Refining fires; a novel

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Madame Mauvoisin’s Visitor . i

II. A Mother's Pride i6

Chapter II

“Now tell me about your daughter, dear Madame Mauvoisin!” said the visitor. “I am sure that she at least has brought you nothing hut happiness and consolation.”

Madame Mauvoisin leaned hack against the soft cushions of the divan, and the smile which the remembrance of her son’s misfortunes had banished, reappeared upon her lips.

“You are right,” she said: “Louise has been our great consolation. Her marriage was a joy to us all — nay, more: between ourselves, I own it was a triumph. Dear child! She is indeed a favourite of Fortune.”

“I am not surprised at that,” said Madame Gerard. “She was such a dear little creature, so bright and full of life.”

“Perhaps I ought not to praise her,” returned her mother, smiling; “but there is no denying 16 her talents. And marriage has improved her enormously. Since she has had a house of her own, she has become so dignified. Oh, you will find her quite a woman of the world!”

“I shall be delighted to see her,” said Madame Gerard, “and to make acquaintance with the Baron de Charolles.”

“He is well worth knowing. A wonderful man, my dear! Before he was thirty, he had made eight hundred thousand francs on the Stock Exchange. Since his marriage he must have at least trebled that amount. If he goes on as he is doing, he will rival the Rothschilds. Such a head for business! Such discrimination ! Y ou can see even in his photograph that 'he is no ordinary mortal.”

The proud mother-in-law held out a portrait of the object of her praise, and Madame Gerard studied it with interest/

The Baron de Charolles was certainly an extraordinarily good-looking man. His high forehead and deep-set eyes showed great mental powers ;but the lines round his mouth indicated a highly-strung nervous temperament ; an impression intensified by the hands — one tightly clenched, the other hardly able to keep still even before the camera. At first sight it was a picture to arouse admiration, yet in its very beauty there was something sinister. This latter was the impression that it left on Madame Gerard’s mind. She was, however, too polite and too politic to express her real sentiments; hut to the words of approval evidently expected from her she could not help adding that she thought he looked very serious and preoccupied.

“Yes, he is serious,” replied his mother-in-law; “but he is perfectly charming, all the same. He is very fond of his wife; and as to his children, he is quite foolish about them. There are times when he is preoccupied and silent; but, with all he has on his mind, that is only natural. Luckily, his wife understands him thoroughly. They are a most devoted couple.”

At that moment the sound of the door bell broke in upon Madame Mauvoisin’s conversation with her friend, putting a stop to further confidences.

Without waiting to be announced, two newly arrived visitors ushered themselves into the room. They were about the same age; both were taU and slight, but here the resemblance between them ceased. The foremost, fair and graceful, was too much like Madame Mauvoisin for her identity to remain in doubt. Was Madame de Charolles good-looking? Perhaps not, strictly speaking; although her youth and the way she wore her beautiful clothes might have given her a claim to be called pretty, had she not been completely overshadowed by the wonderful beauty of her companion.

Classical features, almost perfect in their regularity, with deep dark eyes, were shadowed by heavy masses of auburn hair — ^not the ordinary reddish colour that is so called, but the warm, ruddy tint so loved of artists. The skin was creamy white, and the lines of the sweet, delicate mouth showed that trouble had already clouded the sunshine of the young life. There was a further difference between the sisters-in-law. A fair-haired boy toddled at Madame de Charolles’ side; and she was followed by a nurse in pretty peasant dress, carrying a placid-sleeping babe. But Lucienne was alone.

“Madame Gerard! In Paris! Can I really see aright?” Madame de Charolles went quickly towards her old friend. “What a delightful surprise! It is so nice to see you again — ”

“Louise dear,” interrupted Madame Mauvoisin, “are you not tired after your night at the opera?”

“Not at all, thank you. Mother! No, I will not sit down just yet. I must show the children to Madame Gerard.”

She turned toward the sleeping baby, and Madame Mauvoisin took the two-year-old boy in her arms.

“Here is the favorite, the spoiled boy!” she said laughingly. “Kiss grandmamma, darling!”

