He has onlyone word to say to his excellency. Monsieur the Prefect of Police isstill waiting downstairs, in the gallery."
"Very well," said the duke, "I am coming. But I should like first tofinish the matter of this costume. Let us see--friend, what's yourname--what are we deciding upon for these ruffs? Au revoir, doctor.There is nothing to be done, is there, except to continue the pills?"
"Continue the pills," said Jenkins, bowing; and he left the room beamingwith delight at the two pieces of good fortune which were befalling himat the same time--the honour of entertaining the duke and the pleasureof obliging his dear Nabob. In the antechamber, the crowd of petitionersthrough which he passed was still more numerous than at his entry;newcomers had joined those who had been patiently waiting from thefirst, others were mounting the staircase, with busy look and very pale,and in the courtyard the carriages continued to arrive, and to rangethemselves on ranks in a circle, gravely, solemnly, while the questionof the sleeve ruffs was being discussed upstairs with not lesssolemnity.
"To the club," said Jenkins to his coachman.
The brougham bowled along the quays, recrossed the bridges, reached thePlace de la Concorde, which already no longer wore the same aspect as anhour earlier. The fog was lifting in the direction of the Garde-Meubleand the Greek temple of the Madeleine, allowing to be dimlydistinguished here and there the white plume of a jet of water, thearcade of a palace, the upper portion of a statue, the tree-clumps ofthe Tuileries, grouped in chilly fashion near the gates. The veil, notraised, but broken in places, disclosed fragments of horizon; and on theavenue which leads to the Arc de Triomphe could be seen brakes passingat full trot laden with coachmen and jobmasters, dragoons of theEmpress, fuglemen bedizened with lace and covered with furs, going twoby two in long files with a jangling of bits and spurs, and the snortingof fresh horses, the whole lighted by a sun still invisible, the lightissuing from the misty atmosphere, and here and there withdrawing intoit again as if offering a fleeting vision of the morning luxury of thatquarter of the town.
Jenkins alighted at the corner of the Rue Royale. From top to bottom ofthe great gambling house the servants were passing to and fro, shakingthe carpets, airing the rooms where the fume of cigars still hung aboutand heaps of fine glowing ashes were crumbling away at the back of thehearths, while on the green tables, still vibrant with the night's play,there stood burning a few silver candlesticks whose flames rose straightin the wan light of day. The noise, the coming and going, ceased atthe third floor, where sundry members of the club had their apartments.Among them was the Marquis de Mo
npavon, whose abode Jenkins was now onhis way to visit.
"What! It is you, doctor? The devil take it! What is the time then? I'mnot visible."
"Not even for the doctor?"
"Oh, for nobody. Question of etiquette, _mon cher_. No matter, come inall the same. You'll warm your feet for a moment while Francis finishesdoing my hair."
Jenkins entered the bed-chamber, a banal place like all furnishedapartments, and moved towards the fire on which there were set toheat curling-tongs of all sizes, while in the contiguous laboratory,separated from the room by a curtain of Algerian tapestry, the Marquisde Monpavon gave himself up to the manipulations of his valet. Odours ofpatchouli, of cold-cream, of hartshorn, and of singed hair escaped fromthe part of the room which was shut off, and from time to time, whenFrancis came to fetch a curling-iron, Jenkins caught sight of a hugedressing-table laden with a thousand little instruments of ivory, andmother-of-pearl, with steel files, scissors, puffs, and brushes, withbottles, with little trays, with cosmetics, labelled and arrangedmethodically in groups and lines; and amid all this display, awkward andalready shaky, an old man's hand, shrunken and long, delicately trimmedand polished about the nails like that of a Japanese painter, whichfaltered about among this fine hardware and doll's china.
While continuing the process of making up his face, the longest, themost complicated of his morning occupations, Monpavon chatted with thedoctor, told of his little ailments, and the good effect of the _pills_.They made him young again, he said. And at a distance, thus, withoutseeing him, one would have taken him for the Duc de Mora, to sucha degree had he usurped his manner of speech. There were the sameunfinished phrases, ended by "ps, ps, ps," muttered between the teeth,expressions like "What's its name?" "Who was it?" constantly thrown intowhat he was saying, a kind of aristocratic stutter, fatigued, listless,wherein you might perceive a profound contempt for the vulgar art ofspeech. In the society of which the duke was the centre, every onesought to imitate that accent, those disdainful intonations with anaffectation of simplicity.
