A mere caprice

CHAPTER I. ABONNE OLGA” — so called by her

JL> intimates to distinguish her from her sister-in-law, the other Baronne de Schneefeld — was taking her usual morning walk in the Bois de Boulogne. The weather was cold; the November leaves, yellow and dry, fell with a little metallic sound at the lady’s feet; she seemed to take pleasure in stepping on these dry leaves, in making them crackle under her feet. In reality she was so much absorbed in her thoughts that she did this almost unconsciously. A peculiar little smile, which was so much a habit with her that even when she was alone it rarely left her, hovered about her thin lips; while her forehead was slightly marked by the shadow of a frown. She was thinking of thes.e words of her hated sister-in-law: “ The adventuress! — at least there is one comfort — she is not likely to have any children ! ” and the image of Jean de Schneefeld’s lawful spouse, showing off her last baby, rose vividly before the “ adventuress.”

Even while she was wondering what she could do to return evil for evil, still picking out with great care each dry leaf in her path, Baronne

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Olga’s thoughts wandered away to the past. She drew her rich fur cloak well about her, delighting in its soft warmth; and she listened with pleasure to the sound of her carriage wheels in the avenue hard by — she had chosen a side path for her walk. “Adventuress! . .” Undoubtedly she was an adventuress; that is, she owed her present fortune and well-being to her intelligence, and to that alone. She and her mother had known hard times — times when husband-hunting was weary work; long seasons at watering-places, with the eternal “ casino,” — long winter months at Nice, at Cannes, at Pau, places where two strange women with a finesounding name and small means could manage to get into society. They had known the anguish of heavy hotel bills on one side, and an empty purse on the other. Was it to be wondered at, if now she revelled in her furs and velvets, in all the luxury which surrounded her ? The husband-hunting had come to an end; she was the wife of the great banker Schneefeld, the elder brother, the great Schneefeld, the founder, the true baron, — and he was madly in love with her, and she turned him round her dainty white finger. They had met at Nice, two years before; his doctor had sent him there for his health, and he found himself at the hotel with the Russian countess and her daughter. He had begun by making light of the mother’s title and of the daughter’s virtue — the old miscreant! But she had played her cards well, and he had married

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her. As to her sister-in-law Amélie, no one would have thought of marrying her had she not carried in her ugly hands a big bundle of banknotes; she was a heavily ambitious woman, and had counted on the rich brother’s millions. When he married, she considered that he had robbed her children, and her anger found vent in coarse words.

Then, as Olga was curious, and liked to analyze all things, she asked herself whether, in very truth, maternal affection was what it was supposed to be. She was sceptical of ready-made phrases, of sentimental formulas used by anyone and everyone. She had often read about the ecstasies of love — these she did not believe in at all; in her girl life she had met many men, and many men had made love to her, but not one had caused her heart to beat the faster for his presence. Since her marriage her calm and cold dignity of manner had kept the menât a respectful distance; no one, not even her sister-in-law, had found a pretext for calumny. Now, in despair at her own coldness, she fell to wondering whether a little soft-cheeked baby, all clothed in fine laces, that would smile at her, and a little later call her “ mother,” might not succeed in waking her from her apathy; and for the first time, perhaps, she regretted not having a child; — then, if she could have one, how furious dear Amélie would be!

At that moment she heard a faint groan, which caused her to start. At the foot of a tree

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crouched a woman, wrapped in a large black shawl, her face hidden in its folds.

“ What are you doing there ? what is the matter ? ” Olga had first thought of going on her way; it was no business of hers; but the smothered groans of the poor creature were pitiful to hear, and after a moment’s hesitation she stopped. At the sound of her voice, the woman looked up; she was a mere child.

“ I thought I could have got to the hospital, but I live so far away — on the other side of the Bois; and — and I can go no farther.”

Olga listened to the poor quavering voice, with its peasant accent, and understood the whole story as though the girl had told it to her; a common story, so common that it ceased to seem as tragic as it was — a pitiful story of ignorance, betrayal, desertion, with possibly death at the end. She felt moved with compassion, with curiosity especially. In her well-protected life of luxury she had not often an occasion of seeing the working of misery and suffering; she felt a little as she had often done in her pretty boudoir, with its warm flower-laden atmosphere and its cushioned lounges, when a storm raged without; the natural inquisitiveness of her nature caused her to open the window for a moment, so as better to hear the howling of the tempest. Morally, she now felt inclined to do the same.

