“Ah, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliché, slowly, impressively, in a tone of the most respectful but most poignant reproach.
“Have you seen it—have they sent it to you?” his wife asked, thrusting the paper towards her. “It’s quite at your service!” But as Francie neither spoke nor took it she tossed it upon the sofa, where, as it opened, falling, the girl read the name of the Reverberator. Mme. de Cliché carried her head very far back.
“She has nothing to do with it—it’s just as I told you—she’s overwhelmed,” said Mme. de Brécourt, remaining at the window.
“You would do well to read it—it’s worth the trouble,” Alphonse de Brécourt remarked, going over to his wife. Francie saw him kiss her as he perceived her tears. She was angry at her own; she choked and swallowed them; they seemed somehow to put her in the wrong.
“Have you had no idea that any such monstrosity would be perpetrated?” Mme. de Cliché went on, coming nearer to her. She had a manner of forced calmness—as if she wished it to be understood that she was one of those who could be reasonable under any provocation, though she were trembling within—which made Francie draw back. “C’est pourtant rempli de choses—which we know you to have been told of—by what folly, great heaven! It’s right and left—no one is spared—it’s a deluge of insult. My sister perhaps will have told you of the apprehensions I had—I couldn’t resist them, though I thought of nothing so awful as this, God knows, the day I met you at Mr. Waterlow’s with your journalist.”
“I have told her everything—don’t you see she’s anéantie? Let her go, let her go!” exclaimed Mme. de Brécourt, still at the window.
“Ah, your journalist, your journalist, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliché. “I am very sorry to have to say anything in regard to any friend of yours that can give you so little pleasure; but I promise myself the satisfaction of administering him with these hands a dressing he won’t forget, if I may trouble you so far as to ask you to let him know it!”
M. de Cliché fingered the points of his moustache; he diffused some powerful scent; his eyes were dreadful to Francie. She wished Mr. Probert would say something kind to her; but she had now determined to be strong. They were ever so many against one; Gaston was far away and she felt heroic. “If you mean Mr. Flack—I don’t know what you mean,” she said as composedly as possible to M. de Cliché. “Mr. Flack has gone to London.”
At this M. de Brécourt gave a free laugh and his brother-in-law replied, “Ah, it’s easy to go to London.”
“They like such things there; they do them more and more. It’s as bad as America!” Mme. de Cliché declared.
“Why have you sent for me—what do you all want me to do? You might explain—I am only an American girl!” said Francie, whose being only an American girl, did not prevent her pretty head from holding itself now as high as Mme. de Cliché’s.
Mme. de Brécourt came back to her quickly, laying her hand on her arm. “You are very nervous—you had much better go home. I will explain everything to them—I will make them understand. The carriage is here—it had orders to wait.”
“I’m not in the least nervous, but I have made you all so,” Francie replied, laughing.
“I defend you, my dear young lady—I insist that you are only a wretched victim, like ourselves,” M. de Brécourt remarked, approaching her with a smile. “I see the hand of a woman in it, you know,” he went on, to the others; “for there are strokes of a vulgarity that a man doesn’t sink to (he can’t, his very organisation prevents him) even if he be the greatest cad on earth. But please don’t doubt that I have maintained that that woman is not you.”
“The way you talk—I don’t know how to write,” said Francie.
“My poor child, when one knows you as I do!” murmured Mme. de Brécourt, with her arm around her.
“There’s a lady who helps him—Mr. Flack has told me so,” Francie continued. “She’s a literary lady—here in Paris—she writes what he tells her. I think her name is Miss Topping, but she calls herself Florine—or Dorine,” Francie added.
“Miss Dosson, you’re too rare!” Marguerite de Cliché exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. “Then you have been three to it,” she went on; “that accounts for its perfection!”
Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brécourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire, with his back to her. “Mr. Probert, I’m very sorry at what I’ve done to distress you; I had no idea you would all feel so badly. I didn’t mean any harm. I thought you would like it.”
The old man turned a little, bending his eyes on her, but without taking her hand as she had hoped. Usually when they met he kissed her. He did not look angry but he looked very ill. A strange inarticulate sound, a kind of exclamation of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they would like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to judge of the droll effect of that speech. “Like it—like it?” said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if he were a little afraid of her.
“What do you mean? She admits—she admits!” cried Mme. de Cliché to her sister. “Did you arrange it all that day in the Bois—to punish me for having tried to separate you?” she pursued, to the girl, who stood gazing up piteously at the old man.
“I don’t know what he has published—I haven’t seen it—I don’t understand. I thought it was only to be a piece about me.”
“About me!” M. de Cliché repeated in English. “Elle est divine!” He turned away, raising his shoulders and hands and then letting them fall.
Mme. de Brécourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it home, take it home immediately—then she would see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed the girl with his sick stare. “You gave information for that? You desired it?”
“Why, I didn’t desire it, but Mr. Flack did.”
“Why do you know such ruffians? Where was your father?” the old man groaned.
“I thought he would just praise my picture and give pleasure to Mr. Waterlow,” Francie went on. “I thought he would just speak about my being engaged and give a little account; so many people in America would be interested.”
