Artist and Model (The Divorced Princess)

The following day the ex-Princess Olsdorf began a calm, prosaic, middle-class life. She wished to think she was quite ready to accept it, without revolt or regrets. She told herself that Paul, in compensating her for all she had abandoned, would make her forget it. She refused to think of the past, longing only to become a mother for the third time, to satisfy the heart-hunger that the absence of her children had roused in her.

That nothing might recall the past to her, and perhaps also because her pride made her dread their ironical smiles, she discharged her former servants, being satisfied for the time, until she could organize her household, with a cook and a lady's-maid, engaged in haste and almost without inquiry.

The first evening of her new life, tired out by the events of the day, and waiting for Paul, who was putting things straight in his studio, Lise sunk into a chair, and, in spite of herself, her mind turned to the past, now left so far behind.

In her waking dream she smiled sadly on Alexander and Tekla; she saw again the château of Pampeln and its shady park, her companions in the chase, urged on by the horns of the huntsmen, her drosky drawn at lightning speed by its three horses flecked with foam; and, standing at the door of the banqueting hall, with its elaborate wood carvings, she saw the butler, clothed in strictly correct black, appearing to announce in his sonorous voice, "Madame la Princess is served," when, suddenly startled from her thoughts by the entrance of her maid, she came back to the reality indeed as the girl said:

"Madame, the soup is on the table."

With a slight involuntary shiver, the ex-Princess Olsdorf could not, however, help smiling; and as her husband appeared at this moment, she rose quickly and hurried toward him, saying in an almost passionate voice, a sort of echo of the feelings called to aid in completely burying the past:

"Come, love, your arm for Madame Paul Meyrin."

PART II.
MADAME PAUL MEYRIN.

CHAPTER I.
VERA SOUBLAIEFF.

Vera's journey back to Pampeln was in no respect, it may well be imagined, like the journey she had made to France. Three months ago, when her first grief at leaving her father and giving up the daily round of her life, so sweet and placid, amid people who adored her, had passed, an eager curiosity had seized upon her. Notwithstanding her purity and ignorance of life, she felt, like a true daughter of Eve, the pleasure of being carried off to Paris and of living a life so different from that which she had hitherto known.

With the delight of a woman in such surroundings, she nestled in a corner of the well-cushioned and padded compartment in which the prince had placed her; and there, alone with her thoughts, under the physical charm of the rapid course of the train, which frightened her too, a little, had she fallen asleep as the night wore on, not much regretting her virginal bed at the Elva farm.

Next day, when Pierre Olsdorf, beginning with the part he intended to play toward the daughter of Soublaieff, came to ask her how she had passed the night, Vera was a good deal surprised for the moment; and her master had to insist before he could make her take her place at table beside him at the refreshment-room at Konigsberg; but, ascribing the honor that was done her to the necessities of the journey, she felt some little innocent vanity about it, and nothing more.

So it was all the way, and the pretty young Russian girl, thanks to her simplicity, arrived in Paris ready to be surprised at all the events that were to follow each other day by day, awakening only her imagination, until the moment came when her heart was moved so deeply.

How far behind were these things now! So far that she sometimes wondered if she had not merely dreamed them.

And then she would close her eyes, trying to dream still. She went over again the most trifling events of her stay in Paris—her surprise when Yvan summoned her to the luncheon-table of the prince; her emotions day by day as her master, growing kinder and more attentive with each succeeding one, had made their lives almost one; until that hour, the thought of which still made her shiver, when fate had cast her into his arms.

Though the daughter of the farmer of Elva had come a virgin from that embrace, the momentary abandoning of herself to it had made of her a woman; it had taught her that she loved, and had raised in her an ardent desire to be beloved.

What would be the end of this passion? She scarcely dared think of that. Understanding now the part she had played, she asked herself, trembling at the thought, if the prince would not look upon her as the blind instrument he had used, and whether, when they were once again in Pampeln, she would not be parted from him forever.

The dread of it caused her bitter grief; and yet, when she put the idea aside as impossible, she then feared to think of what would inevitably happen if it were, on the contrary, Pierre Olsdorf's will to keep her by his side. Assuredly her father knew of the divorce and the change in the life of his master. The decree was an event which the whole nobility of St. Petersburg must have discussed, making every possible conjecture to explain how it had come about that the decree was against the prince and not against his wife, whose sin everybody knew. Why, then, had Pierre Olsdorf chosen to seem guilty—guilty instead of her—if he did not love her? Vera could not guess the reason, in her ignorance of the law and the consequences that had followed upon the action of the man to whom her whole heart was given.

All these reflections troubled strangely the poor girl, whom the bearing of her master did not calm, for as they drew nearer the end of their journey Pierre seemed more and more preoccupied and silent. At each important station he did indeed come to assure himself that Vera wanted for nothing in the reserved compartment that she was in, together with a nurse and the little Tekla; but he seemed to avoid being alone with her, and Soublaieff's daughter had looked vainly into his eyes for the reason. Plainly the prince was warding off an explanation. What would become of her? How dared she appear again before her father, so jealous of his honor? Was not death itself better than the agony and the reproaches she was threatened with?

Again and again during the last night of the journey the unhappy girl thought of throwing herself from the carriage. But death! And if she were indeed loved? Then her tears fell, and she gave herself to God's care.

In this frame of mind Vera left the train at Mittau, where the prince's carriages, telegraphed for from Paris, were in waiting for the travelers, to take them to Pampeln.

At first the young girl hoped that Pierre would ask her to go with him in the drosky, which would hold but two persons; but he put her in the landau, where the nurse and baby already were, and after speaking a few commonplace words in the way of excuses for putting her to so much fatigue, he sprung into the lighter carriage beside Yvan.

The luggage was to follow in an omnibus, with the servants who had come to meet their master.

This fresh disappointment for Vera had scarcely been mastered when, after a three hours' drive, she caught sight of the heavy-looking front of Pampeln, and soon the wheels of the landau were grinding through the sand of the court-yard and stopping before the flight of steps leading down from the main entrance.

