CHAPTER V
LÉON strode ahead as if he knew exactly where he was going; the sobs ofMadame were still faintly audible, and no one uttered a word. A dogbarked furiously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church clockstruck two, and many domestic clocks followed or preceded it in pipingtones. And just then Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a smallhouse on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party now directedtheir steps.
“It is always a chance,” said Léon.
The house in question stood back from the street behind an open space,part garden, part turnip-field; and several outhouses stood forward fromeither wing at right angles to the front. One of these had recentlyundergone some change. An enormous window, looking towards the north,had been effected in the wall and roof, and Léon began to hope it was astudio.
“If it’s only a painter,” he said with a chuckle, “ten to one we get asgood a welcome as we want.”
“I thought painters were principally poor,” said Stubbs.
“Ah!” cried Léon, “you do not know the world as I do. The poorer thebetter for us!”
And the trio advanced into the turnip-field.
The light was in the ground floor; as one window was brightly illuminatedand two others more faintly, it might be supposed that there was a singlelamp in one corner of a large apartment; and a certain tremulousness andtemporary dwindling showed that a live fire contributed to the effect.The sound of a voice now became audible; and the trespassers paused tolisten. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had still a good, full,and masculine note in it. The utterance was voluble, too voluble even tobe quite distinct; a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever andagain a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker reckoned on itsvirtue.
Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was a woman’s; and if theman were angry, the woman was incensed to the degree of fury. There wasthat absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; that colourlessunnatural speech which shows a spirit accurately balanced betweenhomicide and hysterics; the tone in which the best of women sometimesutter words worse than death to those most dear to them. If AbstractBones-and-Sepulchre were to be endowed with the gift of speech, thus, andnot otherwise, would it discourse. Léon was a brave man, and I fear hewas somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated in a Papisticalcountry), but the habit of childhood prevailed, and he crossed himselfdevoutly. He had met several women in his career. It was obvious thathis instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke forthinstantly in a towering passion.
The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman’scontribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.
“There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined.
There was another retort from the woman, still calm but a little higher.
“Hysterics?” asked Léon of his wife. “Is that the stage direction?”
“How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.
“Oh, woman, woman!” said Léon, beginning to open the guitar-case. “It isone of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other;they always pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. EvenMadame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!”
“You are heartless, Léon,” said Elvira; “that woman is in trouble.”
“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of hisguitar. “And the man, _m’amour_?”
“He is a man,” she answered.
“You hear that?” said Léon to Stubbs. “It is not too late for you. Markthe intonation. And now,” he continued, “what are we to give them?”
“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs.
“I am a troubadour,” replied Léon. “I claim a welcome by and for my art.If I were a banker could I do as much?”
“Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered the undergraduate.
“Egad,” said Léon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that is true.”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know it?”
“My dear,” answered Léon impressively, “I know nothing but what isagreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorlycomposed. But what are we to give them? It should be somethingappropriate.”
Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through the undergraduate’s mind;but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did notknow the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.
“Something about our houselessness,” said Elvira.
“I have it,” cried Léon. And he broke forth into a song of PierreDupont’s:—
“Savez-vous où gite, Mai, ce joli mois?”
Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but animperfect acquaintance with the music. Léon and the guitar were equal tothe situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality andenthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing theblack ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumbapplause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for achorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, thatthey belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Léon, a chronicEndymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always theworld’s centre for himself.
He alone—and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three—tookthe music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a highartistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied abouttheir reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair inthe light of a broad joke.
“Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?” went the three voices inthe turnip-field.
The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro,strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door wasthrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying alamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard,wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in aharlequinesque disorder; and there was something rural in the droop andbagginess of his belted trousers.
From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a woman’s facelooked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, althoughstill young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to bequite gone, and the expression was both gentle and sour, and reminded onefaintly of the taste of certain drugs. For all that, it was not a faceto dislike; when the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certainpale beauty might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness andthe asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, withyears, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper.
“What is all this?” cried the man.
CHAPTER VI
LÉON had his hat in his hand at once. He came forward with his customarygrace; it was a moment which would have earned him a round of cheering onthe stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, like a couple ofAdmetus’s sheep following the god Apollo.