Jenkins, finding the sitting rather long, had risen to take hisdeparture.
"Adieu, I must be off. We shall see you at the Nabob's?"
"Yes, I intend to be there for luncheon. Promised to bring him--what'shis name. Who was it? What? You know, for our big affair--ps, ps, ps.Were it not for that, should gladly stay away. Real menagerie, thathouse."
The Irishman, despite his benevolence, agreed that the society wasrather mixed at his friend's. But then! One could hardly blame him forit. The poor fellow, he knew no better.
"Neither knows nor is willing to learn," remarked Monpavon withbitterness. "Instead of consulting people of experience--ps, ps,ps--first sponger that comes along. Have you seen the horses that Boisl'Hery has persuaded him to buy? Absolute rubbish those animals. And hepaid twenty thousand francs for them. We may wager that Bois l'Hery gotthem for six thousand."
"Oh, for shame--a nobleman!" said Jenkins, with the indignation of alofty soul refusing to believe in baseness.
Monpavon continued, without seeming to hear:
"All that because the horses came from Mora's stable."
"It is true that the dear Nabob's heart is very full of the duke. I amabout to make him very happy, therefore, when I inform him----"
The doctor paused, embarrassed.
"When you inform him of what, Jenkins?"
Somewhat abashed, Jenkins had to confess that he had obtained permissionfrom his excellency to present to him his friend Jansoulet. Scarcelyhad he finished his sentence before a tall spectre, with flabby faceand hair and whiskers diversely coloured, bounded from the dressing-roominto the chamber, with his two hands folding round a fleshless but veryerect neck a dressing-gown of flimsy silk with violet spots, in which hewas wrapped like a sweetmeat in its paper. The most striking thing aboutthis mock-heroic physiognomy was a large curved nose all shiny with coldcream, and an eye alive, keen, too young, too bright, for the heavy andwrinkled eyelid which covered it. Jenkins's patients all had that eye.
Monpavon must indeed have been deeply moved to show himself thus devoidof all prestige. In point of fact, with white lips and a changed voicehe addressed the doctor quickly, without the lisp this time, and in asingle outburst:
"Come now, _mon cher_, no tomfoolery between us, eh? We are both metbefore the same dish, but I leave you your share. I intend that youshall leave me mine."
And Jenkins's air of astonishment did not make him pause. "Let this besaid once for all. I have promised the Nabob to present him to the duke,just as, formerly, I presented you. Do not mix yourself up, therefore,with what concerns me alone."
Jenkins laid his hand on his heart, protested his innocence. He hadnever had any intention. Certainly Monpavon was too intimate a friend ofthe duke, for any other--How could he have supposed?
"I suppose nothing," said the old nobleman, calmer but still cold."I merely desired to have a very clear explanation with you on thissubject."
The Irishman extended a widely opened hand.
"My dear marquis, explanations are always clear between men of honour."
"Honour is a big word, Jenkins. Let us say people of deportment--thatsuffices."
And that deportment, which he invoked as the supreme guide of conduct,recalling him suddenly to the sense of his ludicrous situation, themarquis offered one finger to his friend's demonstrative shake of thehand, and passed back with dignity behind his curtain, while the otherleft, in haste to resume his round.
What a magnificent clientele he had, this Jenkins! Nothing but princelymansions, heated staircases, laden with flowers at every landing,upholstered and silky alcoves, where disease was transformed intosomething discreet, elegant, where nothing suggested that brutal handwhich throws on a bed of pain those who only cease to work in order todie. They were not in any true speech, sick people, these clients ofthe Irish doctor. They would have been refused admission to a hospital.Their organs not possessing even strength to give them a shock, the seatof their malady was to be discovered nowhere, and the doctor, as he bentover them, might have sought in vain the throb of any suffering in thosebodies which the inertia, the silence of death already inhabited. Theywere worn-out, debilitated people, anaemics, exhausted by an absurdlife, but who found it so good still that they fought to have itprolonged. And the Jenkins pills became famous precisely by reason ofthat lash of the whip which they gave to jaded existences.