Quite given up to her gloomy thoughts, the farmer's daughter stepped from the carriage. She was surprised to find her hand in that of the prince, who, drawing her a little way aside at the foot of the marble staircase, said in a troubled voice:

"Pardon me, dear child, for the silence I have kept since we left Paris, but I have determined that there ought to be no explanation between us until after I have seen your father. I have sent word to him to expect me at Elva, where I am going to seek him. In a couple of hours I shall be here again. Until then trust me. Soon, I hope, you will have ceased to be displeased with me, and will doubt no more either my gratitude or my affection."

Vera replied only with a look from her great limpid eyes raised to his. Pierre Olsdorf pressed both her hands in his, and sprung into the drosky, to which fresh horses had been harnessed.

The young girl followed him with her eyes until he disappeared from sight at the end of the great avenue; then she slowly mounted the stairs, and passing through the fencing-room, gained the chapel, where she knelt in devotion on the stone floor, murmuring:

"If my father rejects me, what shall I do? Oh, God! have pity on me!"

Vera was still in prayers as the lord of Pampeln reached Elva.

"Is my daughter ill, prince?" exclaimed Soublaieff, meeting his master at the outer fence of the farm.

"No; do not be uneasy, Alexei; Vera is well," replied Pierre Olsdorf, alighting; "but her presence was needed at the château. That is the only reason why she has not come with me. To-night, even, you can embrace her; and to-morrow, if you wish it, she shall come back to you. I have much to say to you."

Struck by the grave look on the prince's face, as well as by the sad tones of his voice, the farmer followed him without daring to question him anew.

In the large lower room of the farm-house, wherein on hunting days he was wont to assemble his friends, the master of Pampeln seated himself, and signed to Soublaieff to take a place opposite to him after closing the doors.

His heart filled with sad forebodings, the former serf obeyed.

"Alexei," said Prince Olsdorf, after a few moments' silence, "you must listen without interrupting me, and without being troubled unreasonably at the tale of the scenes that have passed in Paris in which your daughter has played an important part, and which I will relate to you, hiding nothing. I should say, first of all, that Vera returns to you as worthy of your respect and of the affection of all as she was before she left you. I give you my word of honor on that."

"I believe you, prince; I believe you," replied Soublaieff, in a low voice.

"You know," said the former husband of Lise Barineff, "that the Holy Synod has pronounced a divorce against me on the petition of the woman who bore my name."

"Against you?"

"Yes, against me. Ah! that surprises you? Even here, then, my misfortune was known. Well, well! Yes, against me. I wished that it should be so, though all the wrong was on the side of the princess; but if it had been otherwise, that is, if the divorce had been pronounced in my favor, she would have been dishonored, and her dishonor would have been reflected upon me and upon my son, Alexander. I would not permit that. The name of Olsdorf must remain stainless. To gain my end I had to affect a sin that left me without defense. Your daughter was my accomplice."

"My daughter!" cried Soublaieff, springing to his feet.

"I prayed that you would listen to me calmly. I swear to you again, on the honor of my race, that Vera is still the spotless maiden that you trusted to me."

Alexei sunk back into his chair again, his eyes filling with tears.

Pierre Olsdorf went on:

"Without understanding the part she was playing, your daughter obeyed me with such devotion and simplicity that the official appointed to gather proofs of the act of adultery I was guilty of was deceived, as was the princess herself, who accompanied him, as the law requires. Thanks to Vera, I succeeded completely. I made no attempt to defend myself, and your daughter was not questioned at all. The divorce was pronounced against me, but I was left with the guardianship of my children: I say of my children, for the princess had been delivered of a daughter, whom I could not disown without accusing of adultery the woman whom I wished to leave worthy, in the eyes of the world, of respect; and Lise Olsdorf, by my order, will become the wife of the man with whom she deceived me. The child who bears my name necessarily I have brought back with me, and have given her to the care of Vera. That is why your daughter is at Pampeln; terrified as she is at the thought that, wrongly informed of what has happened far from here, you may believe her guilty, and take from her your love."

"My darling Vera," cried Soublaieff. "Oh! let her come now, at once, to Elva. I will never let her know what I have suffered by her absence and at your story. I knew nothing of what you have just told me, and I believe you as I would an angel from heaven. But if I, her father, do not doubt her purity, will others, knowing all that has happened in that accursed Paris, believe that Vera Soublaieff has been a virtuous girl throughout? What will become of her? What man who has a care for his honor would take her now for his wife? Ah! Pierre Alexandrowich, though you respected her innocence, you have ruined my daughter none the less."

Pierre Olsdorf's head was lowered. He understood the sorrow of the father whose daughter's name was forever compromised.

"Yes," he replied, however; "yes, Alexei, I am deeply guilty, I confess. But do not fear. No one will dare to suspect Vera when I swear, on the Holy Evangelists, that she is pure. And I will make her so rich that she will find a husband worthy of her."

The prince said these words with so great an effort, and so pained a smile, that Soublaieff trembled. His mind at rest on the fate of his daughter, he saw now only the sufferings of the master who had humiliated himself before him. He was far from imagining that Pierre Olsdorf was in love with Vera, still less did he suppose that she loved him. Such an idea could never have entered his mind. He thought only of the misfortune that had fallen upon the house of Olsdorf, so widely respected. The sin committed by the princess, whom everybody at Pampeln loved, was inexplicable to him, and he pitied, to the bottom of his heart, this great nobleman so shamefully betrayed by the woman he had raised to his side. It seemed, as if, in a sense, he felt the shame of it, as an old dependent of the family. His emotion was so great that he did not even think of thanking the prince for his promise to secure Vera's future.

Pierre Olsdorf was the first to speak again.

"Now," he said, "I need to make one more appeal to the devotion of your daughter. After a short journey to St. Petersburg I shall leave Russia—Europe indeed—for a long time. Where shall I go? I do not know—but far, far from here. Alexander and this little girl must have a sister near them, since they have no mother, and the law forbids me to replace the woman who has proved herself unworthy. I wish to ask Vera to be in the stead an elder sister to these two little deserted ones. She will need then to live at the château, where I shall give orders that she shall be obeyed as I myself. Before I go I will make provision for the future of all of them, in case that anything should happen to me."

"Why leave us, prince?" said Soublaieff, "why go from us?"

"I must, Alexei. Time alone can close the wound I have received. Later on, who knows but that I may forget? Can I count on you and on Vera?"

