Short Stories (Bellew)/God Knows
GOD KNOWS
At the rooms of some artists who formed a colony in the Avenue Frochot, I once knew a young girl of about 18 or 19 years of age—a rare type. She was the forewoman in a millinery department of a large and fashionable store. Every Sunday at an early hour she hurried to her artistic friends in the Avenue Frochot. She entered their quarters as if they were her own, not caring what the people who were there might think, simply saying:
"If I am in the way, send me off."
She was allowed to "circulate," to lounge, to look, at her own free will, to smoke, to sleep, to talk, to sing, to leave when the spirit moved her. A creature of impulse, of natural common sense, having learned nothing for learning's sake, she had acquired in her free life all she knew, which amounted to some knowledge of the piano, some solfege, Italian and English. She read all the printed matter she found, and remembered all she read. I had forgotten to say she was pretty (and it did not detract from her) pretty, very pretty, with a renaissance cameo profile, hair naturally waving, teeth so white, so even, so immaculate that she was made to laugh just to show her teeth. The strangest of all was, that no one ever doubted her perfect womanliness. After staying two or three hours, she would rise, put on her shawl and bonnet (without looking in the glass, so innate was her sense of adjustment); they were always rightly placed, and she would, disappearing, say: "I go to inflict myself elsewhere."
Her departure was as little noticed as had been her arrival.
She was a familiar voice to us, a being, an interest. She said all she thought, listened to her own instinctive feelings, and expressed ideas of nature. We named her Folly. We did not know how she first came to the colony, and no one remembered not having seen her there.
On my return from quite a long journey, I inquired from one of the members of our colony about her. "I've not seen her for months. It is an age since she has been here. She must be dead."
Nothing more was said or thought of her. Artists are careless fellows, we must admit, and women make a sorry mistake to love them.
One morning about the beginning of May, 1855, I was walking through the grand Avenue of Neuilly. I was going to breakfast at the Porte Maillot. I say this for the curious. I had been working steadily for days, and felt the need of giving myself the relaxation of a morning stroll and a country frolic, to establish an equilibrium between the spirit and the flesh, as Zabier de Maistre would say. As I neared the top of the fortifications, I saw the people, particularly the men, walking in an opposite direction from the one I was taking, stop and turn. Some were laughing, others were making that little sound of the lips which is a call for dogs, eats and other animals, and continuing on their way with a sneering air. What silliness!
After quickening my step, I saw quite in the middle of the road, a white kid, jumping, caracoling, by times stopping, running back and forth with the gawky activity natural to young quarupeds when they first feel the earth under their feet, particularly noticeable in the goat kind.
Twenty feet in front of the kid, whose neck had a blue ribbon around it, to which was attached a bell, stood a young women, dressed in a white striped marsailles, made in the picturesque Louis XV style, her face shaded by a large straw hat trimmed with natural flowers. In those days now gone, women still wore hats to protect from the sun. The dress alone of the young woman indicated her indifference to surroundings. She seemed unaware of any attention she was exciting among the passers, and stooping to the level of the object she wanted, called, in the gentlest voice of reproach: "Come on, you little fool!"
There are certain conventional traditions, which do not please me. They hamper men at every turn in their most natural, and often noblest impulses. "This or that is not done," is a despotic phrase, invented by no one knows who, but obeyed unversally, no one knows why. There are hundreds of insignificant prejudices which could be abolished in three days, of which everybody complains, and nobody resists. One of them is this: in the public thoroughfares you cannot go to the aid of a person in a ridiculous situation, without running the risk of becoming ridiculous yourself. It is incredible that in France we should need the opinion of others to be natural ourselves. Often a man or a woman, even a pretty woman, is seen in an embarrassing position and could be extricated by one word, which nobody will speak, or a gesture which no one will make, because they are in the open street. If finally some good Samaritan decides to go to the rescue and relieve the predicament, he turns pale or blushes, almost appeals for approval, then hurries away as soon as possible.
The kid was unwary, and I could easily take him in my arms and carry him to his mistress. It was very simple to do. Why had nobody done it before?
I was thanked with a beautiful courtesy, as I bowed and was about to retire, when with a glance at the young woman, I exclaimed; "Why, is it you?"
To this involuntary remark she ungrammatically replied, "Yes, it is me."
"I had not recognized you."
"I knew you at once."
"Why then did you thank you as if I were a stranger?"
"I did not know whether you cared to recognize me in the street."
"Are you crazy?"
"That is what you all used to call me."
"Where do you live now?"
"At No. 27. I have been to my mother, she lives at No. 8. And you?"
"Me? I am going to Gillette's to breakfast."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Come and breakfast with me."