“Sir,” said Léon, “the hour is unpardonably late, and our little serenadehas the air of an impertinence. Believe me, sir, it is an appeal.Monsieur is an artist, I perceive. We are here three artists benightedand without shelter, one a woman—a delicate woman—in evening dress—in aninteresting situation. This will not fail to touch the woman’s heart ofMadame, whom I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, andwhose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated mind. Ah! Monsieur,Madame—one generous movement, and you make three people happy! Two orthree hours beside your fire—I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art—Iask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood.”
The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from the door.
“Come in,” said the man.
“Entrez, Madame,” said the woman.
The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the house, which was to allappearance the only sitting-room. The furniture was both plain andscanty; but there were one or two lan
dscapes on the wall handsomelyframed, as if they had already visited the committee-rooms of anexhibition and been thence extruded. Léon walked up to the pictures andrepresented the part of a connoisseur before each in turn, with his usualdramatic insight and force. The master of the house, as if irresistiblyattracted, followed him from canvas to canvas with the lamp. Elvira wasled directly to the fire, where she proceeded to warm herself, whileStubbs stood in the middle of the floor and followed the proceedings ofLéon with mild astonishment in his eyes.
“You should see them by daylight,” said the artist.
“I promise myself that pleasure,” said Léon. “You possess, sir, if youwill permit me an observation, the art of composition to a T.”
“You are very good,” returned the other. “But should you not draw nearerto the fire?”
“With all my heart,” said Léon.
And the whole party was soon gathered at the table over a hasty and notan elegant cold supper, washed down with the least of small wines.Nobody liked the meal, but nobody complained; they put a good face uponit, one and all, and made a great clattering of knives and forks. To seeLéon eating a single cold sausage was to see a triumph; by the time hehad done he had got through as much pantomime as would have sufficed fora baron of beef, and he had the relaxed expression of the over-eaten.
As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the side of Léon, and Stubbs asnaturally, although I believe unconsciously, by the side of Elvira, thehost and hostess were left together. Yet it was to be noted that theynever addressed a word to each other, nor so much as suffered their eyesto meet. The interrupted skirmish still survived in ill-feeling; and theinstant the guests departed it would break forth again as bitterly asever. The talk wandered from this to that subject—for with one accordthe party had declared it was too late to go to bed; but those two neverrelaxed towards each other; Goneril and Regan in a sisterly tiff were notmore bent on enmity.
It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by all the little excitements ofthe night, that for once she laid aside her company manners, which wereboth easy and correct, and in the most natural manner in the world leanedher head on Léon’s shoulder. At the same time, fatigue suggestingtenderness, she locked the fingers of her right hand into those of herhusband’s left; and, half closing her eyes, dozed off into a goldenborderland between sleep and waking. But all the time she was not awareof what was passing, and saw the painter’s wife studying her with looksbetween contempt and envy.
It occurred to Léon that his constitution demanded the use of sometobacco; and he undid his fingers from Elvira’s in order to roll acigarette. It was gently done, and he took care that his indulgenceshould in no other way disturb his wife’s position. But it seemed tocatch the eye of the painter’s wife with a special significancy. Shelooked straight before her for an instant, and then, with a swift andstealthy movement, took hold of her husband’s hand below the table.Alas! she might have spared herself the dexterity. For the poor fellowwas so overcome by this caress that he stopped with his mouth open in themiddle of a word, and by the expression of his face plainly declared toall the company that his thoughts had been diverted into softer channels.
If it had not been rather amiable, it would have been absurdly droll.His wife at once withdrew her touch; but it was plain she had to exertsome force. Thereupon the young man coloured and looked for a momentbeautiful.
Léon and Elvira both observed the byplay, and a shock passed from one tothe other; for they were inveterate match-makers, especially betweenthose who were already married.
“I beg your pardon,” said Léon suddenly. “I see no use in pretending.Before we came in here we heard sounds indicating—if I may so expressmyself—an imperfect harmony.”
“Sir—” began the man.
But the woman was beforehand.
“It is quite true,” she said. “I see no cause to be ashamed. If myhusband is mad I shall at least do my utmost to prevent the consequences.Picture to yourself, Monsieur and Madame,” she went on, for she passedStubbs over, “that this wretched person—a dauber, an incompetent, not fitto be a sign-painter—receives this morning an admirable offer from anuncle—an uncle of my own, my mother’s brother, and tenderly beloved—of aclerkship with nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and thathe—picture to yourself!—he refuses it! Why? For the sake of Art, hesays. Look at his art, I say—look at it! Is it fit to be seen? Askhim—is it fit to be sold? And it is for this, Monsieur and Madame, thathe condemns me to the most deplorable existence, without luxuries,without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. O non!” she cried,“non—je ne me tairai pas—c’est plus fort que moi! I take these gentlemenand this lady for judges—is this kind? is it decent? is it manly? Do Inot deserve better at his hands after having married him and”—(a visiblehitch)—“done everything in the world to please him.”
