Aurette

Front matter

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Chapter I

In the warm air of a superb June afternoon the bells of the cathedral at Angers rang out musically, and the light breeze which stirred the little white clouds in the azure sky bore the joyous sounds across the town, beyond the old camp of Fremur, almost to the river Loire.

Standing at the entrance of a conservatory, whose shades protected her delicate complexion from the burning rays of the sun, Aurette Leneil inclined her head a little so as to hear better. The deep, solemn tones of the bells filled with strains of mysterious harmony the grove of poplar and fir trees which formed a curtain of foliage around the house which nestled in its verdure.

“ Vespers are over, and the procession has left Saint Maurice,” said she to a small domestic who stood near her, watching her arrange a boquet of flowers. “ Go and see if the carriage is waiting.”

The girl disappeared, and Aurette bent lovingly over her work.

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It was a simple bouquet, destined to adorn the centre of the dinner table on this beautiful Fete Dieu Sunday, but many things may be expressed in a bunch of flowers, and this one was a poem. Every blossom was exquisite : white pelargoniums veined with purple or crimson, delicate heliotropes, feathery fronds of the maiden-hair fern, rare white and yellow roses; bleeding hearts, and here and there, a fragile spray of exotic honeysuckle : a delicious mixture of color and fragrance.

Aurette leaned fondly over the flowers which were placed loosely in a Bohemian glass vase, and while breathing in their rich perfume, she adroitly slipped a ribbon around them and knotted it without lifting them from the vase.

“I believe that I have never arranged so beautiful a bouquet,” she said to herself, while a smile almost triumphant, parted her lips and shone in her eyes, and a fugitive blush flitted across her fresh, charming face as she stooped to kiss the odorous flower-petals.

The rolling of carriage wheels upon the graveled walk aroused her from her pre-occupation; she ran into the house and soon returned wearing a broadbrimmed hat which cast a shadow over her soft brown eyes and golden hair.

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“Papa,” said she, turning toward one of the windows which opened upon the portico; “Come immediately, or we will be late, and Julia will scold us.”

M. Leneil soon appeared; being a victim to chronic rheumatism, he walked with a slow, feeble step; yet there was something noble in his bearing, and his tall figure, which was perfectly erect, in spite of frequent paroxysms of pain, and his handsome face, both testified to his right to the name which he bore in his youth; Handsome Leneil.

After he was comfortably seated in the carriage he turned to his daughter.

“Where is Sidonie?” said he, “is she not coming?”

A slight shadow stole across Aurette’s delicate face as she replied in the negative.

“ Nor Charles?” said M. Leneil, “We alone in all that pomp?”

Meanwhile, the horses had started off briskly in the direction of the town, and he sat by his daughter’s side, lost in meditation.

“Have you not observed,” he said at last, turning to Aurette, “that Sidonie has become very serious.”

Aurette blushed almost imperceptibly. The

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least emotion brought the blood to her face, which was as fair and sweet as the petals of a magnolia.

“Very serious?” she repeated, after a slight hesitation.

“Or sad; I hardly know how to express it, but she is certainly changed. She used to be the picture of happiness; she is not ill?”

“No; at least I hope not.” Then after a short silence Aurette turned to her father with a countenance beaming with kindness. “She is young, you know, papa,” she added with an expression almost supplicating.

M. Leneil laughed.

“Young! I should say so. You are not old, neither is Charles, nor Julia; you are all young, my little birds! I am the only old one in our Nest.”

He sighed deeply. Four years previous to this, he had sustained a terrible loss in the death of his wife, and but for the solicitude of his eldest daughter, his children would have been doubly orphaned.

“I?” cried Aurette with a radiant smile, “I am old! Why, I am positively venerable! You know as well as I do, papa, that I will soon be twenty-three; it is no use to dissemble!”

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M. Leneil looked at her with an intensity of affection which could only have come from the depths of his soul.

She slipped her slender, gloved hand into his good paternal one, and pressed it tenderly, turning away her face for fear of betraying her emotion. At this moment the Cathedral bells burst forth into a Hosanna, almost above their heads.