But the child, true to the character that his grandmother gave him, pushed aside her caresses impatiently, and struggled to get to the sweets upon the tea tables.

“Give him what he wants, nurse,” said his grandmother, “or we shall not be able to hear ourselves speak. He is a young man who knows his own mind, I can assure you,” she added to Madame Gerard. “He is accustomed to getting everything he wants.”

Whilst this was going on, Lucienne was standing rather apart from the animated little group. IMadame Gerard, who knew her very slightly, had merely bowed to her when she came in ; and her mother-in-law had only vouchsafed a curt “Good morning, Lucienne!” The conversation went on between the others, and nearly a quarter of an hour passed before she was able to say a word.

“I have a message for you from Raoul, IMadame,” she said at last. “He wished me to tell you how sorry he is not to be able to come to you to-day.”

“Raoul not coming!” cried Madame Mauvoisin, “not coming on a day that he knows I am expecting him 1 And pray what reason can you give for such neglect?”

“]M. de la Chenaie invited him this morning to Val-des-Bois. They are shooting there to-day. I do not expect him home until to-morrow.”

“Ah,' that makes all the difference!” said Madame Mauvoisin. “I knew he was to go one day to Val-des-Bois; in fact, I begged him myself to accept M. de la Chenaie’s invitation.” Then, turning to Madame Gerard, she went on: “It is a charming place and excellent shooting. Raoul will have a most pleasant visit. Of course, the dear boy ought not to dream of giving up such pleasures for me. His life is dull enough — ”

Madame Gerard could not resist stealing a glance at the young wife’s face as her mother-in-law spoke; but there was no change to be seen upon it, beyond a slight colour which showed in the pale cheeks.

“He will come to-morrow and tell me all about it,” went on Madame Mauvoisin. “Tell him, Lucienne, that I shall be expecting him. He had better come to lunch, so as to be sure to find his father at home.”

“Very well, Madame, I will give him your message,” answered Lucienne, coldly; but her mother-in-law paid no attention to her tone, though her own voice changed as she turned to her daughter. The dictatorial manner became soft and caressing as she laid her hand on Louise’s arm.

“What have you been doing to-day, dear?” she asked.

“Frederic had a bad headache this morning,” replied Madame de Charolles, “so we went for a drive in the Bois,”

On hearing this, Madame Mauvoisin was at once filled with anxiety on behalf of her sonn-law ; but Louise reassured her, and they went on to speak of his work, each vying with the other in praising him to Madame Gerard. From what they said their visitor learned that the Mauvoisins were evidently counting on their son-in-law’s genius for finance to recoup the losses that their son had sustained through the De Barli misfortunes.

Probably neither of them meant to be unkind to 7 '’cienne. Louise, at least, forgot her presence as she extolled her husband’s ability; but Madame Gerard thought she detected a tone of bitterness in her old friend’s voice when she spoke of the Baron’s successes, as though comparing them in her mind with the misfortunes that another financier had brought about.

Lucienne sat silent and apparently unmoved ; but Madame Gerard guessed that her composure was assumed, and that even if her sister-in-law’s thoughtlessness was excusable, her mother-in-law’s hidden taunts must have goaded her almost past endurance.

The conversation had again changed, and Madame Mauvoisin was begging her daughter to stay and dine with them, offering to send to M. de Charolles’ office to tell him to join the party, when Lucienne rose from her seat. Madame Gerard had been watching her covertly, and she could not check a feeling of indignation against her old friend as she saw how purposely she ignored her daughter-in-law. Though outwardly courteous enough, she seemed to take a cruel pleasure in saying the things most likely to be painful.

“Dear Madame, you are not going already?” cried Madame de Charolles, seeing that Madame Gerard had also risen.

“You must not go!” said Madame Mauvoisin. “Why should you not stay to dinner also? We should just make up a charming little party.”

“You are more than kind, but really I must go,” said Madame Gerard, glancing now openly at Lucienne, who, although her mother-in-law knew she would be alone at home, received no invitation to stay.