"My devotion to you, Pierre Alexandrowich, is as deep as my daughter's; and you know what proof she has given of hers. What you order will be done."

"Then all is well. Come with me to the château to embrace your daughter. To-morrow I will give you my instructions, for I must go away by nightfall. Your hand, Soublaieff. Thank you."

The farmer took respectfully the hand that Pierre Olsdorf offered him and pressed it to his lips. Five minutes afterward they had mounted the drosky to drive to Pampeln.

In less than half an hour they were there. Soublaieff, who had followed his master into the fencing-room, saw Vera coming out of the chapel.

Seeing her father, whom she did not expect, the young girl stopped suddenly, stifling a cry of fear, but when he came forward to her, smiling, and with opened arms, she sprung to his breast, crying:

"Father, dear, dear father."

"Vera, my darling Vera," said Alexei again and again, covering her forehead with kisses, "the prince has told me all. I have no reproaches for you. God will reward your devotion. We will part no more. You shall be as happy as you deserve to be."

At these words Soublaieff's daughter turned her eyes to the prince, who stood by during this scene, and she was so struck by the look of pain on his face that drawing herself from her father's arms she ran to him.

But Pierre Olsdorf, alarmed at Vera's movement, gave her no time to speak.

"Calm yourself, dear child," he said, quickly, as much by his look as his voice, as he took her hands in his, "your father knows the great service you have done me, and I have told him how much I count on you for still. You shall know to-morrow what I speak of. Meanwhile, be at home here in the château, where you will live henceforward; your father has given his consent. I leave you with him. To-morrow I shall see you again."

Not waiting until she could answer, he walked rapidly away, after pressing her hands affectionately in his.

"Poor prince," said Soublaieff going to his daughter, "how unhappy he is. Who would have guessed what was going to happen? And now he means to leave Pampeln, which is so full of sad memories for him."

"Leave Pampeln," cried Vera, not able to command herself, "leave us? Where will he go to?"

"I don't know, but very far away, so he has told me. What is the matter with you?"

The unhappy girl had grown ghastly pale. She could scarcely stand.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, making a great effort not to betray herself further. "It is the fatigue of the journey, no doubt. Let me go to bed now, father. I shall see you to-morrow, shall I not?"

"Yes, dear Vera, to-morrow. I have promised the prince to come and take his instructions to-morrow. I shall go back to Elva now. Do you have a good night's rest, and you will be as strong and brave when you wake as if you had not traveled four hundred leagues."

And Soublaieff, having kissed his daughter tenderly, retired.

Night was falling. The great portraits of the ancestors of the Olsdorfs that hung on the walls of the room; the suits of armor which stood as if they covered still the men who had worn them of old; the fantastic shadows which the last rays of daylight lengthened, streaming through the colored glass of the Gothic window-frames; the mournful silence that reigned around her, all filled Vera with so sudden a fear that she fled in terror to the rooms which Yvan had told her were to be hers.

They were in the right wing of the château, near to those that Pierre's son and his governess, Mme. Bernard, a worthy woman quite wrapped up in the child intrusted to her care, occupied. It was the suite which was usually reserved for the prince's more intimate friends. Very elegantly furnished, it consisted of a dressing-room, a bath-room, and a small sitting-room.

As soon as she got there, Vera burst into tears and sobs.

So all was over; the prince deserted her, careless of the love he had won, love which either he did not see or perhaps despised; he was going away, leaving her to her memories and her despair. She had been nothing but a tool in his hands, of which he rid himself pitilessly. Her dream was all a lie; he did not love her. What did she care for the comfort he wished to leave her in? Was not her future life quite ruined? Why, then, should she stay at Pampeln? No, she would not. With her father only could she hope for forgetfulness. She would keep none of the rich dresses and jewels that he had given her. They would but recall to her hours of bliss and hope which she would no longer have the right to remember. She would go back to Elva as she had come from it, poor and simple, not to-morrow but then, that night, without seeing the man who thought of her no more. She would walk the road from Pampeln to Elva, all alone, as she used to do when she was a little girl and knew only by sight, because they stopped at the farm on hunting days, elegant carriages such as she had been driven about Paris in. The darkness would not frighten her. What misfortune could happen to her greater than that she was now suffering? And the poor child, her eyes filled with tears, her hair falling about her shoulders, her hands trembling, turned over the things in her trunks to find, among the silks and laces, the linen gown and national head-dress which she had worn three months before journeying to France. But each of the things she touched painfully revived the memory of the past. This necklet of pearls was the prince's first gift; these diamonds were in her ears that evening at the opera when her appearance there for the first time had caused such surprise. This white silk dress she had worn at the Italian opera when Patti sung; in this furred mantle Pierre Olsdorf had wrapped her as they were leaving the theater. These fans, these bracelets, she remembered with what sweet words they had been given to her. On each thing she could have put a date, so close in accord were her memory and her heart.

A long sigh, a sigh of love and despair, escaped from her lips, and a blush rose to her face. She saw the dressing-gown of blue, trimmed with lace, that she had taken off on that terrible night, in which was but one moment of bliss, when, half naked, she had clung about the neck of the prince to defend him or to seek his protection as the door of her room was flung open. Could she ever forget that moment? Pierre had not understood how she adored him. Yet had not she betrayed it plainly, in her eyes, at the moment of that mad embrace?

"Oh, no," she sobbed, ready to fall to the ground, conquered by all these emotions, "no, he will never love me."

"Never more than at this moment, Vera," a voice said suddenly that made her tremble.

She sunk into the arms of Pierre Olsdorf who, without being heard by her, had entered the room and had been watching her for some moments.

"Is it you?" murmured Soublaieff's daughter, closing her eyes as if, fancying this was a new dream, she wished to lengthen it.

The prince carried rather than led her to a large sofa at one side of the room. He laid her down on it, and kneeling beside her, said:

"Why do you doubt me? Vera, I have the sincerest and tenderest affection for you. I will never forget what you have done for me nor the trouble I have brought into your life. I am responsible for your future, and I swear to you it shall be happy."

"You speak of happiness for me, Pierre Alexandrowich, and you are leaving me," sobbed the young girl, with a despairing look in her eyes brimming over with tears. "Why do you go? Why do you leave me alone?"