“See, papa,” exclaimed Aurette, “there is the procession. We are just in time for Julia.”

The procession moved slowly along under the trees of the boulevard, between the two rows of a curious, respectful crowd. The trunks of the trees were wrapped with white linen and tastefully wreathed with garlands of flowers and long festoons of muslin, and oriflammes strewn with golden stars floated lightly from the windows. While waiting for the procession to pass, a juggler had spread his carpet upon the ground, and was energetically performing his tricks to the amazement of the expectant crowd.

“This makes one feel young again,” said M. Leneil with an indulgent smile.

The noise of the drums, beaten unceasingly,

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drew nearer, and the mountebank quickly folded his carpet, and went further off to display his skill.

At Aurette’s command, the carriage had stopped at the corner of the boulevard, and standing side by side, the father and daughter watched the cortege slowly advance toward them. First came the local musicians, beating their drums with great dignity; then the children, young girls in short dresses with their hair curled, and other tiny darlings trotting along as best they could, occasionally guided by the protecting hand of a mother or sister. Then there were the communicants for the year, in their fresh muslin dresses and long veils; then the bearers of standards, oriflammes and the litanies of the Virgin emblazoned upon blue and white banners; the theological Virtues, and several saints represented by young girls belonging to prominent families, and others carrying upon a cushion the insignia of their fraternity, the whole making a charming picture of virginal youth, as they marched onward in their snowy garments, chanting hymns.

Mary Magdalen, in a robe which fell in graceful folds around her slender form, walked with bowed head, and her waving hair fell almost to her knees.

“That is Julia,” whispered Aurette.

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II

As if warned by a secret intuition, the Mary Magdalen raised her eyes for an instant, and seeing the beaming faces of her father and sister, responded to their affectionate glances with a smile in which there was a strange mixture of filial joy and religious ecstasy. The smile vanished quickly, and she resumed her attitude of prayerful repentance.

“I am glad this is her last year at the convent,” murmured M. Leneil, “for she would end by not caring for us.”

“Papa!” said Aurette gently, “you surely would not be jealous of the good God!”

“ No, because she is coming back to us,” replied M. Leneil gravely.

The procession of boys now passed. There was a diminutive John the Baptist, in swaddling clothes and a sheepskin, who seemed suffocated, at once, with pride and zeal. A youthful Christ bore his hollow cross without sorrow or fatigue, and a Saint Louis of the same age, bearing the crown of thorns upon a crimson velvet cushion, brushed the dust from his royal mantle bordered with ermine, with the vanity of a child who feels himself handsome and admired. The older boys walked behind with banners and oriflammes of gold and scarlet. Then

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came the band from a celebrated college of the town, the clergy of the Cathedral, the censer bearer, and at last, an old priest, under a canopy, carrying the Host, which was covered with a cloth of gold.

‘‘To the Cathedral,” said Aurette to the coachman, and the carriage was soon rolling slowly along the streets where the inhabitants were hastening homeward to take in the holiday decorations, in order to end their day joyously out of doors.

M. Leneil and his daughter arrived at Saint Maurice just as the procession turned the corner of the Archbishop’s palace. The walls and railings of the palace were hidden beneath antique tapestry, treasures belonging to the Cathedral, admirably preserved and hoarded there for centuries. All this magnificence passed before them a second time, in a glory somewhat theatrical. They were marching rapidly now, in haste to re-enter. The Mary Magdalen who still walked with downcast eyes, pale, fatigued, unconscious of the murmur of admiration which her beauty provoked from a crowd, more select than that of the boulevard, did not see them this time.

Aurette stepped quickly from the carriage and just as her sister was about to pass under the porch,

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where the air was trembling with the vibrations of thundering organs and the swelling peals of harmony from the bells, she touched her gently on the arm to attract her attention.

Julia started violently and remained transfixed to the spot, while her young companions ran past her to take their places in the choir. A nun hurried back with a stern air to ascertain the cause of the detention, but when she recognized Mile. Leneil her expression changed instantly.