“Wait one moment at least,” urged Madame de Charolles. “I am just getting some Russian furs, and I want your advice about them. Oh, are you going, Lucienne?” she added carelessly.

holding out her hand. “Well, good-bye, then !”

“Good-bye, Luciennel” said Madame Mauvoisin, coldly.

Madame Raoul would have merely bowed again to Madame Gerard, to whom she had not been introduced; but the elder woman’s warm heart was touched, and she held out her hand, looking up kindly as she did so into the sad young face. Lucienne did not speak, but her lips contracted, as though to hide their quivering; and the fingers that she laid on her new friend’s palm felt cold even through the glove that covered them.

She crossed the drawing-room slowly, and walked through the hall, with her head held proudly high. The footman came forward quickly to open the door for her. All the servants in her mother-in-law’s house gave ready service to Madame Raoul; and even now, in her distress, she forced herself to smile her thanks to the man as she passed out. Just as he closed the door again, a ripple of childish laughter reached her ears; and then at last, standing alone on the dark staircase landing, her composure gave way.

“God help me I” she sobbed, leaning for a moment against the wall; but steps below warned her not to linger; and, drawing down her veil, she hurried from the house.

Chapter III The De Baeli Home

At the time of his marriage, Raoul de Mauvoisin wished to take a house in one of the wide avenues that run off the Champs Elysees. Lucienne, who was accustomed to the space and air of a provincial town, shrank from the idea of settling down in a narrow, noisy street; but Raoul’s parents were so bent on having the young couple near them, that they gave up their project, though not without regret, and established themselves in the Rue Taitbout.

It did not, therefore, take Lucienne long to get home from the Rue Lafayette. Yet before reaching her own door she had quite regained her self-command. Going straight to her room, she took off the long satin coat which she had been wearing, and laid aside her feathertrimmed hat, donning in their place a cloak and toque almost severe in their simplicity. Then, 27 ringing for her maid, she told her that she was going out and would not return until after dinner.

Evening was closing in. It was past five o’clock, and a slight fog dimmed the gaslights which were already showing in the shop windows. The air was cold and damp, the streets were wet, and the continual traffic had made the pavements muddy and slippery.

Lucienne walked rapidly along, heeding neither hour nor weather, but after going a short distance her attention was caught by the contents of a shop window, before which a small group of people was gathered. It was a provision dealers; and several delicious-looking dishes, cooked and ready for use, were displayed in tempting array. Those who looked with longing eyes at the delicacies were not purchasers, and Lucienne had to force her way through them, which she did as gently as was possible. The dish which she chose to buy was less ornate than those which were shown in the window. It was a chicken pate, crusted with most excellent-looking pastry. The shopman offered to send her purchase, but she said she preferred to carry it herself ; and when it was

THE DE BARLI HOME 29 ivrapped in paper, she slipped it under the folds of her cloak.

A cutting wind met her as, leaving the shop, she turned toward the river, till, after crossing one of the bridges, she was sheltered in a long dark street, very unlike the quarter she had just left. Twenty minutes’ walk found her amidst surroundings poorer and darker still. An old house in a narrow street off the Place Saint-Sulpice was her destination. A porter sat, as though on guard, in a tiny boxlike office under the archway leading to the courtyard, whence the stairs mounted to the apartments above. Recognizing Lucienne, he let her pass without comment; and she crossed quickly to the staircase and began to ascend the steep steps, which time and damp and the passage of many feet had stained and worn away. On the third floor she paused to take breath. Young as she was, she found the stairs very fatiguing; but her thoughts turned in anguish from herself to those — old and, oh, so dear! — who had to climb that same way daily.

Still another flight lay before her; but at last she reached the door she sought, and rang gently. With little delay it was opened to her, and she saw a man standing before her in the dim light.

“Father, dear, it is I !” she said.

“What! Lucienne at this hour! We had given you up for to-day.” And he kissed her tenderly.

“Raoul had to leave home, so I have come to spend the evening with you,” explained Lucienne. “How is my mother to-night?”