The smothered sound of her carriage wheels, on the road hard by, struck her ear, and she called aloud to her footman.

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A few minutes later, the poor girl was placed in the carriage, astonished and grateful. She seemed easier, and opened admiring eyes at all she saw. She was willing enough to talk, and answered all Olga’s questions with childish simplicity.

CHAPTER IL

INNER was over. One felt that the viands

±j had been exquisite, the wines generous. A certain heated satisfaction was visible on the faces of the ladies assembled in Olga’s boudoir. The men, who had retired to the smoking-room, seemed in no hurry to join the circle; the drawing-rooms, which one saw through the silver-blue draperies, were brilliantly lighted, awaiting the evening guests. This was always the trying moment for the “adventuress”; every fifteen days this difficult hour had to be endured, and it left behind it a feeling of weariness, which Olga resented. As long as she was surrounded by men, all went smoothly. She was not really beautiful; she had none of what in her world was called esprit — which oftentimes is but a certain facility for talking incessantly, and for clothing anew old commonplaces — she was, on the contrary, rather silent, slightly disdainful, and very cold. Yet it was not to be denied that men, as a rule, found her singularly attractive.

Two ladies, talking together in an undertone, a little apart from the others, were discussing this subject, with a crude freedom of speech with which certain women, especially after dinner, are apt to discuss such subjects, when they feel themselves safe from listeners. One of them, stout

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Baronne Amélie, listened with great pleasure to all the wicked remarks of the old Comtesse de Vignon, because Madame de Vignon was a real Faubourg St. Germain countess, and also because that evening she particularly hated her sister-in-law. Amélie had donned for the occasion a new satin dress of that sort of green called Metternich, a violent color which that year happened to be the fashion, but which seemed horribly crude in the midst of the silver-blue draperies of the boudoir — a fair woman’s boudoir. Amélie had' expected that the dinner-guests would be invited at once to pass into the large salon / there, the gold-colored hangings would have set off her new dress. She was a high-colored woman, already heavy and stout; she was laced to the last degree of endurance; and even while she listened to the countess, she could scarcely resist the sleepiness which was with her the invariable result of a full repast.

Olga, standing at a small table, was serving the coffee; she felt that she was being criticised, but she had grown almost indifferent to this. She knew that she was looking unusually well. A pinky flush relieved the whiteness of her face; her pale blue eyes, often a little expressionless,, seemed darker than usual; but she was perfectly aware that her face, with its correct features, was rather insignificant; her superiority over other women was elsewhere. She wore a black velvet dress, severely plain, cut very low; her shoulders, formed like those of some marvellous

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statue, arose above the intense black of the velvet, without a shadow of lace to soften the effect, which was startling and magnificent; no woman in Paris could boast of a skin as white or as perfect. She wore no ornaments save a sort of dogcollar composed of immense diamonds, the setting of which was scarcely visible. In her soft fluffy fair hair there was not a flower, not a jewel. She was superb thus, and she knew it. She likçd to pass close to her sister-in-law, red-faced, loaded with jewels, overflowing in her green dress; for the contrast made her seem still more elegant and fair.

At last, the ladies having finished their coffee and placed their empty cups here and there, general conversation became a necessity. But the general conversation did not prove to be a lively one. Amélie told a long story about Maxime, her eldest, who had come home from school with his little nose all bloody, having fought like a hero. Amélie was fond of talking about her children; she had three: Maxime, the eight-year-old hero; Laura, who was three years younger; and the baby, Claire. The story of the bloody nose having had but small success, the talk turned upon dress-makers; this subject being one of greater interest, there was a little flutter of skirts as the ladies moved up toward the hearth. But soon the conversation dragged once more. Olga, it must be owned, did little toward amusing her guests; she seemed not even to hear the monotonous murmur of the feminine voices.

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At last a hum of masculine voices, with preceding whiffs of tobacco smoke, announced that the smoking-room had yielded up its prey. The men, as they entered, seemed a little embarrassed, not knowing how to place themselves, the boudoir being rather small for the party. The women still formed a semi-circle around the fire; it was not easy to approach them, and none, save the master of the house, attempted to do so.

The baron was a superb man still, in spite of his sixty years; he was very gallant, and women liked him. Every now and then he cast a glance at his wife, and that glance was one of passionate adoration — the adoration of an old man.

A few minutes after the arrival of the gentlemen, a servant entered and said a few words to Olga.

