Past Forgiveness?

Chapter I

The little town os St. Gervais lay on the Breton coast, and it was a very pretty, gay little place. There were picturesque streets, with over hanging gables rich with quaint carving, and the mellow colouring only attainable through the dirt of ages. But these did not thrust themselves on the notice of the comfortable bourgeoisie. For them St. Gervais consisted of the Boulevard de la Paroisse, the Place, des Armes, and the Quai — the latter the promenade of the dlite, in their best clothes, on bright, gay summer evenings. The climate of St. Gervais had none of that brilliant, sparkling vivacity so characteristic of some parts of France. It was soft, generally VOL. I. I ? 2 hazy, the sky grey rather than blue. The sea fogs were apt to come up, wrapping the whole place in their wet embrace. The damp hang ing in the air had one effect — there were no grander sunsets in the world than those which unfolded their splendours over that ragged, rocky coast.

The crowning glory of St. Gervais was its parish church — a beautiful Gothic building, so exquisite in detail and execution that, but for the obscurity of the little town, it might have been as famous as the far-famed St. Ouan itself. The prone was just over ; Monsieur le Cure had been preaching, and all the St. Gervais world had been listening to him. The sermon had been excellent for the first half-hour ; after that it was difficult not to yawn ; and when he dismissed the congregation, their departure was a little too much like the scamper of a released school. Out they all poured into the strong dazzling light of the evening sun, the peasants and bourgeoisie alike eager to find places under the trees on the quay, where they, could sit and discuss the sermon and all the neighbouring news, and listen to the military band which always played for their edification.

Last, but not least important, of the congre- ? 3 gation, three ladies emerged from the Paroisse, and, as they let the curtain drop behind them, took up the conversation interrupted by their devotions. " She was not in church, Louise.' " No, Julie ; it is true." " Ah ! it is the first time that I ever knew Madame de Frontignac miss the prone." " The first ; but I fear it will not be the last." All three ladies sighed deeply. Madame Bise spoke again. Her dress was rich, her cachemire superb, her bonnet must have cost money. She was the widow of the doctor who had had charge of the last three generations of St. Gervais, who had espoused her after he was seventy-five, and had left her richly endowed by the results of his humane profession. " My friends," she said, " our little consultation was interrupted ; let us resume it — let us speak with candour, not disguising from our selves any of the facts of the case.

As a pre liminary, let us be seated." " You are so clear-headed," murmured Mademoiselle Manchon, a very fat, active, springy woman, whose parentage was wrapped in obscurity. She was hospitable; she was rich; what did it matter that a scandalous whisper ? 4 was in circulation that her father had been poor, that her mother had begun life as a washer woman, and had risen to the position of head of a vast concern in which the washing of Paris was carried on by machinery ? The old Man chons did not inhabit St. Gervais, even if they existed. There remains only Madame Latouche to describe. She was not yet an accomplished success like her companions ; she was the wife of the Notaire Latouche — a rising man, certainly, but still on the rise. She was a little, eager, sharp-faced woman, speaking very fast, and with much decision of manner ; without the solid dignity of Madame Bise, or the feather bed elasticity of Mademoiselle Manchon.

Madame Bise sat heavily down on a bench, and her companions placed themselves on each side of her. Before them the wide grey sea placidly swung from side to side, little children played, skipped, and danced on the road ; peasant women, in long gold earrings and picturesque white caps, sauntered past, discussing the news of the markets ; ladies chattered and eesticu lated ; officers in full uniform walked arm-in-arm, wondering to each other how much longer they would be detained in this detestable hole — only breaking off their complaints to burst into the ? 5 smile which must, perforce, accompany each profound salutation. " Let us discriminate," said Madame Bise. " Yes, assuredly, let us discriminate," said Mademoiselle Manchon. " First of all, let us understand what we mean by discrimination."