"Doctor, I beseech you, let me be fit to go to the ball this evening!"the young woman would say, prostrate on her lounge, and whose voice wasreduced to a breath.
"You shall go, my dear child."
And she went; and never had she looked more beautiful.
"Doctor, at all costs, though it should kill me, to-morrow morning Imust be at the Cabinet Council."
He was there, and carried away from it in a triumph of eloquence and ofambitious diplomacy.
Afterward--oh, afterward, if you please! But no matter! To theirlast day Jenkins's clients went about, showed themselves, cheated thedevouring egotism of the crowd. They died on their feet, as became menand women of the world.
After a thousand peregrinations in the Chaussee d'Antin and theChamps-Elysees, after having visited every millionaire or titledpersonage in the Faubourg Saint Honore, the fashionable doctor arrivedat the corner of the Cours-la-Reine and the Rue Francois I., before ahouse with a rounded front, which occupied the angle on the quay, andentered an apartment on the ground floor which resembled in nowise thosethrough which he had been passing since morning. From the threshold,tapestries covering the wall, windows of old stained glass with stripsof lead cutting across a discrete and composite light, a gigantic saintin carved wood which fronted a Japanese monster with protruding eyesand a back covered with delicate scales like tiles, indicated theimaginative and curious taste of an artist. The little page who answeredthe door held in leash an Arab greyhound larger than himself.
"Mme. Constance is at mass," he said, "and Mademoiselle is in the studioquite alone. We
have been at work since six o'clock this morning," addedthe child with a rueful yawn which the dog caught on the wing, makinghim open wide his pink mouth with its sharp teeth.
Jenkins, whom we have seen enter with so much self-possession thechamber of the Minister of State, trembled a little as he raised thecurtain masking the door of the studio which had been left open. It wasa splendid sculptor's studio, the front of which, on the street corner,semi-circular in shape, gave the room one whole wall of glass, withpilasters at the sides, a large, well-lighted bay, opal-coloured justthen by reason of the fog. More ornate than are usually such work-rooms,which the stains of the plaster, the boasting-tools, the clay, thepuddles of water generally cause to resemble a stone-mason's shed, thisone added a touch of coquetry to its artistic purpose. Green plants inevery corner, a few good pictures suspended against the bare walland, here and there, resting upon oak brackets, two or three worksof Sebastien Ruys, of which the last, exhibited after his death, wascovered with a piece of black gauze.
The mistress of the house, Felicia Ruys, the daughter of the famoussculptor and herself already known by two masterpieces, the bust of herfather and that of the Duc de Mora, was standing in the middle of thestudio, occupied in the modelling of a figure. Wearing a tightly fittingriding-habit of blue cloth with long folds, a fichu of China silktwisted about her neck like a man's tie, her black, fine hair caught upcarelessly above the antique modelling of her small head, Felicia wasat work with an extreme earnestness which added to her beauty theconcentration, the intensity which are given to the features by anattentive and satisfied expression. But that changed immediately uponthe arrival of the doctor.
"Ah, it is you," said she brusquely, as though awaked from a dream. "Thebell was rung, then? I did not hear it."
And in the ennui, the lassitude that suddenly took possession of thatadorable face, the only thing that remained expressive and brilliant wasthe eyes, eyes in which the factitious gleam of the Jenkins pills washeightened by the constitutional wildness.
Oh, how the doctor's voice became humble and condescending as heanswered her:
"So you are quite absorbed in your work, my dear Felicia. Is itsomething new that you are at work on there? It seems to me verypretty."
He moved towards the rough and still formless model out of which therewas beginning to issue vaguely a group of two animals, one a greyhoundwhich was scampering at full speed with a rush that was trulyextraordinary.
"The idea of it came to me last night. I began to work it out bylamplight. My poor Kadour, he sees no fun in it," said the girl,glancing with a look of caressing kindness at the greyhound whose pawsthe little page was endeavouring to place apart in order to get the poseagain.