"Thank you; suppose you breakfast with me."
"Just as you wish, I am glad to go, only I must take my kid home."
"Do you like kids?"
"This one was given to me. I take him everywhere, but he's not trained to follow me. See how pretty he it."
And drawing him to her, she showed me his little pink snout, and kissed it as she would a child's rosy lips. She told me then why she was seen no more among the artists. Some one did not wish her to go; he had not confidence in her, had hidden her at Neuilly after having made her leave her work. She lived on her income, spent her days in reading, practicing her music, walking out and playing piquet with her mother. She showed me her apartment on the ground floor with a garden at the back, the plants all nibbled by the kid that she would not shut up.
Three rooms composed her apartment; two were furnished, the parlor bare awaiting the generosity of the somebody who seemed to be in no hurry to furnish it. He was rich, but not extravagantly lavish; prodigality was not among his viees. His family lived at Sevres, his business lived in Paris, he had found a halfway house at Neuilly convenient when he went from Paris to Sevres, and when he returned from Auteuil to Paris. He divided his daily trips, and by this happy combination, met half way in his journeys, youth and love.
Six months after the day on which I found my Esmeralda, the family of the mysterious "he" changed their residence, and went to live at St. Denis. Neuilly was no longer on his road, he ceased stopping there. The parlor was never furnished. The girl was forgotten. No recrimination, complaint, nor revenge was feared from her.
She came to see me and told me these circumstances. I had not seen her since the day I gave her breakfast at Gillette's. She asked my advice. I urged her to return to the store she had left if she could get back her former position.
"I have lost the habit of work," she said in an indefinable way, full of regret and apprehension, "but I will try."
"And the kid?"
"I had him, he's a goat now."
A year after, I was stopped by a blockade of carriages on the corner of Rue Royale. Among the many equipages I saw an open carriage drawn by a pair of magnificent bay horses, admirably groomed. The coachman had trouble in checking them. In the caleche filled with flowers, silk, laces, sat a woman whose eyes were fixed on vacancy, her absent-minded air indicating her unconcern at being there or anywhere. It was she again. The carriage grazed the sidewalk where I stood. I imitated the bleating of a goat; she turned. Recognizing me, she blushed, and hid her face in her two hands with a pretty affected movement of shame, her eyes peeping through her fingers. She seemed to say, "I am naughty, but it's not my fault, forgive, and acknowledge that I look pretty."
My answer was a salutation that might express—"I congratulate you."
She was about to speak, when the carriage moved on. Truly she was adorable, under a little rice straw bonnet trimmed with cherry ribbons. Luxury became her marvelously.
That evening I received the following note: "I must talk with you. I long to see you; you will not come to me; I dare not present myself at your door. What is to be done?"
I went to the address she indicated. She occupied all of a hotel in one of the streets parallel to the Champs Elysees. Tapestries, Venetian chandeliers, Florentine frames, porcelains of Sevres, Dresden, Japan, inlaid furniture, Etageres, Jardiniers, mantel ornaments of the time of Louis XVI,—any one can imagine it all,—beautiful drawings by Vidal and de Beaumont, pictures of Isabey and d'Voillemot.
I asked no questions, she made no explanations. After she had given me a seat, I said:
"What have you to tell me now?"
"Nothing, I wanted to see you."
"Why."
"Just to see you. You bring back pleasant reminiscences."
"Are you not happy?"
"I deserve a better fate, I assure you."
She wept, then dried her eyes in a three-hundred francs handkerchief. We heard the bell ring, a little maid appeared, and spoke a few words of English to her mistress, who answered readily in the same tongue. The maid went out, came back in five minutes, spoke again and was answered. She repeated this performance five or six times while I was in the parlor.
"Perhaps I'm intruding," and I rose to leave.
"No, stay," she said, "those are my creditors."
I learned that her life was one of confusion, luxury and debts. She spoke again—"How badly I have followed yore first advice. Tell me again what to do, all the same."
"Do you own more than you owe?"
"Oh! yes!"
"Then sell, pay, buy a kid, and return to Neuilly."
"That would be a pity. This is all so pretty."
"Be reasonable, or don't ask advice."
"You are right. I promise—" she paused.
"I owe you a breakfast. When shall it be?"
"Any day you name, but it must be at Neuilly."
"I will be there before another month, on my honor."
"Honor?"
"Yes, an honest girl's honor. May I be hung if I'm not one at the bottom of my heart."
She stayed nevertheless in her fine apartment.
Two years rolled on. She was celebrated for her beauty, her wit, her lavish expenditures, her extravagances of every kind in the eccentric world where she figured.