Never was woman more beautiful, more desirable, more intoxicating than Vera in her sorrow and her chaste abandon. The dusky flood of her hair sweeping about her, her scarlet lips parted as if they begged for a kiss, the subtle fragrance of youth and maidenhood that innocently offered itself—all this intoxicated Pierre Olsdorf. He had seized in his the cold hands of the young girl, and, his head swimming, he felt himself drawn irresistibly to her. But a last gleam of reason arrested him; and rising he exclaimed:

"Oh, no, no; it would be an act of cowardice unworthy of me."

Vera, amazed, half raised herself, and her face showed such pain that the prince, going to her quickly again, said hurriedly, mastering his heart and his passions by a strong effort:

"Listen to me, my child, my darling, my beloved, and do not take from me by your despair the courage I need. Yes, I love you, and yet I must go from you. I must; it is my duty; that you may still be worthy of respect and that I may still be an honorable man. I will not have it thought that what happened in Paris happened only that I might be happy through you. I will not give power to any one to accuse you of having been my willing accomplice. How long shall I be away? God alone knows. Perhaps I shall not have the strength to prolong our separation; but part we must, for your sake and for mine. While I am far away and thinking of you you will be a mother to my son and to that little creature who bears my name, and whom, though I can not love, I can not abandon. You will be mistress at Pampeln; and later, when time, if it has not cured, at least will have cicatrized the horrible wound that I have received, I will return, and I shall have forgotten nothing. Adieu."

Without waiting for Vera to answer him, Vera, who understood nothing but that he was going to leave her, Prince Olsdorf seized her in his arms, pressed his lips in a long kiss to hers quivering with sobs, and, snatching himself from this intoxicating embrace, he let her sink, fainting, on the sofa.

When Soublaieff's daughter again opened her eyes, she was alone.

Next morning, at day-break, after kissing his son, and having had long interviews with his steward, Beschef, and the farmer of Elva, to whom he gave a letter for his daughter, the prince left Pampeln for St. Petersburg, where he had to submit to the will of the Holy Synod.

He had not had the courage to see Vera again. He took with him only his faithful Yvan, to have near him some one on whom he could rely should death strike him when far from home.

A fortnight later Pierre Olsdorf took ship at Brindisi for Egypt, to begin the long exile to which he had condemned himself.

CHAPTER II.
THE STUDIO IN THE RUE D'ASSAS.

We may be sure, knowing her character, that Mme. Podoi never failed to fill her letters to her daughter with reproaches and insulting comparisons. As if to humiliate and awaken feelings of jealousy in her, she never mentioned Vera except in the most flattering terms.

"This young girl is irreproachable," she wrote to her five or six months after her marriage; "at Pampeln everybody loves and respects and obeys her. No one dares raise the least doubt of her virtue, of the purity of her relations with the prince during her stay in Paris. She is absolute mistress at the château, where your name in a very short time will not be remembered. Your son Alexander himself will forget it, and will know only that of the woman who has become his real mother. As for Tekla, she will probably never speak it.

"I know what is going on in Courland from that excellent Madame Bernard, your son's governess. The prince authorized her to keep me informed about the health of the children. You may imagine I shall not ever go again to Pampeln. I do not want to have to blush for you.

"It is reported in St. Petersburg that Pierre Olsdorf is in Japan; but he only writes to Vera Soublaieff. She is the only person who knows for certain where he is.

"This is what your folly has brought my dream of ambition to. May God grant that no worse misfortunes are in store for you."

When poor Lise had received one of these letters, in which her mother was thus pitiless, she kept it from her husband, for he might have forbidden the correspondence, but she would hurry to Mme. Daubrel, who wept and did her best to console her. Then she would return to the Rue d'Assas, and a kiss from Paul would bring her calmness. The love of the ex-Princess Olsdorf for the man whose name she now bore was unchanged; she was still passionately attached to this man, to whom she had yielded so completely from the first hour.

Nor had Paul Meyrin changed; he was still the lover he had been. Lise was his adored, intoxicating, and extravagant mistress yet. Proud of the beauty and the distinguished air of his wife, he took her everywhere, and received many friends—painters, literary men, artists of all kinds, all enthusiastic about this noble stranger who, to marry one of their class, had given up without regret the title of princess and so high a social position.

Lise, on her part, had neglected nothing that could win the affection of this impressionable world, of which now she formed a part.

At first visitors came with a feeling of distrust, perhaps, too, in a critical spirit, for they wondered how this great Russian lady would bear herself toward them, habituated as she was to homage of every kind, and ready, perhaps, to think that they must be only too happy to be received by her; but in the case of each of them a few moments' conversation with Mme. Meyrin was enough to make them think her perfectly charming. She was simple, sweet, and anxious for the comfort of all of them.

Excellent musician as she was, other musicians found in her a nature able to understand them, and an executant of the first class for the interpretation of their works. The painters soon cited her as an able judge, and a critic both fair-dealing and kindly. As such she was looked upon by the literary men, some of whom got into the habit of putting their ideas before her, and asking for advice. It was not long before the studio in the Rue d'Assas became a meeting-place of much renown. The ex-Princess Olsdorf was happy and proud in doing the honors there.

This was the life she had pictured to herself with the man she loved, who, thanks to her, was now becoming well known as an artist. In the day-time, while Paul worked at some picture, the idea of which she had inspired, Lise would sit not far from him at her embroidery, reading or music, until the hour when the usual visitors to the studio gathered round her to tell her the chit-chat of the Parisian day. In the evening, if they had nobody to dinner, they would go to the theater; or they would go out arm in arm for a short walk—only a little way, that they might the sooner be at home and alone together again.

Full of good taste and used to luxurious surroundings from her childhood upward, Mme. Meyrin, having engaged suitable servants, well trained in their work, had arranged the house in charming style. Everything in it bespoke the presence of an elegant, intelligent woman, with a care for the comfort of those about her. She charged herself with the personal care of the flowers that were always to be seen in the studio; and Paul was delighted with this room, which flattered his sense of the beautiful and the voluptuous in a way that he had not dreamed of before.

The young couple, in a word, were quite happy. All they lacked was intercourse with their family, for Mme. Frantz nursed her wrath against her brother-in-law and his wife. She never saw them, and it was in secret alone, to avoid bickerings, that Mme. Meyrin, the mother, could steal away sometimes to go and embrace her son.