“So many people in America—that’s just the dreadful thought, my dear,” said Mme. de Brécourt kindly. “Voyons, put it in your muff and tell us what you think of it.” And she continued to thrust forward the scandalous journal.
But Francie took no notice of it; she looked round from Mr. Probert at the others. “I told Gaston I should do something you wouldn’t like.”
“Well, he’ll believe it now!” cried Mme. de Cliché.
“My poor child, do you think he will like it any better?” asked Mme. de Brécourt.
Francie fastened her eyes on her a moment. “He’ll see it over there—he has seen it now.”
“Oh, my dear, you’ll have news of him. Don’t be afraid!” laughed Mme. de Cliché.
“Did he send you the paper?” the girl went on, to Mr. Probert.
“It was not directed in his hand,” said M. de Brecourt. “There was some stamp on the band—it came from the office.”
“Mr. Flack—is that his hideous name?—must have seen to that,” Mme. de Brécourt suggested.
“Or perhaps Florine,” M. de Cliché interposed. “I should like to get hold of Florine.”
“I did—I did tell him so!” Francie repeated, with her innocent face, alluding to her statement of a moment before and speaking as if she thought the circumstance detracted from the offence.
“So did I—so did we all!” said Mme. de Cliché.
“And will he suffer—as you suffer?” Francie continued, appealing to Mr. Probert.
“Suffer, suffer? He’ll die!” cried the old man. “However, I won’t answer for him; he’ll tell you himself, when he returns.”
“He’ll die?” asked Francie, with expanded eyes.
“He’ll never return—how can he show himself?” said Mme. de Cliché.
“That’s not true—he’ll come back to stand by me!” the girl flashed out.
“How could you not feel that we were the last—the very last?” asked Mr. Probert, very gently. “How could you not feel that my son was the very last—?”
“C’est un sens qui lui manque!” commented Mme. de Cliché.
“Let her go, papa—do let her go home,” Mme. de Brécourt pleaded.
“Surely. That’s the only place for her to-day!” the elder sister continued.
“Yes, my child—you oughtn’t to be here. It’s your father—he ought to understand,” said Mr. Probert.
“For God’s sake don’t send for him—let it all stop!” Mme. de Cliché exclaimed.
Francie looked at her; then she said, “Goodbye, Mr. Probert—good-bye, Susan.”
“Give her your arm—take her to the carriage,” she heard Mme. de Brécourt say to her husband. She got to the door she hardly knew how—she was only conscious that Susan held her once more long enough to kiss her. Poor Susan wanted to comfort her; that showed how bad (feeling as she did) she believed the whole business would yet be. It would be bad because Gaston—Gaston: Francie did not complete that thought, yet only Gaston was in her mind as she hurried to the carriage. M. de Brécourt hurried beside her; she would not take his arm. But he opened the door for her and as she got in she heard him murmur strangely, “You are charming, mademoiselle—charming, charming!”
XII
HER ABSENCE HAD NOT BEEN LONG AND WHEN she re-entered the familiar salon at the hotel she found her father and sister sitting there together as if they were timing her—a prey to curiosity and suspense. Mr. Dosson however gave no sign of impatience; he only looked at her in silence through the smoke of his cigar (he profaned the red satin splendour with perpetual fumes,) as she burst into the room. No other word than the one I use expresses the tell-tale character of poor Francie’s ingress. She rushed to one of the tables, flinging down her muff and gloves, and the next moment Delia, who had sprung up as she came in, had caught her in her arms and was glaring into her face with a “Francie Dosson—what have you been through?” Francie said nothing at first, only closing her eyes and letting her sister do what she would with her. “She has been crying, father—she has,” Delia went on, pulling her down upon a sofa and almost shaking her as she continued. “Will you please tell? I’ve been perfectly wild! Yes you have, you dreadful—!” the elder girl declared, kissing her on the eyes. They opened at this compassionate pressure and Francie rested them in their beautiful distress on her father, who had now risen to his feet and stood with his back to the fire.
“Why, daughter,” said Mr. Dosson, “you look as if you had had quite a worry.”
“I told you I should—I told you, I told you!” Francie broke out, with a trembling voice. “And now it’s come!”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve done anything?” cried Delia, very white.
“It’s all over—it’s all over!” Francie pursued, turning her eyes to her sister.
“Are you crazy, Francie?” this young lady asked. “I’m sure you look as if you were.”
“Ain’t you going to be married, my child?” asked Mr. Dosson, benevolently, coming nearer to her.
Francie sprang up, releasing herself from her sister, and threw her arms around him. “Will you take me away, father—will you take me right away?”
“Of course I will, my precious. I’ll take you anywhere. I don’t want anything—it wasn’t my idea!” And Mr. Dosson and Delia looked at each other while the girl pressed her face upon his shoulder.
“I never heard such trash—you can’t behave that way! Has he got engaged to some one else—in America?” Delia demanded.
“Why, if it’s over it’s over. I guess it’s all right,” said Mr. Dosson, kissing his younger daughter. “I’ll go back or I’ll go on. I’ll go anywhere you like!”