“ The poor little creature ! ”

The exclamation seemed to burst from her almost unconsciously; but Olga never did or said anything without intention.

“What is it?”

There was a sudden silence ; everyone was curious. The baron went up to his wife, and echoed the universal question.

“Oh, not much — almost nothing.” (Olga spoke French remarkably well, but she had the faintest possible foreign accent; she dragged her words a little; no one would have taken her for a Parisian, for she did not swallow the last letters of each syllable.) “This morning I found a poor creature, half fainting on the ground; I

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have just received news of her. A child, a little girl, was born some hours since, and the poor little mother is dying, it seems; she suffered too much during long months of privation, almost of starvation. She is sixteen years old, and the father of her child is a fine gentleman; all she could tell me about him was that he wore a furred overcoat. You see it is a terribly common story; that sort of thing happens every day. She did not even accuse him. ‘ I ought to have been more careful,’ she said to me; ” knd Olga imitated the nasal tone of the peasant girl. She was a born actress; she had told her story very simply, without a gesture.

“ She has begun to play Lady Bountiful,” whispered Amélie to the countess; “ it is an easy part to play when one is rich, and — we all know that charity covereth a multitude of sins.”

“We must try and find the father,” exclaimed the baron, warmly, “ and shame him into taking care of the child.”

“ How can we find him ? Many fine gentlemen wear furs,” said Olga, smiling coldly.

“ Do you wish us to subscribe, my dear, or do you mean to get up a lottery ? ” asked Amélie.

“ I ask nothing at all; I have told you a story, that is all.”

“ Not a very gay one, for an after-dinner story.”

“ Real stories are not always ,gay, my dear Amélie. But you are right; I ought to have spared your feelings, especially as I make this my own business.”

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“ What do you mean to do, my dear ? ” asked the baron, proud and happy to let everyone know what an angel of goodness he had married.

Olga turned to him with a charming gesture of confidence and affection.

“We have no children,” said she; “let me take this little girl, so that she may never know that she is an orphan.”

There was a general move among the guests. Amélie rose, as though she meant to rush forward and cry out that this wicked thing, this robbery of her children, should not take place. An imperious look from her husband kept her silent; but the effort she made to control herself crimsoned her face to an apoplectic hue. The baron saw and thought of no one but Olga; he took her hand and kissed it with old-fashioned courtesy, saying simply:

“ Whatever you do, Olga, I shall find well done.”

“She needs something to take the place of that dreadful little dog she lost recently,” whispered Madame de Vignon; then aloud she added, “ and what do you mean to make of this peasant foundling, dear baronne? ”

“Who knows, countess? — she may be the daughter of some nobleman; daughters usually take after their father. If she should prove, on the contrary, to be a real peasant, why, I can always make a little maid of her; it would be better than sending her to an asylum. But she will be pretty, I am sure, and do us honor; if

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so,” and she looked at her sister-in-law with a malicious smile which was well understood by all, “ why, then we shall care for her as for a real daughter.” Then she added carelessly, “however, the law does not allow me to adopt a child; I am too young. The future shall decide.”

No more could be said; the guests were arriving fast, and Olga went forward to receive them. She was, when she chose, an admirable hostess, putting all quite at ease, animating the talk, even while she remained very quiet herself; giving great spirit to all things, one scarcely knew how. Her husband admired all she did; he was more madly in love than ever, and was proud to show it.

Yet he knew well that among themselves those people laughed at his passion, quoting all the cynical sayings of his old bachelorhood. His life had been one of pleasure as well as of speculation, and he had been equally successful in both : he had known how to keep, as well as how to make, a fortune; and until he met Olga he had kept himself safe from all passions which threatened to be too engrossing. All that seemed to him now very far away; he forgot what he had been before his marriage, vowing that he had really lived only since that day.