The respectful and affectionate reception she met with from Lise quite charmed the good old lady, who puzzled her brain to find a means of bringing her children together. As yet she had failed.

The exiles of the Rue d'Assas were not without stout champions in the Rue de Douai. First and foremost there was Mme. Daubrel. She took every chance to sing the praises of Lise, with whom, as we have seen, she was more intimate than ever, though she was not a guest at any of the dinners or "At Homes." Mme. Paul Meyrin had tried in vain to persuade Marthe to occasionally meet her other friends. She refused once for all.

"My dear Lise," she said one day, when her friend returned to the subject, "you know how I am placed. Not wishing to give the shadow of a pretext for malicious chatter, I am forced to deny myself the pleasure of seeing you when you have visitors. You are merry here, you laugh and are happy. My heart sympathizes with your joys, but they are forbidden me. After my misfortune, I said: 'Having been guilty of a sin, I swear, now going back to my mother's roof, to expiate the past by an exemplary life. In America, far from me, I have a son, whom God will, perhaps, let me see again some day; and I wish to become worthy of him.' For five years I have had no friends but the Meyrins; I have never been inside a theater, nor made a new friend in that time, except you. Your affection is so sweet to me, and gives me such delight, that sometimes I reproach myself about it as a happiness which I ought not to indulge in. Don't press me, then, I beg of you. Besides, I think I love you more and better when we are alone."

The answer of Marthe had touched and at the same time painfully moved Mme. Paul Meyrin in reminding her that she too had children in another land, who bore a name not hers, whom she was forever parted from, and whom even the death of the father would not give back to her, whom she might not nurse if they were sick, and whose hands would not close her eyes as they stood weeping by her pillow at the hour of eternal parting.

The unhappy mother could then almost have cursed the divorce that had estranged her from those she loved; but she had been careful not to return with Mme. Daubrel to this subject, which was so full of pain for both of them.

Happily at about this time Lise found that she was about to again become a mother. It was a supreme consolation to her. Her husband seemed not less delighted, and the fact made her regret still more that the efforts were vain of Marthe and all who helped her steadily to bring about a reconciliation with Mme. Frantz.

The good-hearted Mme. Daubrel was not left to plead alone in the Rue de Douai Paul's cause and his wife's. There was also Mme. Meyrin, the mother, who would have liked to kiss her son every day, and who felt herself drawn by ties of affection to his wife. Then little Nadeje, who remembered well the caresses and presents of the Princess Olsdorf, asked in her simplicity how it was that she did not see this beautiful lady any more now that they were aunt and niece. Lastly, there was a third person, whom our readers have caught only a glimpse of at present, the actor Dumesnil.

The old player had known the Meyrins intimately for a long time. For several years he had given lessons in elocution to the young girls whom Mme. Frantz taught singing; and in the artistic matinées in the Rue de Douai he was occasionally engaged to recite a speech from the classical dramas, which the good-natured audience, as commonly happens at such gatherings, would warmly applaud. These were the most successful appearances now of the former lover of Mme. Podoi, as the tragic drama was all but banished from the Odéon.

This was the friendship with the Meyrins which had warranted Dumesnil's presence at Lise's marriage.

Informed, as we have seen, by Mme. Podoi herself, when she was still the Countess Barineff, of her daughter's marriage with Prince Olsdorf, the good-hearted actor had heard nothing more of Lise while she remained in Russia; he was barely told, and almost as a favor, of the birth of her son Alexander, though he was his grandson; but when she came to Paris he learned the fact from the newspapers, which had had so much to say about her; and we may be sure that when he knew the Meyrins were visited by her he took the earliest chance to meet her there, his daughter, whom he had not seen for twenty years.

In the Rue de Douai, Dumesnil was at first scarcely remarked by the young woman; but, while quite discreet in regard to the relationship between them, he was able in the end to interest her in himself, and it was not long before Lise began to really like, as if he were one of the family into which she was about to enter, this old man who, though a little ridiculous at times perhaps, was gentle, polite, well-bred, and of good manners, and had been one of her mother's earliest associates on the stage. For one day the Princess Olsdorf, who at the Meyrins' wished to have her title and rank forgotten, had asked Dumesnil if he was not at the Odéon at the time when Mme. Froment was playing there, and the good man had replied, trying not to betray his emotion:

"Yes, Madame la Princess, I knew Madame Madeleine Froment, an actress as clever as she was distinguished. For two years we played together in classical pieces, and at that time, if you will forgive me for preserving the memory of it, I often kissed you and gave you a ride on my knee. I can assure you you were the prettiest and most adorable little thing ever seen."

At this detail of her baby-life Lise smiled, and held out her hand to Dumesnil; she did not ask him, however, who was M. Froment. Instinctively, or through modesty, she thought it prudent to make no inquiry into the past, though, indeed, she was very far from suspecting the truth. Nevertheless, from this time forth a sincere friendship sprung up between the princess and the old actor.

We can easily understand the interest with which Madeleine Froment's former lover had followed the stages of Lise's divorce, the joy he had felt in seeing her become Paul Meyrin's wife—it seemed as if in marrying the artist his daughter were brought nearer to himself—and his efforts to put an end to the misunderstanding between Madame Frantz and her sister-in-law.

He did his utmost in company with Madame Daubrel to bring about a peace between the two households. He felt there was nothing for it but that the two young women must become friends. Then he would have no reason to make a mystery of his visits to the Rue d'Assas, and he would thus have the chance to see oftener still the woman to whom his paternal heart yearned. He, so long left to himself, would be almost a family man, meeting, as he would almost every day, after this separation of years, the daughter whom the ambition of her mother had snatched from him.

Laid siege to in this manner, Mme. Frantz had to yield in the end. Her husband let her know that the rupture was not only painful to him, but prejudicial to their pocket, the ex-Princess Olsdorf having still many acquaintances in the Russian colony, where concerts and charity fêtes were constantly being given, in which she might hinder him having any hand.

Conquered by this argument, Mme. Meyrin's eldest daughter-in-law made up her mind to pay a visit to the Rue d'Assas. For that matter, she was not loath to judge for herself how far what she had heard was true of the elegant upholstering and arrangement of her brother-in-law's house.

