The fear of living

A plebeian husband and a woman of the aristocracy have not yet come to be regarded in French provincial life as making a good match. They are called “half bloods,” and they cannot make any pretensions to race. They are the object of ridicule when the husband allows the wife to dwell incessantly on her origin, in order to conceal the humbleness of his own, and even to have her maiden name added on her visiting cards.

M. Dulaurens had learnt through his home life to appreciate the force of aristocratic prejudice. His newly acquired royalism was extreme and uncompromising. All titles dazzled him, even those distributed by the cynical republic of San Marino in return for cash; but even to these latter, in his humility, he did not dare to aspire. This deferential attitude did not entirely console Madame Dulaurens for having married beneath her; but at least she could thus gratify her taste for ruling.

Even as she ruled her husband and her household, so too she ruled her children, and more especially Alice. She belonged to that order of mothers who confuse their own happiness with that of their daughters, and are quite sincere in thinking that they are working for the latter when in reality they are working only for the former. Her maternal affection was of the absorbing character of passion itself and satisfied the lack in her life which marriage had been unable to supply. That morning she was carefully mapping out the future of Alice, to whom she had, just as a matter of form, submitted M. de Marthenay’s proposal. But above all she was taken up with the luncheon party which she was giving in honor of Isabelle Orlandi’s engagement. She got up abruptly from her armchair every now and then to give some order. In the process she forgot to notice Alice or to obtain her consent. She was like one of those conquerors who cannot conceive of any obstacle to their plans. Her treatment, indeed, of the eminently serious subject was somewhat free and easy—for she had long had it in mind, and looked upon it already as one of those family compacts which are natural and, so to speak, inevitable.

Coming back for the third time from the kitchen, which she did deign to visit, she enumerated all the advantages of this match. “His is a very old and perfectly genuine title. Good connections. Not much money certainly, but our aristocrats are not shop-keepers. And Armand is very good-looking.”

There was a knock at the door, and the frightened butler came in with uplifted hands.

“Madame, I am sorry to have to tell Madame that the ice cream is not hardening in the freezer!”

“Put more ice and some more salt into it then,” said Madame Dulaurens shortly, continuing as soon as the door was shut:

“And then, my dear girl, I shall be able to keep you near me. You know, I absolutely insisted on that. I made that an essential condition of your acceptance. Armand has promised me never to leave Chambéry. If some day he is appointed to another place, he would give up his post and that would settle it. He has agreed to that, so we shall never be separated.” She was prepared to give way to tears at this juncture, when there was another knock.

“Come in,” she said impatiently.

It was the gardener bringing in flowers for the table, to receive her compliments.

“Alice, do look at these carnations,” said Madame Dulaurens Hurriedly, “and the jessamine and roses. They are very nice, Pierre, thank you.”

At last she glanced at her daughter. Alice’s silence surprised her. The girl was deathly pale and kept her eyes cast to the ground. When she raised them she met her mother’s gaze and, unable to bear it any longer, burst into tears. Madame Dulaurens took her in her arms.

“Dearest, what is the matter?” she said.

“I don’t know. Why do you want to marry me off so soon? I am quite happy. Keep me here still, mother darling.”

Madame Dulaurens stroked the girl’s head and her cheeks as she used to do when Alice was a child.

“But I am not going to lose you, my sweet. Have I not explained that you are not going to leave me?” she added with a smile, though still rather anxiously:

“Think what a lovely Countess of Marthenay you will make, dear! And don’t you like the Count?”

“Oh, I don’t know!”

It was her frightened way of refusing, Madame Dulaurens had a presentiment of it.

“We will fix the wedding for any day you choose,” said she.

At this sentence, which gave a very present reality to the dreaded event, Alice shuddered and in a heartrending voice entreated:

“No, no, I can’t do it. Oh, mother, mother!”

Madame Dulaurens was stupefied by this simultaneous blow at her affection and her will. But woman of the world as she was, she thought the time for an explanation badly chosen.