I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed company at a table; everyone looked like a fool; and the husband like the biggest.
“The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, breaking the silence, “isnot wanting in distinction.”
“It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that nobody will buy it.”
“I should have supposed a clerkship—” began Stubbs.
“Art is Art,” swept in Léon. “I salute Art. It is the beautiful, thedivine; it is the spirit of the world, and the pride of life. But—” Andthe actor paused.
“A clerkship—” began Stubbs.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. “I am an artist, and asthis gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my wifeis going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer togo and drown myself out of hand.”
“Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see you!”
“I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that a fellow may be a clerk andpaint almost as much as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makescapital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six.”
To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefullyinterrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artistherself!—but indeed there must be something permanently mercantile in thefemale nature. The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; nototherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end of a laboriouslife each recognised that he was still a mystery to his disciples.
Léon arose.
“Art is Art,” he repeated sadly. “It is not water-colour sketches, norpractising on a piano. It is a life to be lived.”
“And in the meantime people starve!” observed the woman of the house.“If that’s a life, it is not one for me.”
“I’ll tell you what,” burst forth Léon; “you, Madame, go into anotherroom and talk it over with my wife; and I’ll stay here and talk it overwith your husband. It may come to nothing, but let’s try.”
“I am very willing,” replied the young woman; and she proceeded to lighta candle. “This way if you please.” And she led Elvira upstairs into abedroom. “The fact is,” said she, sitting down, “that my husband cannotpaint.”
“No more can mine act,” replied Elvira.
“I should have thought he could,” returned the other; “he seems clever.”
“He is so, and the best of men besides,” said Elvira; “but he cannotact.”
“At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least sing.”
“You mistake Léon,” returned his wife warmly. “He does not even pretendto sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living. And, believeme, neither of the men are humbugs. They are people with a mission—whichthey cannot carry out.”
“Humbug or not,” replied the other, “you came very near passing the nightin the fields; and, for my part, I live in terror of starvation. Ishould think it was a man’s mission to think twice about his wife. Butit appears not. Nothing is their mission but to play the fool. Oh!” shebroke out, “is it not something dreary to think of that ma
n of mine? Ifhe could only do it, who would care? But no—not he—no more than I can!”
“Have you any children?” asked Elvira.
“No; but then I may.”
“Children change so much,” said Elvira, with a sigh.
And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping chordon the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of Léon joinedin; and there was an air being played and sung that stopped the speech ofthe two women. The wife of the painter stood like a person transfixed;Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memoriesand kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her soul with everynote; it was a piece of her youth that went before her; a green Frenchplain, the smell of apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of ariver, and the words and presence of love.
“Léon has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to herself. “I wonder how.”
The how was plain enough. Léon had asked the painter if there were noair connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having learnt whathe wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into
“O mon amante, O mon désir, Sachons cueillir L’heure charmante!”
“Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s wife, “your husband singsadmirably well.”
“He sings that with some feeling,” replied Elvira, critically, althoughshe was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways in the upperchamber; “but it is as an actor and not as a musician.”
“Life is very sad,” said the other; “it so wastes away under one’sfingers.”
“I have not found it so,” replied Elvira. “I think the good parts of itlast and grow greater every day.”
“Frankly, how would you advise me?”
“Frankly, I would let my husband do what he wished. He is obviously avery loving painter; you have not yet tried him as a clerk. And youknow—if it were only as the possible father of your children—it is aswell to keep him at his best.”
“He is an excellent fellow,” said the wife.
* * * * *
They kept it up till sunrise with music and all manner of goodfellowship; and at sunrise, while the sky was still temperate and clear,they separated on the threshold with a thousand excellent wishes for eachother’s welfare. Castel-le-Gâchis was beginning to send up its smokeagainst the golden East; and the church bell was ringing six.
“My guitar is a familiar spirit,” said Léon, as he and Elvira took thenearest way towards the inn, “it resuscitated a Commissary, created anEnglish tourist, and reconciled a man and wife.”
Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with reflections of hisown.
“They are all mad,” thought he, “all mad—but wonderfully decent.”
* * * * *
THE END
* * * * *
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