Lise's condition supplied Barbe with a plausible excuse for calling upon her, though she had received with mortification the news of her being again about to become a mother, for she had hoped that her sister-in-law would bear no more children. One day, then, when she had been forewarned by Mme. Daubrel, Mme. Paul Meyrin was visited by Mme. Frantz and her husband.

The interview was as cordial and frank as possible, at any rate on the part of Frantz and Lise. The latter was sincerely pleased at this renewal of the friendship, and, there and then, it was agreed that the past should be forgotten, that they should see each other regularly twice a week, alternately at each house, and that Nadeje should come as often as possible to the Rue d'Assas. The aunt promised to find amusement for the dear child, and to walk with her in the Luxembourg Gardens.

All this being settled, Mme. Paul Meyrin was anxious to do the honors of the house to her sister-in-law, who was forced to admit the richness and good taste of the upholstering and decorations that had been done under Lise's directions.

When the musician's wife went into the studio it was better still; she was dazzled for a moment by the splendor of the hangings and the marvels of art that adorned it. Lise, understanding that for an artist the studio is his favorite room, had let nothing be wanting, so that her husband's might please him wholly. Before selling the mansion in St. Petersburg she had had the artistic furniture removed to Paris, the old furniture of the time of Henry II., exquisite in form, the arms from the Caucasus, the Persian carpets, everything, in short, that could serve for the Rue d'Assas; and as a consequence Paul's studio was known as one of the handsomest and most interesting in Paris.

However, after admiring everything, Barbe left the place with envy gnawing at her heart. Replying to Frantz, who, walking toward the Seine with her, frankly showed his pleasure at seeing his brother so well lodged, all she could find to say was:

"Yes, it is all very fine; but what a sum of money thrown away. Paul can't keep on at this pace with his wife's eight hundred a year and what he makes himself by selling a picture now and again."

To avoid a discussion which he saw would lead to no good, M. Meyrin did not answer. His wife said no more, but she was stricken, and readier than before to hate this stranger who surpassed her thus at every turn.

It was worse still when, three or four days afterward, she came with her husband and daughter to dine in the Rue d'Assas. Not for the sake of show, but simply because she loved beautiful things and had them, Lise's table was covered with the magnificent plate which had remained her property after the divorce and had been brought from Russia. The dinner was exquisite, but Mme. Frantz ate scarcely anything. In vain Lise was more charming than ever she had been toward Nadeje. The violinist's wife chose to leave early. She pleaded indisposition, and all the way home she kept on saying to her husband:

"If your sister-in-law imagines we can give her such dinners, she is mistaken. Unless she wished to make little of us, she is mad, and Paul is not much saner. But I hope, at any rate, that we shall never want for anything, whereas your brother, especially if his wife bears him a child every twelve months, having little now, will soon be head over ears in debt, living in such style."

"Oh, deuce take it, you look too much on the black side of things," said Frantz, with some show of firmness. "How can you suppose that Lise wanted to make little of us? It is absurd. I think she is a most charming woman. You don't like her, that is what is the matter. Give her what sort of a dinner you please. I am sure she will see nothing in it but kindly hospitality."

To put an end to the subject, for he did not mean to yield the point, the musician stopped at the Opera House, under pretense of having something to say to one of the artistes in reference to a concert, and let his wife go home alone, which did not help to soothe her.

A few days later, when it was her turn to receive Mme. Paul Meyrin, Barbe made an affectation of the severest simplicity, a fact which Lise did not so much as notice, happy as she was to again set foot in the house which had been the scene of her early love.

When in a tart voice her sister-in-law said:

"We can not make such a show here as you do. My silver is only nickel-plated."

Lise replied, with her frank, good-natured smile:

"What does it matter? Perhaps we shall have a much pleasanter dinner here than you had with me. All I want is your affection. I have it again, and that is sufficient."

And taking Nadeje on her knee she slipped about her neck, kissing her, a beautiful necklet of pearls which she herself had worn as a child; and the young girl thanked her for it with a thousand kisses and exclamations of joy.

At this moment M. Armand Dumesnil was announced.

Knowing that Mme. Paul Meyrin was to dine this evening with her sister-in-law, the old comedian had got an invitation. Lise, who had learned from Mme. Daubrel with what warmth he had always pleaded her cause in the Rue de Douai, offered him her hand affectionately, over which the actor bent, murmuring:

"La place m'est heureuse à vous y rencontre."

For this honest Dumesnil had the pleasant habit of sprinkling his conversation with poetical excerpts. He was well versed in the classical drama, and sometimes, perhaps, rather abused his power. He never appeared as a guest among other visitors at the Meyrins' without saying, like Louis XI.: "I have seated myself at the table of one of my subjects." If he played at cards he waited impatiently for his adversary to ask him for a heart, and would reply, "I wear not my heart on my sleeve for daws to peck at—hem!"

The habit was quite a serious thing with him. He indulged it, posing theatrically, even at his own home and before his own servant, old Potais, formerly prompter at the Odéon, who, his memory too being stuffed with passages from the classic tragedies, replied to his master with alexandrine for alexandrine, tirade for tirade. The effect was too ludicrous to be described.

Notwithstanding this bit of absurdity, Dumesnil, as we have seen, was an honest fellow. He was quite moved as he took his seat near Mme. Paul Meyrin, his daughter, his little Lise, as he kept on repeating to himself, in bending on her covert and tender glances.

No one present suspected his paternity, any more than Lise herself did. The old comedian was at once happy and proud of the secret he alone held, which made the young woman dearer to him than ever. It was as if he foreboded that the day would come when she would need his protection.

CHAPTER III.
MOTHERHOOD.

After responding respectfully to the pressure of her hand and stammering out a few words, he was obliged to turn away on pretense of looking at a new painting of Paul's. He had need to dry his eyes, which had filled with tears at the affectionate welcome of his daughter, who was now won back to him.

It would be impossible to tell the pride the old actor felt in seeing Lise reign over this gathering of artists and literary men, most of them celebrities in the world whose meeting-place was her drawing-room or rather Paul's studio. He listened in admiration of her as she gave her opinion on the last new book, the play of the previous evening, or a lately exhibited picture. And when she took her seat at the piano to play the most striking passages in an opera just published, how her masterly execution ravished him!