“Dear heart, be calm. I quite understand your feelings. It will all be arranged. It is just lunch-time, and our friends are arriving. Dry your tears quickly, do, dear. Trust in your mother.”

Alice had succeeded in regaining her calm when a servant announced that Madame and Mademoiselle Orlandi were in the drawing-room.

As she went down first to receive her visitors, Madame Dulaurens reflected. She was not unduly disturbed by Alice’s strange refusal, seeing in it only one of those girlish whims which spring up so easily and as quickly die again. But she felt she knew the cause and blamed herself.

“It was I who brought Captain Guibert here,” she thought. “It is all my fault. And what an absurd idea to ask him here to lunch to-day!”

In her anger against the young man, in whom she already saw the obstacle to her plans, she was not far from considering herself his benefactress and accusing him therefore of ingratitude, because she attached no little importance to her invitations as a passport to celebrity for her guests.

After lunch, Madame Dulaurens was unable to repress a certain new disquiet. Looking for Alice, as she kept doing constantly, she saw her through the drawing-room window, going towards the oakwood on Paule Guibert’s arm.

All the time she was entertaining Madame Orlandi and Mademoiselle de Songeon with her smiles and graces she was saying to herself:

“I am quite certain she is being influenced by that wheedling little creature, who is trying to get her for her own brother.”

And turning to the Captain, who was talking to M. Dulaurens and M. Landeau, she noticed that his eyes were following the two girls.

“I wasn’t wrong,” she said to herself. “The danger is there.”

Little used to reflection and impatient of every discussion which could lessen her authority, she never asked herself whether she could trust Alice’s future to this honourable man; whether, indeed, it was not her duty to do so, should her child’s love have involuntarily been given to him. She quite understood, without admitting it to herself, that a comparison could only be unfavorable to M. de Marthenay, who had already been mixed up in a disgraceful liaison and whose military career was without glory or promise. Instinctively she put from her the thought of any possible rivalry which could at the last moment disturb an arrangement to which she had irrevocably made up her mind, an arrangement which flattered at once her insufferable conceit and her still more overbearing motherly pride. As she chose for her daughter what she would have chosen for herself, she was in no doubt as to the wisdom of her choice and her own disinterestedness.

In the meantime Isabelle Orlandi, stopping Jean Berlier as he was going up to join the group of men, whispered:

“What do you think of him?”

“Of whom?”

“M. Landeau.”

“I don’t think one way or the other,” Jean replied.

“He doesn’t talk much, but he says all he thinks.”

She laughed, showing her white teeth, which reflected the light, and for the second time Jean found her laugh ring false. He thought of the songs one hears at night in the country, sung by a belated pedestrian frightened at the solitude.

Silent and motionless, M. Landeau devoured his fiancée with his eyes. It was very evident that he felt for her one of those passions that increases instead of lessening with the decline of youth, when it suddenly attacks a heart which has until then been a stranger to love. He was already a middle-aged man, and his clumsy, squarely-built figure lacked distinction. He was little used to society and was easily disconcerted by the light and airy graces which are its very life and soul. The dashing elegance of Jean Berlier, who was only twenty-five, accentuated still more by contrast his own age and clumsiness. From afar he gazed at Isabelle, splendid and beautiful in her white dress, like an idol whom he dared not approach. And she seemed oblivious of everything, even of the unpleasing presence of her millionaire slave.

Through the oak-branches, the sun’s rays filtered on the soil of the wood which was covered with a brown carpet of the leaves of past years.

The two girls walked slowly along the path arm in arm. They passed from sunshine to shade, and from shadow to sunshine again. Amid the shelter of the old straight-limbed trees they felt the peace all about them. Alice of the golden locks was dressed in pink. Paule’s dark hair and mourning dress brought out the paleness of her skin. The fine weather made them both happy, and almost unconsciously they renewed their friendship of the convent days and from time to time they stopped to smile at each other.

Meanwhile neither noticed the other’s excitement. Each had a great secret. Alice, who thought herself very brave since the scene of the morning, was burning to be worthy of her friend’s confidence. Paule, stirred to the depths of her nature, was thinking about the brother whose affection she was about to reveal.