She came to my apartment one morning, and began abruptly: "Don't tell me all that you think of me. I know it as well as you do, and I have come to ask a favor of you."
"What is it?"
"Have you five hundred francs?"
"Yes."
"Do you like Vidal's work?"
"Yes."
"Give me then five hundred francs, I will send you one of Vidal's pictures. A dealer has offered me that sum for it. I would rather you should own it."
"Take the five hundred francs and keep your picture."
"Now that is unkind," she said. "If I had nothing to give for your money, I would say, make me a present of five hundred francs. When all I have is gone, I will probably ask you for your money, until then let me have my own way. The picture is my portrait, that is why I would rather you should have it than any one else. It is really pretty; it is an Angel weeping; the idea is mine, it might be called the Angel of Repentance. Is it agreed?"
"Yes, but I must pay you a thousand francs,—a Vidal is worth all of that."
"Honorable people are so queer! So suspicious of love, they like to make others feel they are free from all obligation to them and have nothing in common with them. Put aside five hundred francs. I promise you to come some day and get them. There, does that please your pride, are your scruples satisfied?"
"You are then entirely"
"Ruined? Yes, I am. I have missed my vocation, the down fall has come. I have been selling and selling, and yet I cannot stop all the holes."
"What will you do?"
"Do?" She hesitated.
"I will try to live quietly. You will give me then your advice for the third time?"
"You never follow my suggestion."
"Reproaches? Is this your discount?"
She took the five hundred francs and left. One hour later I had the drawing by Vidal.
About three years ago, I received the following note, "I will be at your door tomorrow morning at nine. Try and see me alone, and give me a whole hour of your precious time. Important business."
She came on foot. She was rather pale, and a little thinner, dressed in black; her shoes were not immaculate, her gloves worn at the finger ends. She was no longer pretty, but beautiful, misfortune gave gravity to her form and features. Sorrow has the faculty of degrading or ennobling the countenance and the manners. She has lived as reckless an episode as a women can, her sufferings were the natural sequence, yet she elicited sympathy. She bore her changed condition with nobility and courage, without shame, without defiance. What a strange being! Reason had passed through that brain, once open to every breezy influence, and closed the doors again behind all thoughtlessness. She still possessed the charms of her faultless teeth, her ineffable smile, her fresh, sweet, now subdued voice. She saw the impression her dress made upon me.
My clothes have this advantage—they speak for me and relieve me from all explanation. This is the question before me now; in the midst of the errors, and follies, and wickedness of my past life—they have been very many—I have become truly attached to a brave fellow who tried to extricate me from it all. It ruined him; he has no longer father nor mother. He is the Count . All he has today is an allowance of eighteen hundred francs from an old uncle, who will no longer see him; he is a consumptive, unable to work. I am two years older than he is, but he wants to marry me, to be certain that I will not leave him. With his title he could marry fortune and family. I have urged him to do so, but he will not. He believes he must die soon and has asked me to stay with him to the last; he loves me; I, too, love him, but as a child; it seems to me that I could be his mother. We are to be married; he insists that it is all settled. When we are married how can we live on eighteen hundred francs? We will not have another cent. He will do whatever I say. Advise me."
"Go to the country, the real country, and live there. In the first place the open air will be good for your invalid, everything will be cheaper, nobody will know your past life. You can rent a thatched cottage, you will have a peasant cook, you can wear wooden shoes, if necessary, and work a little kitchen garden; in fact, live like peasants, you will none the less be the Count and Countess Don't seek acquaintance, rather avoid them, and you will little by little make for yourselves an interesting position. Your life will be ordinary, the most ordinary existence, but you will have work, respect, rest, and oblivion."
"You are right," she said, and pressed my hand with gratitude. "I feel that I can do as you say; give me my five hundred francs; they are for my mother, who will go to some institution." She kissed me, and I heard nothing more from or of her.
Last summer, in the month of August, I was alone in Paris on business. The weather was admirable. The fancy took me one Saturday to join some friends at G. To do so I had to take the train for Varennes Saint-Hilaire; there I could hire a carriage and drive to G. It seemed a little journey; I preferred taking a carriage in Paris and making the trip comfortably all the way in the open air to enjoy the beautiful cool night rather than two hours in a closed train, as I had done a few days before. I made a bargain with the driver for a remise, who assured me that he knew the road. We started at six o'clock. The man went astray in the different roads and crossings we met, and had to ask his way when we reached C. He was told he had almost turned his back on G, and would have a drive of nearly an hour and a half more. He declared he would go no further unless he was paid twice the fare agreed. I sent him about his business and went in search of another conveyance.