"What a great artiste she would have been," he would say to himself at such moments, "if her fool of a mother had not made a princess of her. Ah, blood will show itself. She is my true daughter."

He had forgiven her the betrayal of her first husband, and thought she was right in marrying Paul Meyrin. His fatherly love reproached his young friend for not being oftener on his knees before this adorable creature who had been willing to descend to his level. It was pretty certain that at the least neglect of Lise, that good fellow Dumesnil would grow ferocious.

The painter, in fact, seemed to think his happiness the most natural thing in the world. He had grown used to it too quickly, never showed any surprise at it, and of all those whom his wife charmed, he was the least ready to recognize her many good qualities. Not that he did not appreciate them; but perhaps a little jealousy was mingled with the satisfaction of his pride in her; and he could have wished that his regular visitors would occupy themselves rather less with the mistress of the house, so that they might admire his work somewhat more.

One day at the house of an artist friend, where some people were whom he did not know, he heard one of them ask the host:

"Do you go to Madame Paul Meyrin's? They say she is a woman of rare ability and very distinguished."

It had ruffled him a little. So it was not to his house people came, but to his wife's. His sister-in-law, to whom he was ill-advised enough to repeat what had been said, did not miss the chance to say an ill-natured thing.

"My poor Paul, you only have your deserts. You must be very inexperienced if you think that a man can marry a fine lady, a princess, and still be first in his own house. Ah, you haven't seen the end of your humiliations and troubles yet."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, since you ask me, that your wife is far too elegant for her present position. I suppose she thinks she is still in her palace at St. Petersburg. In your studio she bears herself like a queen, surrounded by adorers, from among whom, you may be sure, one day or other some lovers will arise. You are but an extra serf in her eyes, my poor boy."

"You are out of your mind, Barbe. You have never forgiven Lise."

"Well, well. We shall see, we shall see."

Having thrown this first dart, Mme. Frantz went no further; but Paul returned home that day wondering that he had not noticed until then that he held a secondary place in the household, and thinking that it would become him to have a reform in the matter. However, he did not think for a moment of speaking to Lise on the subject. In the first place, he would not have known how to make a beginning; and when, as he entered the studio, his young wife drew him toward her by one of the passionate glances that she always had for him, the artist, a man governed by his sensations from moment to moment, quickly forgot the slight wound to his vanity that his sister-in-law's words had made him feel.

For that matter, the time would have been badly chosen to think of changes in their life, for Lise herself came to the point in regard to the state of her health. In fact, she was now within two months of her confinement; and she was so happy at the thought that she was about to become the mother of a child which this time would not be taken from her that she wished to take precautions such as previously, in like circumstances, she had not dreamed of.

When she was enceinte with Tekla she had hidden the fact up to the last moment from coquetry; but whom should she now put herself to inconvenience for? Was not she sure of the love of her husband? Had not she the right to be proud of the motherhood which would fill the sorrowful blank made by fate around her? She would not forget her absent children, their place was always in her heart. But she would love this sweet child with the love she bore to all three.

She was unwilling, therefore, to commit any imprudence, and once again in her nature the mistress made way for the mother. She began by staying away from the theater, then little by little her "At Homes" grew rarer and were given for fewer hours, until the day came when she put aside all that did not directly affect the event she awaited. She saw scarcely anybody but the Meyrins, Mme. Daubrel, and Dumesnil, which pleased Paul extremely. It looked as if he were delighted not to see his wife so surrounded as she had been since their marriage, and as he still passed nearly all his time beside her, as he had done then, Lise, certain that her husband loved her more every day, was as happy as a woman could be.

In two months' time Mme. Meyrin was delivered of a daughter, to whom the name of Marie was given. Paul, at his sister-in-law's suggestion, advised his wife to suckle it herself.

Lise had never thought of doing so, the practice being so entirely foreign to the custom of the world she had always lived in, but she welcomed the proposal with joy, to please her husband for one thing, and also because it seemed to her that her child, suckled by herself, would belong to her the more.

She gave no thought to the slavery, so to speak, of every moment to which she would condemn herself, nor to the sacrifices of every sort that the part of a mother so completely accepted would entail upon her.

The truth is that Paul eagerly fastened upon the chance to take the first step, without discussion and without seeming to act with an object, toward those reforms which his sister-in-law was always talking about when she was alone with him, awakening his jealousy and reminding him of the thrifty principles of which an example had been kept before his eyes from his infancy.

"When a woman becomes a mother," she said over and over again to him, "she should bid farewell to coquetry and the homage which always has an ulterior aim, of those who pay court to her. Lise is a great deal too much of a fine lady, with her loosely knotted hair, her elegant gowns, her low-cut bodices, her silken hose, and her profuse jewelry, which she wears at every opportunity. Who does not know whence and from whom these things come? They were all very well for the Princess Olsdorf. Why should she always be reminding people that there was a time when she was not Madame Paul Meyrin? A divorced woman is obliged to be more reserved than other women; men, with their usual vanity, being ever ready to believe that, as she has made one slip, she may make another. Besides, you live in a style out of accord with your income. All these dinner-parties and 'At Homes' will ruin you. You will have other children besides this one, and that means money to rear them. You must be economical, and as your wife has never been used to that, it is for you to keep an eye on the expenditure of the house, if you don't want to be without money one of these days."

This ill-meant though specious reasoning could not but bear fruit in a mind as ordinary and prosaic as Paul's was. His passion for Lise had only temporarily roused in him the instincts of a true artist. There was always in him a substratum of the commonplace, from which he could free himself at no time, save when his passions or his vanity got the upper hand. As for jealousy, the pretext alone of it was used to hold him, for he had the absolute confidence in his wife of which she was worthy in every respect.

Thus matters were in the Rue d'Assas, without anything seeming really changed, when, three or four months after her confinement, Lise spoke to her husband about inviting a few of their friends. Her surprise was great at this reply from Paul:

"What is the good of it? Let us live rather more for one another. Is it not enough to invite our own family, Madame Daubrel and Dumesnil? In their case you will have no need to go to expense over your dress, as you have to at the receptions in my studio."