“Julia is greatly fatigued, Mother,” said Aurette, “and I am afraid she will faint; you must permit me to take her away with me at once.”

She spoke in a manner which did not admit of a refusal. The nun, seeing the tired, worn face of her pupil, readily gave her consent.

Leading her sister aside, a little within the doorway, she quickly tucked up the waving blonde locks which made a royal mantle for the frail young body. She then placed upon her head a straw hat trimmed with a single white ribbon, which she had brought with her, and this being accomplished she returned to the carriage accompanied by Julia.

“Take us home now,” said Aurette as she threw around her sister a light gray wrap.

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The old coachman touched up his horses, and Julia suddenly awakened from her state of half hallucination, and returned to real life.

“ Good evening, papa; good evening, Aurette,” said she, as the color mounted to her pale cheeks, and a new light shone in her violet eyes. “Ah me, I am so tired.” She stretched herself upon the cushions with a supple, graceful movement, which seemed to give her a sensible pleasure.

“I was benumbed,” said she laughing, “physically and morally. You restored the circulation by putting on my hat, I assure you, Aurette!”

M. Leneil smiled for the first time since he had seen her in the procession.

“You will brighten up at the Nest,” said he, “The Bertholons are coming to dinner.”

“Ah! that is pleasant!” said Julia approvingly. “ Have you made a beautiful bouquet, Aurette?”

“I hope so,” replied Aurette gaily, with the same sweet blush which had come to her cheeks when she pressed the flowers to her lips.

“And Mme. Bertholon will take them away with her as usual,” said the young girl with a significant look which went to Aurette’s soul. She smiled

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feebly, as if to demand mercy, and received in exchange a glance full of infinite tenderness.

Ten minutes later they alighted from the car riage before the door of their home, so beautifully called Bird’s Nest; which they had finally abbreviated to “ the Nest.”

Here it was that twenty years before, M. Leneil had prepared a home for his young wife, who soon converted the old house into one of the most delightful country places in the neighborhood of Angers.

An old lady of about sixty was awaiting them on the steps.

“I am a little ahead of time,” she said with an amiable smile, “ I don’t mean to say that you are late, however, for I have not waited for you long.”

“We had the good fortune to find Julia just as the procession was entering the Cathedral,” said M. Leneil, “It is very kind of you to come so early, but where is Raoul?”

“In the park, I believe. We found no one here to receive us.”

“ Charles not here!”

“He has perhaps just left; I have not seen him.”

“Nor Sidonie?”

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“I have not seen her either; but you may be sure they are not lost.”

Mme. Bertholon pinched up her lips as she pronounced these last words, and M. Leneil averted his eyes with a certain embarrassment. Aurette blushed, Julia turned pale, and every one seemed ill at ease.

“Here they are!” said the father with an expression of relief.

Raoul Bertholon appeared upon the winding avenue accompanied by Charles. Sidonie walked behind them with an air of distraction, twirling her sash ribbon around her finger, and letting it fall only to resume it again immediately.

“So you have come at last!” said M. Leneil somewhat sternly, “you should have been here, both of you, to receive our guests in our absence.”

Sidonie remained silent with downcast eyes. Charles stammered out an excuse, and embraced his younger sister, and began immediately to converse with Mme. Bertholon.

Raoul approached Aurette and they pressed each other’s hands in silence. Since their engagement a year before, they had perhaps not a dozen times had an opportunity to converse together for any length of time; but Raoul came with his mother

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every Sunday to dine at the Nest, and the young girl found herself becoming each day, more and more in love with her betrothed.

She had adorned him with every virtue; she even attributed to him genius, and expected great things of him when once he was married. What? Aurette did not know herself, but great things at any rate. He was an amiable young fellow, intelligent, though somewhat effeminate, without possessing any remarkable ability. At the age of twenty-nine he had chosen the career of an architect, but up to this time he had reached no distinction in his profession. Being an only child, his mother allowed him an annuity of twenty thousand francs, which dispensed with the necessity of making any other effort, for he was not ambitious. After a while, when he should have exchanged this semi-guardianship, indefinitely prolonged by a despotic mother, for the liberty of a married man, he intended to apply himself to his work with renewed energy, and accomplish wonders! And Aurette listened with a smile of rapture and confidence. But they had very little chance to discuss their plans; Mme. Bertholon was always between them, kind and affable to her future daughter-in-law, but always present, a i8

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circumstance which drew from her son’s lips a murmur, more weary than respectful.