Baron Max de Schneefeld was not an ordinary man. Younger son of a younger son, he had left his ruined family, and his country, which could not offer the field he needed for his ambition, and arrived in Paris without a penny. He

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did his best to forget the small town on the Rhine which gave him birth, and to lose the German accent, so difficult to lose. He made himself small and humble, and managed to glide into the employ of a well-known banker. In his obscure corner he worked unremittingly; his intelligence, his readiness to do no matter what work, brought him into notice. As soon as he had scraped together a few francs he began to speculate. His fortune grew with prodigious rapidity; for years he lived on almost nothing, taking his earnings, his salary, all the money he could get together, for his speculations. Then he caused himself to be naturalized. He became a banker in his turn, and called to him a younger brother who struck him as intelligent. Then he remembered that in his family all the sons had a right to the title of baron ; a title does well on business papers, and in the mouth of servants at a drawing-room door. At thirty-live years of age he was already very rich. He left his humility and his austerity behind him when he took possession of his fine new house; he had to make up for many years of privations and obscurity; besides, humility and modesty had served their time; they were out of place; and Paris began to know the handsome and gay baron. He was seen everywhere, and was as lavish with his money, now that he had plenty of it, as in the beginning he had seemed close, almost avaricious. He became more Parisian than the Parisians, and was welcome in all sorts of 2

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circles and societies, where he seemed always equally at his ease. The more lavish he was, the more his affairs seemed to prosper, and he became the object of all sorts of matrimonial attacks; but he seemed the personification of gay bachelorhood, when suddenly he brought home a young wife. His sister-in-law, wife of the younger brother whom he always treated as an inferior, nearly fell ill when she heard the unexpected news.

Never had Baron Max seemed prouder of his wife than during that long evening. Olga, completely mistress of herself, was pleased that all these people who called her an “adventuress” should see her power.

Olga did not, by any means, dislike the baron. His overflowing tenderness was sometimes burdensome; but even that was interesting — as a study. She noted all the phases of this passion with calm curiosity; at times, while at her knees he was telling her that she was beautiful and that he adored her, she would note, still smiling at him, that there were many more white hairs to be seen than when she married him. Then she would remember that as a girl her ideal of happiness had always been rich widowhood. She was in no hurry to realize this ideal; she greatly enjoyed her present life; it was exquisite pleasure to show her power over the rich banker; she delighted in the concentrated rage which Amélie, among others, was obliged to conceal. As she, at the end of the evening, shook hands with her

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sister-in-law, she remembered her morning’s meditation, and smiled, saying to herself that she had indeed found the means of being singularly disagreeable to that stout person.

Chapter III

O LGA played at maternity very prettily indeed. Her new toy really amused her at times, and she chose that others should think her engrossed in it. When she was a child, dolls never pleased her long, — she usually broke open the head to see what made the thing smile; the doll, with the top of its head off, continued smiling — which fact always puzzled Olga greatly. Now, she could not open this living doll’s head; besides, the living doll was not given to silent smiling — it spent its little life in sucking vigorously, in sleeping, or in screaming; but it was warm and soft, it had funny little movements, and eyes that seemed quite round, without lashes or eyebrows, and with very little white around the dark blue balls. The real mother had died almost happy when she was told that the fine lady who had cared for her would also care for her child. “ At least,” sighed the poor creature, “she will not know what it is to be hungry.” All she asked was that her baby should be called Marie, like herself. Olga consented; but as she did not like simple names, she dressed this one up in a Russian fashion of her own. Marie became Macha or Maka — of which the French pronunciation soon made Marca.

The young Baronne de Schneefeld was often 30

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seen driving, having opposite her a stout nurse decked out with blue ribbons and carrying a white bundle. Many people thought that she had given an heir or heiress to the happy baron. The real story was known to a small circle, but real stories often get changed in the telling, and the version usually accepted in society was that the adopted child was in some way related to the baron — some said, to his wife. At any rate, the little girl was to take the family name. The affair was a good deal talked about at first, then quickly forgotten; for after a few months the stout nurse with her fine ribbons was no longer seen driving in the baronne’s carriage. Marca, having had some child’s illness, had been sent, with her nurse, to the country-place, two hours from Paris; for Olga did not like living dolls that screamed at night — and Marca seemed particularly well provided with lungs. In the good country air, the baby throve and prospered. There were other children on the place, those of the lodge-keeper; and Marca grew up with them in happy unconsciousness of the laces and ribbons and carriage drives of her first months in this world.

One day, Olga, having by chance gone to the country (as a usual thing she was not fond of rural life), saw her adopted daughter rolling on the grass with the peasant children; and she was half tempted to leave her in a sphere in which she was born.

“ It would perhaps be wise,” said her husband, to whom she confided her passing thought.

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“ Better be an honest farm servant than an intruder on our world.”

The baron had never looked upon himself in any way as this waif’s father. Olga glanced at him from under her lashes; it seemed to her that he was speaking under family influences. She caused the child to be brought to her and examined her carefully.