“Paule,” said Alice, “do you remember our talks at the Sacred Heart?”

“I seldom think about them now,” replied Paule.

“One day we were talking about marriage. Raymonde Ortaire, in the class above us, was always discussing the subject. She said, ‘I shall never marry anybody but a rich aristocrat.’ Then we all told in turn what our ideal was. I could only whisper, ‘I don’t know!’ And you, Paule, I see you now with your dark eyes—your lovely dark eyes which shine most at night or in trouble. You said, as if you despised all our ideas, ‘To marry is to love and nothing else.’ Raymonde laughed, but we felt like slapping her!”

“You too?” said Paule, with affectionate irony.

“Certainly, I too. Does that surprise you? If you had heard me this morning you would not be at all astonished.”

A little flush in Alice’s pure cheeks gave her animation which heightened her charm, and her walk seemed less languid and weary than usual. Paule, who loved the sweetness of her features though she thought them weak, was surprised at this new spirit and immediately felt that it was a good omen for her mission.

“This morning?” she repeated questioningly.

“This very morning,” said Alice solemnly, “I refused to marry.”

She said no more, so that she might enjoy the effect of this. It is always pleasant for a girl to give someone to understand that she has refused suitors. A more delicate thought made her add:

“You promise to keep the secret? I shall not even tell you his name.”

Paule, who had guessed it already, smiled rather uneasily. Quivering with excitement, she waited for explanations. Already she trembled for him who had sent her on his errand.

“Would it be indiscreet if I asked why you refused?”

Alice stopped. A golden ray, which shot through the leaves, fell directly on her fair hair. Her supple form bent forward a little and she cried, radiant as a spring flower.

“To marry means to love and nothing else!”

“You don’t love anyone then?”

“No.”

“Nobody?” persisted Paule.

“Nobody.”

But the girl blushed. Was it at her own words, whose boldness shocked her natural reserve, or from a sudden fear that she had distorted the truth?

Paule came to her and put her arm round the slender waist. Then clasping her quite close in the quiet shelter of the wood she murmured quickly, almost timidly, astonished at herself for daring to say what she did:

“Don’t you know that Marcel loves you? He has given you all his heart. Will you consent to be his wife, Alice? He hopes for no happiness except from you alone.”

They were both equally affected and both dropped their eyes to the dead leaves which lay at their feet. At the same moment they both looked up again, blushed, and with a graceful movement embraced each other, and burst into tears.

Paule recovered herself first. She looked with new eyes at this exquisite being leaning on her shoulder, who without uttering a word had become her sister. Alice, meanwhile, a prey to delicious emotion, feared its force and thirsted to feel it always at her heart, accused herself for giving way to it and readily gave way. This first encounter with love made her see into the secret corners of her soul, still so unformed and child-like. Her heart unfolded like some rose-bud, which in the evening seems still closed and next morning one finds with its opening calyx wet with dew.

“You will say ‘Yes’?” asked Paule softly. And in a voice as thin as a breath of air Alice at last whispered, “Yes.”

Hand in hand they continued their walk, one listening to the happiness singing within her and the other forgetful of self, and tasting in all its fulness this joy which was not for her.

“You are my sister,” said Paule, “and I love you. Marcel deserves to be happy. He has been so kind to us, I cannot tell you how kind. After my father’s death we lived through some dreadful times. But my brother, though so far away, helped us, with all his strength and resources.”

Alice listened to this praise with conflicting emotions. Paule’s words brought an element of awkwardness into the conversation. Alice thought nothing of money and did not know its importance. But she could not imagine a love story without an appropriate setting. Ignorant of life, she had conceived a wrong idea of the relative importance of vital matters. And how indeed could she have met it in all its truth?

These were but dim and fleeting impressions. Alice did not regret that she had said “Yes.” Marcel loved her, and dear Paule at her side spoke so kindly to her. Feeling the need, however, of reinforcing her courage, she questioned her friend about the future.