Aurette pacified him with a glance, imploring his indulgence. She understood this jealous mother. Could one too dearly love so adorable a son? Mme. Bertholon would not always be with them; erelong they would have a Nest of their own. They were to marry in September, when Julia would leave school to remain permanently under the paternal roof, and would take from Aurette’s hands the government of the household.

In the meantime, every Sunday, Aurette arranged an exquisite bouquet to adorn the table, and which her future mother-in-law never failed to take away with her. This bouquet was a poem into which the young girl poured out, without reserve, all of her tender, confiding love; its perfumes and colors were the language, as ardent as the cry of passion, in which she expressed the vague sentiments which sometimes troubled her. She fondly hoped and believed that as long as the flowers were fresh they would speak of her to her affianced husband.

“ Is it not wrong to love so ardently?” she sometimes asked herself, anxiously. But the object of her love was so soon to be her husband; this

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ought to have re-assured her, still, she was sometimes troubled with an indefinable fear.

“Do you really love him so much?” asked Sidonie one day, as she nibbled the petals of a rose she had just plucked.

Aurette lowered her head and looking into her heart she was frightened at the intensity of passion which she discovered there. Her twenty-three years had given to this lawful love a force which was unknown to the young girl hardly escaped from adolescence.

“And if he or you should become poor? Or if your marriage should be broken off?” continued Sidonie, half in jest.

“I would die,” responded Aurette quietly.

Sidonie regarded her with an air of incredulity; she could never say such a thing; life was too sweet to her!

Sidonie was nineteen. Her parents had died when she was very young, and good 4 Mme. Leniel had welcomed her to the Nest. Her father had declared himself bankrupt, some said in order to avoid accounting for large sums of money invested elsewhere. And then, too, there had been much gossip about his death; he had committed suicide, 2

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it was said, for a woman who had wrought his ruin. Meanwhile, his daughter, who was the god-child of Mme. Leniel, could not be abandoned; she was taken to the Nest and remained there.

When Mme. Leniel died, Aurette was scarcely eighteen, Sidonie fourteen and Julia eleven. The two younger girls were at a convent where they were to finish their education; Sidonie had only returned the year before, at the time of Aurette’s betrothal to Raoul Bertholon.

She had received the news very coldly; it made her ill-humored, for the moment, to hear of any marriage. Although she had been brought up in the same way as Julia and Aurette, and treated as a sister by the two young girls, she soon discovered, in that intuitive way in which people always find out something of which they should be ignorant, her true position in the eyes of the world and the family which had adopted her.

Proud and keen, Sidonie comprehended that there was very little chance for her to marry, so the marriages of others displeased her.

“You will fly away next,” said Julia to her one day, jestingly.

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“I? no indeed! I must make my own living. I intend to be a governess.”

But M. Leniel was greatly opposed to this idea. However, he permitted her to present herself for examination; she was refused. >

“So much the better!” said he, “you will now be forced to remain with us.”

Sidonie received the same allowance for pocket money as Julia; she alone persisted in tracing the line of demarcation, more imaginary than real, between herself and the sisters. In direct contrast to these affected airs of haughty dignity, a real insouciance, an absolute indifference to the cares of life, sometimes made her gay and even boisterous, instead of sour and morose, as one would naturally have expected to see her.

Charles Leniel, four years Aurette’s senior, had returned to the Nest almost at the exact time of his sister’s betrothal. He had been traveling for several years in the interest of his father’s bank, and on his arival from India after a long sojourn, his native land appeared more beautiful, more desirable, and more attractive in every way than ever before.

As they sat upon the terrace at the Nest on summer evenings, in speaking of his travels, he would

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say again and again: “But after all, this is the most beautiful spot in the world!”