There was a pause. It was impossible to answer such a question as that. Mademoiselle Manchon could have blessed the bandmaster who now started off with a crash of wind instruments, beginning explosively in the bass. Madame Bise was obliged to raise her voice as she proceeded — • " There is no need for mysteries among such old friends as we are. Let us confess it. The residence of Madame de Frontignac among-* us has been an honour to our society." " Not so fast, Julie ! " said the wife of the notaire, who was Liberal to the finger-tips. " Who is she, after all ? Widow of a mere chevalier ! cadet of a noble house, it is true ; but only cadet. No, no ; merit I am prepared to admit, but the honour she does us — no ! " " Then we will put you out of the question," said Madame Bise, calmly. " Not at all.

The question still remains. Pray go on ! " she exclaimed very hastily. ? " Madame de Frontignac, since the lamented decease of the late Monsieur le Chevalier, has condescended to make her home here. Do I hear you dissent ? " " No, no ; go on." " And we have formed with her a close friendship. But the time has come when con flicting duties summon her to Paris. Her daughter, whom we all remember as an en gaging infant, has now accomplished her education in the Sacre Cœur ; it is time that she should occupy herself with the duty of settling her in life, of introducing her into society. All this is understood." " And is so unnecessary," murmured Madame Latouche, " when nowadays it is not so much birth as merit ; and, better still, some little solidity of fortune, that is the important point." " Bah, Louise !

" exclaimed Madame Bise, with scant ceremony. " Your son is all very well ; but one of the noblesse would as soon marry her daughter to her chasseur." Madame Latouche vibrated with rage, but she constrained herself to speak calmly. "Where there is equality of fortune, and a possible reciprocity of sentiment, such trifles as birth and name " " Be reasonable, ma bonne. What is the use ? 7 os these pretensions between friends ? Let us resume." The pink feathers in Madame Latouche's bonnet were quivering, but she forced a thin, spasmodic smile. ' The question lies in a nutshell," she said. " Can we allow this poor lady, who for so long has been one of us, to start on so long and desolate a journey without one of us to accompany her ? " " It is out of the question," cried Mademoiselle Manchon. As it happened, the strains of the band fell as she spoke, from the most powerful crash to the feeblest pianissimo, and Mademoiselle Manchon's voice, attuned to circumstances, rent the air with a shrill shout, which caused all the passers-by to turn round instinctively.

" One should learn to modulate one's voice," said Madame Latouche, severely ; and Made moiselle Manchon, who collapsed at a word, felt very guilty and terribly hot. " One of us must accompany her into the world," said Madame Bise. " That is understood," said Madame La touche. " And I, for one, am prepared to make the sacrifice. Monsieur le Cure preached about self-sacrifice this very evening ; it went home ? 8 to my heart. During his sermon I matured my plans. I even went so far as to settle the minutest details. After all, an action under taken for the pure good of one's soul is worth a great sacrifice." Mademoiselle Manchon's face fell. "You are too good, Louise," she exclaimed. " But it cannot be allowed. I only can make the sacrifice." But Madame Latouche never listened ; she bent forward, laid a sharp and somewhat pain ful finger on the impressionable arm of Made moiselle Manchon, and went on speaking — " My offer is made with frank candour.

It is this : I will accompany our poor friend, and watch over her like a sister. To do this, I have thought out all the arrangements necessary for my household. I shall consign my daughter to the care of her grandmother. It will be a little economy, for she eats — del! how that girl eats ! I shall shut up the house ; the persiennes want painting. I will have the great family wash now, instead of at the usual time. I will dismiss Georgette ; her soups are uneatable — she takes no pains. The opportunity is excellent. I shall arrange for my husband and Auguste to dine at the Cafe Grec. I have even made the bargain — dinner, two ? 9 francs fifty ; supper, one dish, an entree, fish, and hors d'œuvrcs, one-fifty. Nothing could be more complete." " It is all very well," cried Mademoiselle Manchon, tearfully.