It was harvest time. The horses had been in the field all the day and would be again the next. Impossible to harness any kind of animal for gold or silver. C is not a village, it is only a hamlet. The night had come on; I would have to, unless I slept there, which was not inviting, walk to Varennes Saint-Hilaire, where I would be obliged to take my former combination. It was half-past nine o'clock. I asked my way to Varennes, and, taking up my courage with my two legs, I ventured into a large avenue of poplars that had been indicated as the road to follow. About the middle of the avenue, which was very dark, I passed a woman dressed in black, who, after crossing me, called to me by my name. I turned, and went straight to her, wondering who could know me and recognize me at that hour in this village, under those high poplars. It needed a cat's eyes or a woman's to do so. It was the new countess.
"What are you doing here?"
"I am on my way to my home, returning from Paris, where I have been shopping."
"Do you live at C?"
"Did you not advise me to go to the country? This, I can assure you, is the real country."
"Then you did follow my advice?"
Every word of it."
"And you find yourself the better for it?"
"Wonderfully. I am perfectly happy. And how glad I am to see you again."
"Why did you not write me this news?"
"To trouble you again with myself and my affairs?"
"Your husband?"
"Is as well as possible."
"And your health?"
"Have you matches?"
"Yes."
"Light one, and look at me."
By this improvised light I saw she was fresh and rosy; she looked only twenty years old.
"How are you? and how do you like our country?" she continued.
I related my story.
"I will find you a conveyance," she said. "Everybody loves me here. If these people will not let you have one I will go to the Mayor or the Doctor for theirs; they are my friends; these bundles are their commissions. Come with me, only I must go first to my husband; he expects me by this train, and would be uneasy if he did not see me. Do you wish me to introduce him to you?"
"No, I am rather hurried."
"Just as you like, but he's a fine fellow, grateful to you for your advice to me. He had been accustomed to luxury; he loved me, and might have been weak; if we had remained in Paris who knows what follies we would have committed."
During this conversation we were still looking for the conveyance. She entered freely into the houses where I would never have thought of going; everywhere she was welcomed and well received; she knew all the peasant women, their fathers, their children.
"How are you, good mother? I've come to ask a favor of you."
"Anything to please you, dear Countess; sit down." And everybody rose to give her a seat.
As she sat and told my dilemma I was an interested observer of her. Any one would have mistaken her for a country-bred lady, brought up in the free and frank ways of the open-air life, friendly and superior at the same time. What a rapid, perfect and complete change! All she had on could not have cost more than thirty-five or forty francs, but how neat, how sweet, smelling of well-ordered shelves and drawers.
Everywhere the horses had been in use, and we found difficulty; not an animal could be budged before the morning. At last a butcher, in consideration of a good round sum, and to please my little Countess, would drive me on his cart, the one he used for delivery to the customers of the neighboring chateaux. Three leagues from Paris, this is what may happen any day. It was now eleven o'clock at night, the houses were all closed, the moon had risen, the night was fine, the black outlines of the trees seemed sketched on the pearly transparency of the horizon, the depths of the valley could not be seen for the fog, a sure sign of approaching autumn.
We walked on together, waiting for the butcher boy, who was in no haste to return. She told me how her new life delighted her, and asked for news of the Avenue Prochot, and that part of Paris which she no longer visited, even when she went there once a year in a third-class car. She talked of the newest plays, of the latest books. She read all the criticisms in the papers left her. Suddenly she said, "Bye the bye, have you eaten?"
"No."
"You must be hungry!"
"Yes, if there is an inn about here, while waiting for the cart—"
"Every place is closed, but as you will not come to my house, shall I go and get you a piece of bread, a slice of ham and a half bottle of wine? Will that be sufficient?"
"Certainly, but—"
"Wait here for me; I will be back at once."
She disappeared through the shadows of the houses; she ran like a girl of fifteen. I followed in the same direction, to spare her as much as I could of the walk back. She reappeared at the end of ten minutes, bringing my meal in a small basket, such as children use to carry their provisions for the day at school. She took from the basket a small loaf of bread cut in two, a slice of ham in the middle; the bread was stale, the ham dry and very salty. Truly it was not good; I would not tell her so, but gnawed with my teeth, not without repeated effort, into the enormous sandwich, while she poured out wine. About the middle of my meal I had enough. I drank one swallow of the wine, and did not know how to acknowledge without wounding her that my hunger was gone; I feared she would guess why. Half of the bread I still held in my hand.
"Well," said she, "why don't you eat?"
"When the hour for eating is passed one has no appetite. Must I eat it all?" I asked.
"No, indeed."
"Then I throw this away?"
"No, no," she said, laughing, "give it to me," and with an involuntary movement she seized my arm. "This is my dinner," and she bit with her white teeth into the coarse morsel.