“What must we do now?”

“My mother will come to La Chênaie to ask for your hand. You must prepare your mother and father. Your mother adores you and surely wants only to make you happy. And M. Dulaurens will willingly listen to your mother.”

The oak-trees which sheltered the two girls at this moment were so thick of foliage that no light could penetrate them. Alice had become suddenly thoughtful and awoke from her glowing love-dream to that reality whose approach she instinctively dreaded.

“Should I have to go away with ... Marcel?” she asked.

When she was a child she had always called him by his Christian name. Now she scarce dared pronounce the two syllables which seemed to burn her lips.

“Of course, when you are his wife,” said Paule, astonished.

“Yes, yes, of course. But shall we go very far?”

“To Algiers.”

“Oh, that is so far away. My mother will never give her consent.”

Her beautiful eyes were troubled. She already saw her happiness taking flight.

“Perhaps he would give up Algiers for the time being to please you. But don’t spoil his career, Alice. I think it is always dangerous to do that, and Marcel’s is so promising.”

“Oh, you know, Paule dear, I am not a heroine. I shall never be a Guibert. But he has been brave enough, has he not?”

Paule could hardly keep from laughing.

“You can never be too brave,” she said. “We who have no outside life, Alice, who have to stay at home, can at least help our brothers, our husbands, our sons, by our strong and understanding love. We must show our preference for those men who are brave and of some use in the world.”

“I have never thought about these things,” said Alice.

“And yet you love Marcel?”

“If he ceased to be useful to his country I should love him just as well,” Alice replied.

“Ah,” said Paule softly, as if talking to herself. “For my part, I should never dare to spoil my husband’s career.”

Her companion scarcely heard. She was following her own train of thought.

“Since he loves me, could he not stay with me, near his mother and my family? We should be so happy! Our fortune would be quite enough for both of us.”

“He would not accept that,” answered Paule. And forgetting her mission of peace in an access of pride, she answered contemptuously:

“So you would not go with him?”

Alice noticed the scorn and answered somewhat angrily:

“Of course, I would go with him everywhere. For I love him, as you know. I am quite ready. But ...” She hesitated for a moment, and then she murmured mournfully:

“There is my mother.”

“Your mother loves you and wishes for your happiness above everything.”

“No doubt. But she wishes that I should enjoy it near her, so that she can enjoy it too. Isn’t that only natural?”

Paule thought of her own mother, who had borne so many separations and who had never turned her children from their path. She was silent and her dark eyes sparkled no more. Alice took her hand, and then releasing it she began to cry.

“Paule, I’m afraid, I’m so afraid. But I love you so.”

It was to Marcel that these passionate words were addressed—through the medium of Paule. The latter soothed the timid girl as she might a little sister of her own.

“Someone is coming,” she said suddenly, hearing a noise among the leaves. “Take care.”

“Will they see that I have been crying?”

“No, hardly. Don’t rub your eyes.” And in a low voice she murmured, “Be brave. You promise me that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Dear little sister!”

Alice smiled, comforted by this sweet name.

At the bend of the path appeared Isabelle Orlandi, accompanied by Jean Berlier. She was talking with an almost feverish animation.

“Look,” she said to the two girls as they joined her—and she showed her left hand, on which a ruby and an emerald glistened.

“Two engagement rings!” she said.

“Two engagement rings?” repeated Alice, amused.

“Yes, M. Landeau is very generous. If you could only see my jewels! They will fill a big box. I had to choose an ornament, and as I hesitated between the best of them my very kind fiancé, with a magnificent gesture, simply said, ‘Keep the lot!’ So I kept them all to please Mamma. And look at this lorgnette with its handle encrusted with precious stones.”

“But your eyes are quite good,” said Jean.

Isabelle acknowledged the compliment with a curtsey.

“That doesn’t matter. It’s smart to use one,” she said.

As she was dilating on her good fortune, Madame Dulaurens, escorted by Captain Guibert and M. Landeau appeared.