" But I have neither husband nor son, I am thankful to say ; it therefore remains that I am the most fitting companion for the desolate lady. I do not pretend to say that it will not cause me the most poignant regret to leave home ; but I also have made my plans. We are all prepared to be unselfish in so good a cause. You, I know, Louise, in my unavoidable absence, will superintend my basse-cour. It is well stocked. I have twenty hens, eight ducks, four pairs of pigeons of untold value, three pairs of rabbits (of which one pair is a constant source of the most cruel solicitude to me, because they invariably devour their young ones) ; also a goat of great merit, with two kids. From my cat I cannot and will not part. No ! there I draw the line. Fifine must accompany me wherever I may go." " It is astonishing how well your plans are laid out, mesdames," said Madame Bise, sourly.

" I do not act without advice," said Madame Latouche, hastily. " I have spoken to Monsieur le Cure. I traced a reflection of our conver sation in his sermon." ? 10 " I also confided my intention to Monsieur le Cure," said Mademoiselle Manchon, adding, with a touch of triumph, " and he approved." " Did he, indeed ! " said Madame Latouche, with a sarcasm meant to be withering. "I presume you did not go so far as to ask him to superintend the hens, ducks, goats, kids, cats, and rabbits with the instincts of cannibalism ? " Her bitterness was not unnatural. The excellent cure' had remonstrated with forcible words against the consignment of Monsieur le Notaire and his son to the homeless life of the cafd. To hear that he had expressed his approval of Mademoiselle Manchon's offer was wormwood indeed.

" When you have ceased these unnecessary sarcasms, mesdames," said Madame Bise, " you will perhaps allow me to let you know what I have done." " Yes, yes, chere dame ! Tell us at once ! Of course, it never entered one's head that you — so rich, so important, such a leader in our coterie — should dream of undertaking such a thing yourself." " Nevertheless, I have done it," said Madame Bise, drily. " I knew that in nine cases out of ten the first come is first served, so I wrote ? 11 this morning to Madame de Frontignac, and offered to accompany her to Paris." Madame Latouche was pale with rage. Mademoiselle Manchon could not restrain her tears of disappointment, until Madame Bise pinched her with some severity. " After all, we are in public," she said ; and the band closed its entertainment with one melodious bray and four heavy bass explosions. ? 12

Chapter II

Meanwhile there was bustle in the Chateau Blanc, Madame de Frontignac's pretty house. The lady was agitated and excited by the prospect of her approaching departure. It was not wonderful that it should be so. Her life for so long had been absolutely uneventful. The Chevalier de Frontignac, cadet of a very noble family, had been dead many years. His wife, whose marriage had been one entirely of family convenience, and by no means of inclina tion, had given to his memory a very discreet and praiseworthy attention. She had retired from the world to the small property on the outskirts of St. Gervais, of which she was left proprietor, despatched her one child, a daughter, to be educated, like all damsels of high degree, at the Sacre Cœur, and settled down to the cultivation of early vegetables and an over flowing basse-cour.

It might not have been very easy to divine the motives that had made the eager little ? 13 Frenchwoman retire to the country — it was certainly not to indulge in grief. It was per haps that under a bright exterior she was rather a weak personage, easily influenced, and sadly needing a directing hand. The adverse winds that blew her over to Brittany landed her amongst some stronger characters than her own. The little society of St. Gervais enjoyed the prestige that her noblesse gave them. On the strength of it, they relegated the aspiring wife and daughter of the leading coiffeur, Monsieur Tasse, to a lower level, from which their stru£2sles to rise were unavailing--. Madame de Frontignac's maid, Clementine, had some ascendency over her mistress, and but for con siderable adroitness in the management of the St. Gervais ladies, would undoubtedly have carried her back to Paris after a year devoted to retirement in the country.

This at one time appeared so imminent that the ladies assembled privately at Madame Latouche's house, and arranged their tactics. The enemy was too powerful to be routed ; she must be conciliated. From that time Clementine was flattered, consulted, feted. She reconciled herself to life under such conditions, grew very stout and ? 14 rather lazy, and kept her mistress in St. Gervais. But now the end had come. The Superior of the Sacre Cœur had written to say that she considered the education of her charge com pleted. Virginie de Frontignac was sixteen. Madame de Frontignac was almost taken by surprise. Her daughter had so entirely ceased from having any part or influence over the arrangement of her life, that the shock was considerable. But she determined to do her duty, and, with the letter of the superior in her hand, she sent for Clementine.