“Her cough is very bad.” M. de Barli dropped his voice and spoke sadly. “Go to her, dear, she is in the sitting-room.”

Lucienne went forward as she was told, and opened the door of the sitting-room. There was no light in it, except what came from the dancing flames of a fire, whose tell-tale crackle revealed that it had only just been lit. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the glow, which, feeble as it was, showed out the poor thin hands which vainly sought for warmth.

“Mother!” Lucienne sprang to Madame de Barli’s side. “What is the matter? Are you very ill?”

“My darling, is that you?” It was a very worn and frail figure that Lucienne pressed in

THE DE BARLI HOME 31 her young arms. “No I am not ill. It is nothing. I am tired to-night, and have caught a little cold. But, dear, how late to come to us, and on so bad a night ! It is raining: I feel your cloak is quite wet.”

“I will take it off,” replied Lucienne. “It is only damp from the fog, and there is plenty of time for it to dry. I am going to spend the evening with you.”

“Why did you not send us word, dear, and I would have had dinner earlier for you?” said Madame de Barli.

“Send you word! Why, Mother, I thought you would welcome even a surprise visit!”

“You know the welcome that is always waiting for you here,” she said. “Only if I had known that you were coming, ovu: menu might have been less scanty.”

“I thought of that, too,” said Lucienne, playfully; and she produced the pat^ which had been lying in its paper on the table.

“That is all right, then,” said M. de Barli, speaking in a stern tone, and not even looking at the appetizing dish. “We may as well dine at once. I do not want to be late,” he added, addressing his wife.

“Late?” repeated Lucienne interrogatively. But her mother checked her with a quick gesture.

“Very well, dear. It will be ready in five minutes,” Madame de Barli said, rising from her chair.

“Where are you going. Mother? Surely Manette is not out at this hour?”

“She — she is not in,” began Madame de Barli; but her husband cut her short.

“Manette has left us,” he said. “She wanted more wages.”

“Prosper, let me explain!” remarked Madame de Barli, seeing how distressed her daughter looked.

“Lucienne is not blind,” he replied dryly. “No explanations can get over the fact that we are alone here. She can see it for herself.”

“But since when have you been without a servant?” asked Lucienne.

“Only a few days,” replied Madame de Barli. “You must not blame her for having left us,” she went on, seeing that Lucienne was about to speak. “Her father is old and she has to earn all she can for him.”

“Ah,” murmured Lucienne, “she is lucky!

THE DE BARLI HOME 33

She at least can work for her parents. Let me help you,” she continued aloud. “Let me be your servant just for to-night.”

“No, dear!” Her mother’s tone admitted of no further discussion. “No. I prefer to do it myself. I know where everything is.”

She left the room to make preparations for the simple meal, and Lucienne and her father were left alone together. One of the miserable consequences following on the misfortunes that had ruined the De Barlis was the existence of a growing barrier between the father and daughter. In his wife’s presence, M. de Barli never spoke openly to Lucienne of her husband or his people; but on the few occasions when they had been alone together, he did not try to hide the resentment, the hatred that their conduct had aroused in him. Duty forbade that Lucienne should listen to abuse of the man who was her husband, who, in his own careless fashion, was kind to her, and whom, in spite of all, she loved. And, besides this, the unchristian feelings to which her father gave vent distressed her beyond measure, for his own sake.

No sooner had Madame de Barli left the room than he began in his usual yein ; and, in spite of Lucienne’s protests, he went on, pacing the room as he spoke, and ending in a voice that trembled with rage and baffled hate.

“What would I not give to have them in my power!” he cried. “If only I could make them feel something of the sufferings that they have inflicted on me I should die content.”

“Father, Father I” said Lucienne. “It is not right to speak like that.”

“Right I” he retorted. “Is it right to prevent a daughter from receiving her parents in her own house? Is it right to add to the miseries of a miserable man? Is it right to be heartless, unjust?”

His voice died away, for there was a sound of steps in the corridor without.

“I know, dear, dear Father! — I know!” whispered Lucienne. “But nothing can make your wish for revenge anything but wrong.”