Jenkins remarked in a fatherly way that she did wrong to tire herselfthus, and taking her wrist with ecclesiastical precautions:
"Come, I am sure you are feverish."
At the contact of his hand with her own, Felicia made a movement almostof repulsion.
"No, no, leave me alone. Your pills can do nothing for me. When I do notwork I am bored. I am bored to death, to extinction; my thoughts are thecolour of that water which flows over yonder, brackish and heavy. To becommencing life, and to be disgusted with it! It is hard. I am reducedto the point of envying my poor Constance, who passes her days inher chair, without opening her mouth, but smiling to herself over hermemories of the past. I have not even that, I, happy remembrances tomuse upon. I have only work--work!"
As she talked she went on modelling furiously, now with theboasting-tool, now with her fingers, which she wiped from time to timeon a little sponge placed on the wooden platform which supported thegroup; so that her complaints, her melancholies, inexplicable in themouth of a girl of twenty which, in repose, had the purity of a Greeksmile, seemed uttered at random and addressed to no one in particular.
Jenkins, however, appeared disturbed by them, troubled, despite theevident attention which he gave to the work of the artist, or rather tothe artist herself, to the triumphant grace of this girl whom her beautyseemed to have predestined to the study of the plastic arts.
Embarrassed by the admiring gaze which she felt fixed upon her, Feliciaresumed:
"Apropos, I have seen him, you know, your Nabob. Some one pointed himout to me last Friday at the opera."
"You were at the opera on Friday?"
"Yes. The duke had sent me his box."
Jenkins changed colour.
"I persuaded Constance to go with me. It was the first time fortwenty-five years since her farewell performance, that she had beeninside the Opera-House. It made a great impression on her. During theballet, especially, she trembled, she beamed, all her old triumphssparkled in her eyes. Happy who has emotions like that. A real type,that Nabob. You will have to bring him to see me. He has a head that itwould amuse me to do."
"He! Why, he is hideous! You cannot have looked at him carefully."
"On the contrary, I had a perfect view. He was opposite us. That mask,as of a white Ethiopian, would be superb in marble. And not vulgar,in any case. Besides, since he is so ugly as that, you will not beso unhappy as you were last year when I was doing Mora's bust. What adisagreeable face you had, Jenkins, in those days!"
"For ten years of life," muttered Jenkins in a gloomy voice, "I wouldnot have that time over again. But you it amuses to behold suffering."
"You know quite well that nothing amuses me," said she, shrugging hershoulders with a supreme impertinence.
Then, without looking at him, without adding another word, she plungedinto one of those dumb activities by which true artists escape fromthemselves and from everything that surrounds them.
Jenkins paced a few steps in the studio, much moved, with avowals onthe tip of his tongue which yet dared not put themselves into words. Atlength, feeling himself dismissed, he took his hat and walked towardsthe door.
"So it is understood. I must bring him to see you."
"Who?"
"Why, the Nabob. It was you who this very moment----"
"Ah, yes," remarked the strange person whose caprices were short-lived."Bring him if you like. I don't care, otherwise."
And her beautiful dejected voice, in which something seemed broken, thelistlessness of her whole personality, said distinctly enough that itwas true, that she cared really for nothing in the world.
Jenkins left the room, extremely troubled, and with a gloomy brow. But,the moment he was outside, he assumed once more his laughing and cordialexpression, being of those who, in the streets, go masked. The morningwas advancing. The mist, still perceptible in the vicinity of the Seine,floated now only in shreds and gave a vaporous unsubstantiality tothe houses on the quay, to the river steamers whose paddles remainedinvisible, to the distant horizon in which the dome of the Invalideshung poised like a gilded balloon with a rope that darted sunbeams. Adiffused warmth, the movement in the streets, told that noon was not fardistant, that it would be there directly with the striking of all thebells.
Before going on to the Nabob's, Jenkins had, however, one other visit tomake. But he appeared to find it a great nuisance. However, since he hadmade the promise! And, resolutely:
"68 Rue Saint-Ferdinand, at the Ternes," he said, as he sprang into hiscarriage.