“You won’t have your daughters insulted, I presume!” Delia cried. “If you don’t tell me this moment what has happened I’ll drive straight round there and find out.”
“Have they insulted you, sweetie?” asked the old man, bending over the girl, who simply leaned upon him with her hidden face, with no sound of tears.
Francie raised her head, turning round upon her sister. “Did I ever tell you anything else—did I ever believe in it for an hour?”
“Oh, well, if you’ve done it on purpose—to triumph over me—we might as well go home, certainly. But I think you had better wait till Gaston comes.”
“It will be worse when he comes—if he thinks the same as they do.”
“Have they insulted you—have they?” Mr. Dosson repeated; while the smoke of his cigar, curling round the question, gave him the air of asking it with placidity.
“They think I’ve insulted them—they’re in an awful state—they’re almost dead. Mr. Flack has put it into the paper—everything, I don’t know what—and they think it’s too fearful. They were all there together—all at me at once, groaning and carrying on. I never saw people so affected.”
Delia listened in bewilderment, staring. “So affected?”
“Ah, yes, there’s a good deal of that,” said Mr. Dosson.
“It’s too real—too terrible; you don’t understand. It’s all printed there—that they’re immoral, and everything about them; everything that’s private and dreadful.”
“Immoral, is that so?” Mr. Dosson asked.
“And about me too, and about Gaston and my marriage, and all sorts of personalities, and all the names, and Mme. de Villepreux, and everything. It’s all printed there and they’ve read it. It says that one of them steals.”
“Will you be so good as to tell me what you are talking about?” Delia inquired, sternly. “Where is it printed and what have we got to do with it?”
“Some one sent it, and I told Mr. Flack.”
“Do you mean his paper? Oh the horrid brute!” Delia cried, with passion.
“Do they mind so what they see in the papers?” asked Mr. Dosson. “I guess they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Why, there used to be things about me—!”
“Well, it is about us too, about every one. They think it’s the same as if I wrote it.”
“Well, you know what you could do,” said Mr. Dosson, smiling at his daughter.
“Do you mean that piece about your picture—that you told me about when you went with him again to see it?” Delia asked.
“Oh, I don’t know what piece it is; I haven’t seen it.”
“Haven’t seen it? Didn’t they show it to you?”
“Yes—but I couldn’t read it. Mme. de Brécourt wanted me to take it—but I left it behind.”
“Well, that’s like you—like the Tauchnitzes littering up our track. I’ll be bound I’d see it,” said Delia. “Hasn’t it come, doesn’t it always come?”
“I guess we haven’t had the last—unless it’s somewhere round,” said Mr. Dosson.
“Father, go out and get it—you can buy it on the boulevard!” Delia continued. “Francie, what did you want to tell him?”
“I didn’t know; I was just conversing; he seemed to take so much interest.”
“Oh, he’s a deep one!” groaned Delia.
“Well, if folks are immoral you can’t keep it out of the papers—and I don’t know as you ought to want to,” Mr. Dosson remarked. “If they are I’m glad to know it, lovey.” And he gave his younger daughter a glance apparently intended to show that in this case he should know what to do.
But Francie was looking at her sister as if her attention had been arrested. “How do you mean—‘a deep one’?”
“Why, he wanted to break it off, the wretch!”
Francie stared; then a deeper flush leapt to her face, in which already there was a look of fever. “To break off my engagement?”
“Yes, just that. But I’ll be hanged if he shall! Father, will you allow that?” r />
“Allow what?”
“Why Mr. Flack’s vile interference. You won’t let him do as he likes with us, I suppose, will you?”
“It’s all done—it’s all done!” said Francie. The tears had suddenly started into her eyes again.
“Well, he’s so smart that it is likely he’s too smart,” said Mr. Dosson. “But what did they want you to do about it?—that’s what I want to know.”
“They wanted me to say I knew nothing about it—but I couldn’t.”
“But you didn’t and you don’t—if you haven’t even read it!” Delia returned.
“Where is the d—d thing?” her father asked, looking helplessly about him.
“On the boulevard, at the very first of those kiosks you come to. That old woman has it—the one who speaks English—she always has it. Do go and get it—do!” And Delia pushed him, looked for his hat for him.
“I knew he wanted to print something and I can’t say I didn’t!” Francie said. “I thought he would praise my portrait and that Mr. Waterlow would like that, and Gaston and every one. And he talked to me about the paper—he is always doing that and always was—and I didn’t see the harm. But even just knowing him—they think that’s vile.”
“Well, I should hope we can know whom we like!” Delia declared, jumping in her mystification and alarm from one point of view to another.
Mr. Dosson had put on his hat—he was going out for the paper. “Why, he kept us alive last year,” he said.
“Well, he seems to have killed us now!” Delia cried.
“Well, don’t give up an old friend,” said Mr. Dosson, with his hand on the door. “And don’t back down on anything you’ve done.”
“Lord, what a fuss about an old newspaper!” Delia went on, in her exasperation. “It must be about two weeks old, anyway. Didn’t they ever see a society-paper before?”