The Loire and the Maine at his feet, winding like blue and silver ribbons through the meadows; the woody hillsides, the trees with hues and forms so magnificent that one might find inspiration even in the most insignificant alder — the whole country, theme for poets’ songs — thrilled him with a sweet and infinite joy.

“I was born to live here!” he exclaimed, “and although destiny has made me a kind of wanderer, I will at least come here to die!”

Sidonie, on hearing him so openly avow his pastoral, provincial tastes, would toss her pretty head disdainfully, and a look of scorn would flit across her beautiful face, whose features were a little too pronounced, but which nevertheless had an indescribable charm.

Tall and svelte , but with a well developed form, shapely shoulders and a graceful neck, she held her chin always somewhat elevated, which gave to her face, already haughty, a commanding look, redeemed by the insouciance of her charming smile. One could see that she loved to rule, but not being

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able to do so, she accepted her lot, and affected a supreme indifference to everything.

Nothing is more vexatious to a man than this assumption of indifference; what pleasure was there in being adored by the others, esteemed by his superiors, respected by his equals, if a young girl, who failed in her examination, counts one for nothing in her life?

Charles felt this mortification vaguely, hardly acknowledging it to himself. He had known Sidonie since her childhood, and, being a respectful son to a mother whom he loved above all else, he accepted her as a sister. In after years ,when his mother’s death and the illness of his father had forced him to face the possibility of eventually taking upon himself the responsibility of the head of the family, he had set aside her share in the paternal inheritance, so that the effects of his parents’ kindness might be felt even in the far distant future.

So, it was only with brotherly vexation that he received Sidonie’s disdain, and in a spirit of friendly conciliation he endeavored to keep on amicable terms with her. But their conversation inevitably ended with mockery on one side, and rudeness on the other. Aurette iwas kept busy adjusting these

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quarrels, which generally terminated with merry peals of laughter on Sidonie’s part. But these broils gradually ceased; Charles was absent on business, from time to time, and he would return to India immediately after his sister’s marriage, so the quarrels of the young people would no longer disturb the tranquillity of the Nest; yet Aurette was still anxious.

Dinner, on Sunday, was served in the large dining-room, on three sides of which were glass doors through which one could get a glimpse of the exquisite landscape flooded with the last golden rays of the setting sun. The air was full of peace and glory, the flowers in Aurette’s bouquet shed a perfume like divine music; out of doors the birds were singing, the blackbirds particularly, calling from tree to tree in notes almost as sweet as those of a nightingale. The table was loaded with luscious fruits served on Limoges china of creamy whiteness, wreathed with a lace-work of rose-tinted porcelain.

Mme. Bertholon gave a sigh of happy contentment as she leaned back in her chair; her keen, scrutinizing glance wandered around the table and fell upon Charles, who had been unusually silent during the repast.

“When will you return to India?” she said to him in a low but penetrating voice.

The young man started as if the subject was painful to him. He looked at her in an embarrassed way and replied with a kind of effort:

“As soon after my sister’s marriage as it is convenient, madame.”

A sharp glance flashed from Sidonie’s downcast eyes; she elevated her chin as usual, and her gray, cat-like eyes roved from one to the other of the company without resting on any one.

“You regret to leave, do you not?” continued Mme. Bertholon, without raising her voice.

“Ah! Certainly!” sighed Charles with inexpressible sadness.

M. Leniel rose from the table.

“Let us not think of it,” said he; “moreover, his absence will not last forever. My son is building his fortune as I built mine, with hard work, patience and many sacrifices.”

“Yes, father,” said Charles gently, “but you were not compelled to exile yourself.”

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“ Exile is a cruel word, my son; more cruel than the thing itself,” observed M. Leniel, “especially when one is at liberty to return and renounce his career!”

•‘And no brave man would do that,” interrupted Julia, who up to that moment had taken no part in the conversation.

Her clear, crystaline voice resounded like a bell.

Silence reigned; they left the dining-room and went to sit upon the terrace to drink their coffee. Aurette poured it out and Julia handed the cups; she had taken off her white muslin dress and donned a woolen robe of a silver-grey color which gave her almost a monastic appearance.