At that moment the door opened.

“The dinner is ready,” said Madame de Barli, and neither father nor daughter regretted that the conversation could not be prolonged.

Lucienne noted that the dining-room, as well as the sitting-room, bore signs of poverty, which

THE DE BARLI HOME 85 was made the more apparent in contrast with a few costly articles of furniture, evidently relics of happier days, that dotted the room here and there.

The meal itself was poor and scanty. The soup, though served from a massive silver tureen, was indifferent; and, had it not been for Lucienne’s contribution to the meal, a dish of vegetables and a plate of dried fruit would have completed the menu. Madame de Barli ate little, but her husband took his share of the pate hungrily, almost greedily. As for Lucienne, every mouthful seemed as though it would choke her. She had known that her parents were poor, but never before had she realised that they were in absolute want. She could not bear to see her father eat; her mother’s cough went through her like a knife. He had been hungry; she had been cold. Lucienne shivered at the thought of what she was powerless to remedy. In the past she had always told her mother when Raoul’s absence was likely to leave her free, and much had therefore been hidden from her. To-night she saw her parents’ existence in all its sordid nakedness.

Lucienne had other troubles apart from those of her parents. She was often lonely and neglected at home; for Raoul’s mother was continually asking him to her house without including her in the invitation; and her friends, seeing this, did the same thing. This neglect and the covert insults to which she was subject had been kept secret in the past, and now Lucienne found that she had not been the only one to have recourse to concealment.

“What time is it?” asked her father, breaking in upon her gloomy thoughts.

She could not trust herself to speak, so held up her watch before him.

“Seven o’clock already! Then I have no time to spare. I shall be back in an hour. Will you still be here, child?”

“Yes, Father, I will remain with Mother until you come back.”

He rose from the table, answering his wife shortly when she begged him to put on his overcoat; and Lucienne, to her astonishment, heard the door that led from the apartment on to the staircase open, and then quickly close again.

I ^ f “What is it?” asked Lucienne. “Where has father gone at this time of night?”

“He is upset this evening, Lucienne dear, because — ^well, he has made up his mind to undertake a task that is most repugnant to him. M. Roger, who has a school close to this, has asked him to go in for an hour every evening to speak Spanish to some of the students. You understand how painful it is to him to do this.”

“Poor father ! Yes, indeed I do understand. Every word must bring before his mind the remembrance of Pedro Lozares.”

“That is it. He has never ceased talking of him — ever since this arrangement was made.”

“That makes it as bad for you as it is for him. Why did you let him do it. Mother? He should have refused.”

“He thought it better, dear. After all, it 37 is only one more trial for us to take from the hands of God.”

They had gone back to the sitting-room, and Lucienne put her arms about her mother.

“Poor, poor darhng!” she said softly, stifling a sob, and leaning her face against the worn cheek, which she felt burning against her own. “Mother,” she cried, affrighted, “you must be ill! Tell me! Don’t hide anything more from me. I would much rather know the worst.”

She spoke almost fiercely, as though any further sorrow would be intolerable to her. But her mother soothed her quickly.

“Really, dear, I am not ill. I had to go out in the cold to-day to see a girl the nuns recommended to replace Manette, and I must have caught a little chill; but it is nothing. I own that the state your poor father has been in all day has helped to worry me. There are times when it seems as though he had to talk of Lozares ; and I cannot — no, I cannot — think of him as a Christian, so I try to put the remembrance of him from me altogether. I seem to see him enjoying his ill-gotten gains, whilst we are suffering for his faults; and — God forgive me! — I cannot pardon him.”

“Don’t think of him like that. Mother. Surely, wherever he is, he cannot be happy; for he must be tortured with remorse.”

“Remorse! Lozares! Such men as he has proved himself to be don’t know the meaning of the word remorse.”

“Yet Judas, the worst of criminals, was capable of feeling it,” said Lucienne, softly. “Besides, I am sure that God will not allow us to suffer for ever. Some day justice will be done.”

“We have been waiting a long time for that day,” sighed Madame de Barli. “O Lucienne, I am afraid I am becoming very wicked!”