Marca was then a fine healthy little girl, about four years of age; she had dark blue eyes, red cheeks, and a shock of hair. On the whole, she seemed, in her torn clothes, a superb little peasant. However, the hands and feet were small, and her baby movements graceful.

Olga hesitated during a whole day. The little girl amused her; she was not timid and she overflowed with health and spirits. As to the baron, having once expressed his opinion on the subject, he said no more. The matter was one of absolute indifference to him; had Olga asked for a tame lion as a pet, he would have done his best to procure it for her — providing at the same time a strong chain. As to this little orphan, if she chose to bring her up, he was quite willing the girl should be educated, and he would find her a husband among the clerks of the bank; it was all simple enough. After all, every one ought to do a little good in this world, especially when one could do so without personal inconvenience; it might prove to be an excellent investment — for the life to come.

The result of Olga’s day’s hesitation was that

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Marca was seen once more in the fine carriage. She was so pretty in her fine new clothes that the baronne became quite fond of her, and bought the finest doll she could find for the little darling. Olga still felt great curiosity about her own feelings, and examined them with singular impartiality. She was always much pleased with herself when she fancied that some of the emotions she had read about were waking in her calm bosom. She liked to feel the child’s little arms about her neck, and to hear her say “ Marraine ; ” she chose to be thus called. Children have very winning ways, and few women resist them.

During these four years, Olga’s position had grown much stronger. No one now spoke of her as an adventuress — except in whispers. Her influence over her husband was absolute, and it was evident that he would leave her all his large fortune; that made of her a very important person. Since the evening when Amélie had come so near compromising her husband’s position by an outburst of passion, Jean de Schneefeld had lectured her into something like prudence. Jean was not brilliant like his elder brother, nor handsome like him; he was thin and humble, with protruding cheek bones and a deprecating manner. He had contented himself with the dependent position his dashing brother had assigned to him; and in that position, had silently, slowly made his way, and put aside a few modest millions. His wife, who was am-

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bitious, and who never lost sight of the round sum she had brought him in marriage, reproached him with the inferiority of his position and the humility of his attitude. Jean never allowed himself to be angry, even with his wife; but he gave her to understand that all he did was part of a system, and that it was a system w T hich was making him rich. “ Then why do you make wry faces at my dressmaker’s bills!” would exclaim the irate Amélie. She never forgot that he had found the green satin dress very dear and too showy; he would have wished his wife to be like himself, modest and retiring before the other Schneefelds; but the Frenchwoman, feeling the importance of her dot , refused to bow before the adventuress. It required years of conjugal patience to make her understand that Olga was a u power,” and that the first duty of man — of woman especially — is to bow down before such. He always added, by way of comfort, “ Our great superiority is that we have children ; we must be patient and watchful, and some of the millions at least will fall to their share.” When Amélie spoke with groans of Marca, “the child picked up in the gutter,” her husband would shrug his shoulders and answer, “ Bah! she shall be pushed aside; have no fear!”

No modern Cornelia showed her “ jewels ” with greater pride than the fat Frenchwoman; only by way of distinguishing herself from her classical model, she did not disdain other jewels, and her formidable shoulders and arms were covered with

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ornaments, the price of which caused Jean, instinctively economical, to groan in spirit.

Olga, at the first sign of reconciliation on her sister-in-law’s part, made generous advances; she could afford to be magnanimous. The family life became touchingly friendly. The children proved a great help in the affair. They were very fond of playing in the upper rooms of the mansion, where they could romp without fear of disturbing the grown people; and Olga took care that they should have plenty of sweets. Maxime was a handsome boy, with short, curly, fair hair, who was the tyrant of the three little girls with whom he deigned to play. As he was always coachman, or master in the games, he distributed serious chastisements; his sisters shed many tears, while Marca, the youngest, being very strong and hearty, showed fight, or laughed under his whip. Maxime liked the child, and was always amused when she dashed fearlessly at him with her doubled-up baby fists. He w~as a general favorite; and his uncle spoiled him, giving him many a gold piece, the value of which the boy knew full well. He was treated a little as heirpresumptive by all those about him, especially by his mother. He took advantage of his position, of the indulgence which his good looks and easy temper won for him, to pass through his classes among the mediocre pupils. As he was not wanting in intelligence, he managed to catch up a bit toward examination time, so as to slip from class to class, learning as little as possible.

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