The address required to be repeated twice to the coachman, Joey, whowas scandalized; the very horse showed a momentary hesitation, as if thevaluable beast and the impeccably clad servant had felt revolt at theidea of driving out to such a distant suburb, beyond the limited butso brilliant circle wherein their master's clients were scattered.The carriage arrived, all the same, without accident, at the end of aprovincial-looking, unfinished street, and at the last of its buildings,a house of unfurnished apartments with five stories, which the streetseemed to have despatched forward as a reconnoitring party to discoverwhether it might continue on that side isolated as it stood betweenvaguely marked-out sites waiting to be built upon or heaped with thedebris of houses broken down, with blocks of freestone, old shutterslying amid the desolati
on, mouldy butchers' blocks with broken hingeshanging, an immense ossuary of a whole demolished region of the town.
Innumerable placards were stuck above the door, the latter beingdecorated by a great frame of photographs white with dust before whichJenkins paused for a moment as he passed. Had the famous doctor come sofar, then, simply for the purpose of having a photograph taken? It mighthave been thought so, judging by the attention with which he stayedto examine this display, the fifteen or twenty photographs whichrepresented the same family in different poses and actions and withvarying expressions; an old gentleman, with chin supported by a highwhite neckcloth, and a leathern portfolio under his arm, surrounded bya bevy of young girls with their hair in plait or in curls, and withmodest ornaments on their black frocks. Sometimes the old gentleman hadposed with but two of his daughters; or perhaps one of those young andpretty profile figures stood out alone, the elbow resting upon a brokencolumn, the head bowed over a book in a natural and easy pose. But, inshort, it was always the same air with variations, and within the glassframe there was no gentleman save the old gentleman with the whiteneckcloth, nor other feminine figures that those of his numerousdaughters.
"Studios upstairs, on the fifth floor," said a line above the frame.Jenkins sighed, measured with his eye the distance that separated theground from the little balcony up there in the clouds, then he decidedto enter. In the corridor he passed a white neckcloth and a majesticleathern portfolio, evidently the old gentleman of the photographicexhibition. Questioned, this individual replied that M. Maranne didindeed live on the fifth floor. "But," he added, with an engaging smile,"the stories are not lofty." Upon this encouragement the Irishman beganto ascend a narrow and quite new staircase with landings no larger thana step, only one door on each floor, and badly lighted windows throughwhich could be seen a gloomy, ill-paved court-yard and other cage-likestaircases, all empty; one of those frightful modern houses, builtby the dozen by penniless speculators, and having as their worstdisadvantage thin partition walls which oblige all the inhabitants tolive in a phalansterian community.
At this particular time the inconvenience was not great, the fourth andfifth floors alone happening to be occupied, as though the tenants haddropped into them from the sky.
On the fourth floor, behind a door with a copper plate bearing theannouncement "M. Joyeuse, Expert in Bookkeeping," the doctor hearda sound of fresh laughter, of young people's chatter, and of rompingsteps, which accompanied him to the floor above, to the photographicestablishment.
These little businesses perched away in corners with the air of havingno communication with any outside world are one of the surprises ofParis. One asks one's self how the people live who go into thesetrades, what fastidious Providence can, for example, send clients toa photographer lodged on a fifth floor in a nondescript region, wellbeyond the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, or books to keep to the accountantbelow. Jenkins, as he made this reflection, smiled in pity, then wentstraight in as he was invited by the following inscription, "Enterwithout knocking." Alas! the permission was scarcely abused. A tallyoung man wearing spectacles, and writing at a small table, with hislegs wrapped in a travelling-rug, rose precipitately to greet thevisitor whom his short sight had prevented him from recognising.
"Good-morning, Andre," said the doctor, stretching out his loyal hand.
"M. Jenkins!"
"You see, I am good-natured as I have always been. Your conduct towardsus, your obstinacy in persisting in living far away from your parents,imposed a great reserve on me, for my own dignity's sake; but yourmother has wept. And here I am."