To her surprise, Clementine was quite prepared. She rose to the occasion at once, spoke of all there would be to do and arrange, recom mended an apartment in Paris, where her sister had been ladies'-maid, and which was now to be let, spoke of carriages, dressmakers, coiffeurs, as if she had but quitted Paris the day before. The little new potatoes, the delicate pink carrots, the fluffy broods of baby chickens, yesterday of paramount importance, to-day became matters of such secondary influence that Madame de Frontio-nac was conscious of o extreme astonishment at herself. " Of course, this is just as it should be," said Clementine, waving her fat hands. " These ? 15 chickens can be consigned to the care of Francine ; the early vegetables will be of use to us in Paris. Now that we return to the world, madame of course perceives that our life here could only be looked upon in the light of a parenthesis."

Clementine's mind was wide enough to grasp the idea of twelve years of life being but a parenthesis. Madame de Frontignac's was not, and her bewilderment was such that the maid, who was really an exceedingly clever woman, perceived that too sudden and complete an uprooting would be too much for both mind and body of her mistress, and that the change must be carried out with discretion. Clementine's life was a busy one. Every one of the St. Gervais ladies exacted a private interview, a consultation with the confidential abigail as to Madame de Frontignac's health and happiness. In every case a judiciously worded offer to be the comfort and companion at any sacrifice. Clementine nodded, sighed, prevaricated, and left each with a conviction that that "odious woman " was not to be depended upon.

But the maid had made up her mind what she meant to do. " Madame has not a gown to wear," she said, ? 16 entering Madame de Frontignac's pretty salon. Madame must live in her dressing-gown till she can be dressed." " The new black broche ? " " Madame forgets — we go to Paris. We will leave all here. They will do if we come back to make our Easter here, or to bathe in the summer." " There is an important question arisen, Clementine — a question which cannot wait. This letter " " I know — Madame Bise offers to accompany us r " It is true. How can you guess ? Well, what do you say ? " " Madame takes her daughter away from school. Is it fair to give her a new monitress ? " You think she would rule us ? " It is for madame to judge." " And this afternoon Madame Latouche — the generosity of these ladies ! the self-sacrifice !

What say you to Madame Latouche ? " " If madame wishes her apartment in Paris to be the pied-a-terre of M. le Notaire, when he wishes to enjoy the theatres." " The notaire ? " " Dame, oui ! Self-sacrifice cannot be all on one side. Ces messieurs enjoy Paris, especially ? 17 without paying, and the appetite is apt to flag on a daily dinner of one-fifty at the Cafe Grec." " Then it is out of the question. One can tolerate the ladies ; but ces messieurs — that is quite a different thing." Already the approaching change was doing its work. " If madame really requires some one," said Clementine, " I see no reason against Made moiselle Manchon." " Mademoiselle Manchon ! in Paris ! Can you think of it ? " " She is without pretensions," said Clementine. " She will not expect or try to enter madame's coterie.

She will pour out the coffee ; she will walk with mademoiselle ; she will perceive in the twinkling of an eye that she is of a size that will make it impossible for her to go out with madame and mademoiselle in madame's coupe. These are considerations." " Ah, Clementine," said Madame de Fron tio-nac ; " what should I do without you ? " " Madame must dispense with me now, for there are a thousand things to do." The ecstasy of Mademoiselle Manchon, when that evenine she received a note from Madame de Frontignac, inviting her to accompany her vol. i. ? to Paris, is more easily imagined than de scribed. It is true that it was somewhat mitigated on the following morning, when she went to Madame Latouche's house, and pleaded for the superintendence of her basse-cour by that excellent lady. Madame Latouche's refusal was so curt and withering that Mademoiselle Manchon could not restrain her too-easily produced tears.