The conversation soon revived; the gentlemen lighted their cigars, and Raoul, who by virtue of his rights was sitting near Aurette, was deeply absorbed in watching the spiral wreaths of smoke dissolve in the air. He was thinking of nothing in reality, in the beatitude of a good dinner past, and an excellent cigar present.

The stars began to twinkle in the blue heavens, scattered here and there, at first scarcely visible, increasing in number and brilliancy as the fiery tints of the setting sun faded into the delicate gray

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2 7 of twilight. Aurette felt her soul rising like incense and mounting toward the stars. In a few months their divine splendor would have for her a new meaning; Raoul would still be at her side, but as her husband; nothing could separate them then; no one would have the right to come between them, and she could hold within her own the cool, firm hand that now merely touched her fingers at meeting and parting. In this dream of definite, complete possession, she pictured herself in the embrace of two strong arms in which she would rest as confidingly as when her father lulled her to sleep in her childhood.

In a few months, or rather weeks, she could speak aloud the name which now she only whispered to herself in silence. She would tell him of the tenderness budding in her soul; she would think, feel, live aloud in the presence of this other soul which would have become her own. She would read his thoughts, she would bend over him and, gazing into the depths of his eyes, divine all that he had ever felt or dreamed, without his telling her.

“Give us some music, Aurette,” said her father, “we will remain here.”

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Aroused from her rapturous thoughts, she rose obediently and entered the drawing-room where the lamps were lighted.

Every Sunday she played thus for a half hour before Mme. Bertholon asked for her carriage.

She first selected, almost unconsciously, melancholy pieces, because their music was to her a song of adieu. Besides, is there not ever an undercurrent of profound melancholy in all love which is still unrealized? Aurette felt herself quivering with emotion; she wished to weep, to cry out to this impassive Raoul, who loved her though, else why did he care to marry her? How she loved him! She was as bold in her music as she was with her flowers. This virginal Aurette, who would have died of shame if her soul had suddenly been unveiled to her lover, was capable of expressing the most ardent passion in the harmonies she could not create, but which she knew so well how to interpret.

After playing two favorite airs of her father, she began one of Mendelssohn’s “ Songs Without Words,” in which there is so much of love and rapture. She played slowly, for she was alone, and it seemed to her that she was at the organ in the great Cathedral, full of the faithful, and that she

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was speaking tor all the human souls in distress of love, presenting to the Almighty their ardent supplications. When she finished, the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

She took her little handkerchief and quickly wiped them away, then stepped through the French window which opened upon the terrace, to join the others.

“You play well,” said Mme. Bertholon, in her concise tones, “you have made much progress since last winter; you possess a beautiful accomplishment for entertainment.”

In the darkness, Julia slipped her arm around her sister’s waist, and pressed a warm kiss on her cheek.

“She is horrible, your mother-in-law!” she said under her breath, “and you are an angel.”

M. Leneil held out his hand to his eldest daughter.

“She never fails to charm me,” said he. “I am accustomed to listening to her; it seems to me that she is speaking when she plays thus.”

Aurette’s eyes sought Raoul’s and found them. She was very beautiful in this twilight, and for a moment he was truly in love. As she passed near

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him he gently caught her hand which was half hidden in the folds of her dress.

Mme. Bertholon had risen to go. Raoul felt suddenly enraptured.

“You know,” he whispered softly, “that I love you, dear Aurette.”

This cry from the heart was perhaps not very eloquent, but it touched Aurette in the innermost fibre of her soul. She looked at Raoul with an expression of love so intense and ingenuous that he was deeply moved, and imprinted upon her hand, which he still held within his own, a passionate kiss.

Aurette was silent; she was realizing her dream. Would it always be thus? Could she feel such happiness and live? She suddenly had a vision of their nuptials; in the great Cathedral at Angers, she was walking near Raoul to the altar, crowned with flowers and gleaming with lights; he placed the marriage ring upon her finger. Ah, what a steadfast, faithful wife she would be until death!