Uneasy at her daughter’s long absence she had proposed to her two guests a stroll in the oakwood. She breathed more freely when she was with Alice. But she noticed her heightened color, however, and traces of trouble in her face.

“It is high time,” she thought, “to get rid of our hero.”

Behind her Marcel, too, was studying the girl. He was looking at her with the eagerness of love which dares not hope too much. But he quickly lowered his eyes. And when he raised them again they were full of the peace of love wherein doubt and fear do not linger. Madame Orlandi and Mademoiselle De Songeon, led by M. Dulaurens, joined the group. Through the plane-tree avenue they accompanied Paule and Marcel, who were about to take their leave.

In front of the open gate on the other side of the Chaloux road, before a humble cottage, a swarm of children were playing in the sun. With tangled hair, shining healthy faces, and bare feet, they shouted now with joy and now with anger, when suddenly their mother came out on the doorstep. She was a peasant woman, of faded appearance, whose figure indicated approaching motherhood.

“They are very poor,” explained Madame Dulaurens, looking at them, “and they are always expecting more children. They have seven already, and just look!”

“Seven children! How awful!” said Mademoiselle de Songeon, turning away in disgust.

“It is tempting Providence,” added Madame Dulaurens. And Mademoiselle Orlandi twittered:

“How pretty they would look painted! But in actual life they are dirty and a nuisance.”

“Those who want them can’t have them,” muttered the peasant woman, who had overheard this. And she picked up the youngest child and pressed it to her bosom.

Isabelle laughed a hard laugh and said to her fiancé, looking him straight in the face:

“Well, you know, I don’t want any children!”

M. Landeau smiled joylessly. An awkward pause followed this sally so artless and yet so cynical. Only Madame Orlandi was amused.

“Oh, Isabelle, you terrible child!” she said.

Alice kissed Paule as she said good-bye, and Marcel was lost in admiration of the languid beauty which accompanied her every movement and gave her an unsubstantial, airy grace. In his love was mingled a desire to protect her. He would have given all his strength to this lovely child, whose frailty inspired him with an almost religious emotion.

Alone with her brother on the road, Paule was kissing the children, who had stopped their game under the gaze of those whose hostility they had divined.

“Poor little creatures!” she said with an indignant flash of the eye. “They don’t love you in these days!”

The peasant woman was flattered and smiled at the girl. “There is a crowd of them and they grow like weeds!”

“God is good and the earth is big,” said Marcel, who remembered his father’s joy when he saw beautiful children.

“Yes, Monsieur Guibert. My mother had twelve. I have three brothers in Paris and four in America. They are far away, but they are still living.”

Never having left her native place, she easily confused distances. Paule pointed to the group of chubby mites, who had begun to laugh again.

“They will be able to keep you later on!”

“In the meantime they eat whole potfuls of soup. My husband toils for them all day long, and we live from hand to mouth.”

“Have you no land?”

“Not enough to keep a rabbit on!”

Putting a coin into the smallest child’s hand, money she had saved to buy a pair of gloves, she said:

“Good-bye, be brave.”

When they had reached Montcharvin woods Paule stopped and smiled at her brother.

“Don’t you want to hear my news? Did you speak to her?”

“No, I understood. She accepts, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she refused Monsieur de Marthenay this morning. It is a secret. She loves you. She is charming, and you will have strength enough for both.”

He did not answer. And brother and sister exchanged no more confidences for they felt the same shyness about their hidden feelings. As they arrived at the gate Marcel spoke to Paule again.

“We must let mother know,” he said. “You tell her, dear, since you are playing Providence to me to-day.”

“Very well,” answered Paule. “I will tell her presently.”

Later in the evening, Madame Guibert, having heard her daughter’s news, was silent for a long time.

“Is this happiness for us?” she murmured at last.

“She is very nice,” said Paule.

And the old lady added, “May she make him happy! I would rather have had her not so rich and with more strength of character. But since he loves her, we must love her too. Let us pray for them.”

She never thought for a moment that her son might be refused.