In vain she pleaded the love of sacrifice — the notaire's wife was in so fierce a Republican mood that she would have consigned Madame de Fron tignac a la lanterne without scruple, and with the stern though spurious sense of duty that develops from the seeds of mortification. ? 19

Chapter III

The four or five stories of a great Paris house in themselves form a little world. The first floor devoted to wealth and luxury ; the second to a more modest affluence. Above, gradations from the honest, industrious mechanic, able to pay a good rent, to the last extremity of penury existingin the garrets. All meet daily on the self-same broad common stairs ; they pass and repass each other with the courteous salutation of the most punctilious people in the world. Under the same roof, but as far apart in thought and word and life as if they inhabited separate countries. On the first floor of one of these houses, the Hotel Beauvais, in the Rue Narbonne, Madame de Frontignac was installed, with Mademoiselle Manchon as a companion. A hundred times through the long afternoon the two ladies fancied they heard steps upon ? 20 the staircase, and ran out, always to be dis appointed.

Madame de Frontignac was expecting the arrival of Virginie. Clementine had gone to bring her home from the Sacre Cœur, and her mother was in a condition of acute suspense. " Surely, surely, Marie, that is a step. I must see ! " Madame de Frontignac almost capsized the washerwoman's man, who was labouring up the stone stairs in a blouse, carrying a gigantic weight upon his shoulders. She went back abashed. " Not yet, Marie. Surely there must have been some accident ! " "Very possibly," said Mademoiselle Manchon, beginning to be tearful. " The way these Paris carriages pass and repass, fly at each other, dash across the road ! Every time we venture forth it is at the risk of life." " I wonder what she will be like ! " cried Madame de Frontignac for the fiftieth time. " Ah ! it is an unbecoming age ; do not set your hopes too high.

A year or two will doubtless do all that you can wish. I remember | well that at the age of sixteen I was " Chut ! that is a step at last." ? 21 Another rush to the door. It was a step, but going downstairs, not coming up. As Madame de Frontignac opened the door, the tenant who lived in the topmost garret of the Hotel Beauvais was crossing the landing to descend. Mademoiselle Manchon, who was looking over her shoulder, gave a little shudder. " Ciel !" she exclaimed ; " what a spectre ! " He had his back to them now, and was going downstairs slowly, with his hand on the hand-rail. A man very considerably above the ordinary height, with a young figure, square shoulders, and broad chest, but stooping in a curious manner, his head bowed on his breast. It was the glimpse of his face which had caused Mademoiselle Manchon to shiver.

It was so fearfully thin and white ; the great hollow eyes looking out of square-cut eyelids with an ex pression to which they had no clue. Some might have understood, but these two ladies, with the kindest hearts in the world, were somewhat deficient in imagination. At that very moment Virginie and the maid were coming up, and they met on the stairs. The gentleman, for he was unmistakably such, in spite of his threadbare clothes, stood ? 22 on one side to let them pass, and took off his hat. Virginie made a little courteous bow and glanced at him. She was not devoid of imagination. She started forward impulsively, and, to the extreme consternation of Clementine, exclaimed — "You are ill!" The hand holding the banister so tightly gave a little convulsive movement. The gentleman shook his head.

He wanted to answer her, but he could not. On the impulse of the moment, she had actually for one instant put her finger on his coat-sleeve, and she was looking at him. The dark hair on his forehead seemed to be heavily glued together, he mechanically raised his hand and pushed it back. He saw through a sort of mist a face which must be the face of an angel, so pure, so delicate, framed in soft wavy hair of pale gold, eyes full of the com passionate tenderness that melts human hearts like the sun upon snow. But he could not speak, he could only bow in a quick, mechanical way — there was an odd contraction in the muscles of the throat which prevented the utterance of a word. Clementine hurried her young lady away, ? 23 greatly shocked at the breach of conven tionality. People of experience would perhaps have understood ; but neither maid nor young lady, possessed experience.