While he spoke, he examined the poor little studio, with its bare walls,its scanty furniture, the brand-new photographic apparatus, the littlePrussian fireplace, new also and never yet used for a fire, all forcedinto painfully clear evidence beneath the direct light falling from theglass roof. The drawn face, the scanty beard of the young man, to whomthe bright colour of his eyes, the narrow height of his forehead,his long and fair hair thrown backward gave the air of a visionary,everything was accentuated in the crude light; and also the resolutewill in that clear glance which settled upon Jenkins coldly, and inadvance to all his reasonings, to all his protestations, opposed aninvincible resistance.
But the good Jenkins feigned not to perceive anything of this.
"You know, my dear Andre, since the day when I married your mother Ihave regarded you as my son. I looked forward to leaving you my practiceand my patients, to putting your foot in a golden stirrup, happy to seeyou following a career consecrated to the welfare of humanity. All atonce, without giving any reason, without taking into any considerationthe effect which such a rupture might well have in the eyes of theworld, you have separated yourself from us, you have abandoned yourstudies, renounced your future, in order to launch out into I know notwhat eccentric life, engaging in a ridiculous trade, the refuge and theexcuse of all unclassed people."
"I follow this occupation in order to earn a living. It is bread andbutter in the meantime."
"In what meantime? While you are waiting for literary glory?"
He glanced disdainfully at the scribbling scattered over the table.
"All that is not serious, you know, and here is what I am come to tellyou. An opportunity presents itself to you, a double-swing door openinginto the future. The Bethlehem Society is founded. The most splendid ofmy philanthropic dreams has taken body. We have just purchased a superbvilla at Nanterre for the housing of our first establishment. It is thecare, the management of this house that I have thought of intrustingto you as to an _alter ego_. A princely dwelling, the salary of thecommander of a division, and the satisfaction of a service rendered tothe great human family. Say one word, and I take you to see the Nabob,the great-hearted man who defrays the expense of our undertaking. Do youaccept?"
"No," said the other so curtly that Jenkins was somewhat put out ofcountenance.
"Just so. I was prepared for this refusal when I came here. But I amcome nevertheless. I have taken for motto, 'To do good without hope,'and I remain faithful to my motto. So then, it is understood you preferto the honourable, worthy, and profitable existence which I have justproposed to you, a life of hazard without aim and without dignity?"
Andre answered nothing, but his silence spoke for him.
"Take care. You know what that decision will involve, a definitiveestrangement, but you have always wanted that. I need not tell you,"continued Jenkins, "that to break with me is to break off relations alsowith your mother. She and I are one."
The young man turned pale, hesitated a moment, then said with effort:
"If it please my mother to come to see me here, I shall be delighted,certainly. But my determination to quit your house, to have no longeranything in common with you, is irrevocable."
"And will you at least say why?"
He made a negative sign; he would not say.
For once the Irishman felt a genuine impulse of anger. His wholeface assumed a cunning, savage expression which would have very muchastonished those that only knew the good and loyal Jenkins; but he tookgood care not to push further an explanation which he feared perhaps asmuch as he desired it.
"Adieu," said he, half turning his head on the threshold. "And neverapply to us."
"Never," replied his stepson in a firm voice.
This time, when the doctor had said to Joey, "Place Vendome," the horse,as though he had understood that they were going to the Nabob's, gave aproud shake to his glittering curb-chains, and the brougham set off atfull speed, transforming each axle of its wheels into sunshine. "Tocome so far to get a reception like that! A celebrity of the time to betreated thus by that Bohemian! One may try indeed to do good!" Jenkinsgave vent to his anger in a long monologue of this character, thensuddenly rousing himself, exclaimed, "Ah, bah!" and what anxiety therewas remaining on his brow quickly vanished on the pavement of the PlaceVendome. Noon was striking everywhere in the sunshine. Issued forth frombehind its curtain of mist, luxurious Paris, awake and on its feet,was co
mmencing its whirling day. The shop-windows of the Rue de laPaix shone brightly. The mansions of the square seemed to be rangingthemselves haughtily for the receptions of the afternoon; and, right atthe end of the Rue Castiglione with its white arcades, the Tuileries,beneath a fine burst of winter sunshine, raised shivering statues, pinkwith cold, amid the stripped trees.