Mme. Meyrin at first thought she had misunderstood him, either in the words spoken or their sense. The surprise she felt was so plainly to be seen in her eyes that the painter, taking her in his arms, added:

"Besides, you see, I am jealous. I should like now to have you a little more to myself. Oh, I don't want our door to be closed altogether, but only that it should not be opened so widely as it was last year."

He had spoken the first sentences with such an accent of truth that the poor woman, hearing in them, as it were, an echo of her most enchanting days, pressed against her husband with a voluptuous thrill. With him and her child by her she cared little for anything else.

Paul, however, soon grew more exacting, and his wife could not but be a little offended at hearing him each day advise some fresh reform, now about her dress, or even her hair, now as to the household expenses. But, blind through her love, she obeyed. She put away the most elegant of the dresses that she used formerly to wear, and at the same time, like a tradesman's good little wife, she began to look after the servants more closely.

The painter was not to stop here, however. One evening Lise had given an "At Home" to some friends—artists and literary men they were—who expressed surprise that, having so long ago recovered from her confinement, she had not resumed her receptions in the old style. When they were gone Paul said:

"I doubt whether it is quite the thing to have all these people here so long as you are suckling Marie. You are obliged to dress, for one thing, and that must be tiresome for you. Then again, the baby may want you suddenly, and, you know, respectable as the part of a nurse is, it still makes people smile a little, and may lead to pleasantries such as I would not wish to have spoken about you."

This time Mme. Meyrin did not take pains to hide her surprise; indeed, she expressed it with such frankness that her husband, inspired to the brutality by remembering one of his sister-in-law's remarks, said:

"Deuce take it, my dear, you are not a princess now, and the sort of people we know are less indulgent than the great folk of St. Petersburg. I don't want to have people laughing at me."

It was the first time for two years—since the day, indeed, when she had given herself so freely to him—that Lise had heard from his lips a word that could wound her. On the contrary, up to this time it had always seemed to be his determination to make no reference to the past. The young woman was deeply hurt, but, making a great effort, she replied with a smile, after a momentary silence:

"You are perhaps right, Paul. It is a very simple matter. Until Marie is weaned I will see only our most intimate friends. Are you satisfied? You will always love me, will you not? Our baby will be a year old, too, in a few weeks' time now, so that we can very soon take up our old life again. Would not you wish to, as I do?"

As she spoke Lise had put her arms around her husband's neck. Her bright eyes and the soft pressure of her arms questioned him more than her voice did.

"Why, of course, little woman," the painter replied, giving her quite a fatherly kiss, and gently freeing himself from her clasp. "Meanwhile, Miss Marie is the queen we must all bow before. Even I must come after her. And so good-night."

So saying, he went to the little room next his studio, where he had chosen to sleep since his wife's confinement, on the pretense that the baby, whose cradle was near its mother's bed throughout the night, hindered him sleeping.

Left alone, Mme. Meyrin felt a pain at her heart. She had a foreboding of evil. Her husband's love for her had undergone a change. Affrighted at this thought, she rose and thought of hurrying after him, but at that moment the child awoke, and the mother, suddenly reminded of the most sacred of duties, ran to it, took it in her arms, and, her tears falling, began to soothe and rock it.

The unhappy truth was that, less gratified in his vanity, jealous, so to speak, of Lise's love for her infant, and restricted in his passion, Paul, during the past few months, had grown little by little more indifferent about the woman who was no longer for him the mistress he had desired ardently, rather than tenderly loved. She was no longer the creature of radiant beauty and sculptural symmetry, seductively attractive, and of ardent passions. She was the mother devoted to a thousand little cares and continual obligations, which the egotism of her husband hindered him from understanding; and sometimes her health would fail.

The motherhood, which should have made her companionship the more dear, was an annoyance and an obstacle for a man of his animal instincts. He did not see his daughter's smiles; he heard only her cries, and they irritated and troubled him at his work. Without admitting it to himself, he had come to the pass of regarding Lise's intellectual qualities as a drawback. Her learning, the distinction and elegance of her manners, which formerly had flattered his vanity so much at her receptions of his friends, now humiliated his vulgar nature, and seemed to him both useless and absurd. He often left home in consequence to seek elsewhere the life from which he had been absent only temporarily, in a kind of exile, a sort of flight into higher regions for which he was not born. There was at all times a trait of character native to him which the intoxication of passion had been able to master, while leaving him incapable of understanding what concerns the soul.

Mme. Meyrin had the instinct rather than the feeling of a change in the man she loved as she had always loved him; but in finding that he at times returned to her with the passionate transports of former times she lost her fears, and even blamed herself for ever having felt them.

So they went on for some months. Then, soon, after these momentary revivals of passion, Paul grew more and more of a grumbler—more and more ready to criticise and find fault in trifling things. Lise feared, then, that her happiness was threatened—above all, when his absence became habitual.

On pretense of helping to paint, in company with two brother artists, in a studio of the Boulevard Monceau, a panorama, he said he was forced to give up the greater part of his time to his work. Lise believed him; but for her the days were endless, notwithstanding that she had her baby. As when, of an evening, she asked Paul how the work was getting on, he made scarcely any answer, she soon gave over asking him, and accepted this painful loneliness, though her pride began to revolt, while jealousy gnawed at her heart.

However, too proud to complain, Mme. Meyrin addressed no reproach to her husband; and when Mme. Frantz, who visited her at long intervals, complimented her on the simplicity of her dress and the quiet style of her house, she had strength enough to betray nothing of her humiliation. She tried to hide the truth even from Mme. Daubrel and Dumesnil, but they loved her too much to be blind to it long. Lise, when one day she was affectionately questioned, had to tell them all.

For some months Marthe had seen quite well what was going on. Nevertheless, she did her best to reassure her friend, saying that she had exaggerated the truth; most likely Paul was anxious about the artistic enterprise he was engaged in, and on account of it alone these changes appeared in his character and his mode of life.

Dumesnil, who had often been surprised at meeting Paul so seldom in his studio, backed up all that Marthe said, and, wanting to allay the young woman's fears at any cost, he said, laughing at and scolding her too a little:

"Come, come, my dear child, you must not be raising specters and falling into despair so quickly. How could you think for a moment that Paul is forgetting or deceiving you? Don't believe it. He is young; he must have fresh air and exercise. Besides