Etienne de Rohan stood still for one instant till they were out of sight, then he pressed his coat-sleeve to his lips, the place on which her hand had rested for one brief second. He kissed it, and the kiss brought a rush of warm tears to his eyes. Then he raised himself, found that he could walk more steadily without the hand-rail than he had expected, and con tinued his way downstairs. Virginie ran up the few remaining steps, then stopped on the landing with a beating heart. Mademoiselle Manchon had grown quite tired of all the false alarms, and she murmured that if they continued to rush out all day, they would be called by the neighbourhood the ladies who lived on the stairs. She was talking quite eloquently and volubly on the subject in the little vestibule within their door — she herself perched on a trunk which stood there — Madame de Frontignac pacing from side to side without listening to one word that she said, when Clementine quietly opened the door with her pass-key, and let her young lady enter. ? 24 A little cry, a rush, an ecstatic kiss, and Virginie was borne on into the salon.

" But she is pretty ! she is charming ! she is enchanting ! " cried Madame de Frontignac, kissing her daughter again and again. " How dared you say otherwise, Manchon ? " " I say otherwise ! " gasped poor Marie, aghast at such an accusation. " I ? " " Did you not say that she would be what you yourself were at sixteen ? without form, without ' contour,' without moderation in colour ? " " Chere dame !" gasped the poor lady. "You will see," said Clementine, com placently. " Mademoiselle will be all that can be wished when her toilette has been arranged. Meanwhile, she has not a gown that she can wear ; she must live in one of madame's peignoirs until something can be arranged." They were all talking her over, as if she were not standing among them blushing and smiling, longing to hide her face when they praised her beauty ; but not succeeding in burying it on her mother's shoulder, because Madame de Frontignac could not spare the sight of it for a moment.

" Madame la Superieure sent you a great ? 25 many salutations, mamma," said Virginie, timidly. "Ah, I must thank her for all her care of you ! I expected a well-brought-up little pen sionnaire, and my good Marie here had so repeatedly assured me that you would resemble herself at the age of sixteen, that I really was afraid to see you, mignonne ! But how late you are ! It is five o'clock, and we have been expecting you this hour." " Mademoiselle had so many adieux to make," said Clementine. " Dear mamma, I am sorry I kept you waiting," said Virginie ; " but Sœur Anne, who has been like a mother to me, had been away from home, and only came back ten minutes before my departure, and I thought you would not mind my waiting to bid her good-bye." " I should not have minded, chdrie, in the very least, had it not been that Marie Manchon frightened me so dreadfully with her stories of all that happens in the streets of Paris, where cabs and omnibuses and carriages are always destroying each other."

Mademoiselle Manchon could only lift up her hands in a mute protest. Virginie looked at her smilingly ; she under stood it all perfectly. ? " However, here we are in safety," she said. " But, oh, mamma, tell me who it was whom I met on the stairs coming down ! " " I do not know any one in the house by sight yet," said Madame de Frontignac. " Over us live a Monsieur and Madame Godifret ; he is an employe" of some sort. There is a very stout man, Monsieur Benoiton, and — that is all, I think." " Except the baker's family, au quatrieme, and the old lady with blue spectacles, and " " It was none of them," said Virginie, quickly. "It was a gentleman, looking so ill — so ter ribly ill." " Ah, the man whom Marie called a demon, or a spectre, or some such bad name ! Who is Monsieur le Spectre, Marie ?

" " I only alluded to his appearance," said Mademoiselle Manchon, plaintively. " Is he dying ? " said Virginie, in an awestruck tone. "He looked so strange." " Dying ! what nonsense ! This comes of being brought up in a convent ; ideas turn to such melancholy." Virginie thought of Sœur Anne's merry little round face and hearty laugh, and could not prevent herself from smiling. " But who is he ? " she said again. ? 27 " His name is Rohan ; he lives in the garrets. Mansarde No. 2," said Clementine. "And now, mademoiselle, before anything else, I must measure you ; for no time must be lost about your gowns. Are we not in Paris ? " ? 28