“You are over-tired to-night, dear!” said Lucienne, soothingly. “Let me put you to bed just as I used to do sometimes in the happy days that are gone.”

“No, no! I see you too seldom to miss a moment of your company,’* replied Madame de Barli. “It rests me just to sit with you like this.”

Lucienne rearranged the cushions at her mother’s head, then seated herself on a low stool beside her.

“You must not think, dear child,” went on Madame de Barli, “that I often feel as wretched as I do to-night. Sometimes, sitting here, I am almost contented, thinking of you in your happy life ; for you are happy, dear — are you not?”

For a mdment Lucienne made no reply. Putting other things out of the question, how could she be happy, knowing how her parents were suffering? But Madame de Barli misinterpreted her silence.

“Tell me, Lucienne,” she said peremptorily. “You must tell me if Raoul is unkind to you.”

“No — oh, no!” cried Lucienne, eagerly. “Indeed I have nothing to reproach him with, except in one respect,” — and she pressed her mother’s hand. “He never refuses me anything for myself; but he is weak, and he has always allowed himself to be guided too much by his mother.”

“Weakness such as his might be called by a harder name, I am thinking,” said Madame de Barli.

“No, Mother, you must not be too hard on Raoul. I know him so well, and I can see that he often regrets having to do as he is asked;

but he feels that he is — that we are — dependent on his parents.”

“And cannot his mother see that she is making little of her son when she persuades him to act against his better instincts ? O Lucienne, wherever I turn I find myself growing hard and unforgiving! There are times when I can hardly keep myself from wishing that the day may come when she will learn from experience what it is to he forbidden to cross the threshold of her own daughter’s home.”

“Mother darling, don’t — don’t say that!” cried Lucienne. “It would be far worse for her than for you. You have nothing to reproach yourself with ; you have only sorrow to bear, whilst she would also have remorse and humiliation.”

“I could forgive her as far as we are concerned,” said Madame de Barli, “if I thought that she was good to you.”

“She is always very — polite,” faltered Lucienne.

“Nothing more than polite to her own daughter-in-law ?”

“I did not mean to complain. Mother.”

“No; you merely mean to be just,” replied her mother. “I know how they treat you, darling! A mother-in-law who cannot forgive yoiu* loss of fortune, and a sister-in-law who cannot forget your beautiful face — ”

“Dearest,” interposed Lucienne, “you imagine things. When I married, Louise was only a young girl; perhaps she was a little jealous of the notice that was given to me as a bride; but now — ”

“But now she has not changed,” replied Madame de Barli.

“How can you tell that?” said Lucienne.

“I saw her a few days ago,” answered Madame de Barli. “We came face to face in a shop, and she is prouder and more arrogant than ever.”

The colour flooded Lucienne’s cheeks.

“Did she speak to you?” she murmured.

“Speak to me!” Madame de Barli gave a short laugh. “My dear, she cut me in the most pointed manner.” Then, changing her tone, she added: “My dearest, all this talking does no good. I can only pray for a more forgiving spirit. In the meantime will you light the lamp ? There is some mending that I must get through this evening for your father.”

Madame de Barli’s workbasket stood in an angle near the window, and, after setting the lamp upon the table, Lucienne went over to fetch her mother’s work from it. The first thing that she drew from the recesses of the basket was nothing that needed mending. It was a square of canvas with a design of fiowers drawn out upon it. Diving again into the basket, her finger came in contact with a roll of silken skeins, which she held up.

“Mother,” she cried, “what is this?”

A look of annoyance crossed Madame de Barli’s features when she saw what her daughter had found.

“That is not what I want,” she said, ignoring the question. “Put it down, and bring me those socks.”

“You will not answer me,” remarked Lucienne, sadly; “but I understand, all the same. You are doing work for some shop!”

“And why not?” returned Madame de Barli, in a tone she vainly tried to make indifferent. “I am well paid for it.”

“Well paid — for fancywork!” cried Lucienne. “Oh, Mother, Mother! And to think that you are brought to this !”