That very day, either with or without her consent, Madeline Hazlemere was made Madeline Belleisle; at least, a certain form of marriage was gone through, in the presence of Madame de Fontenay and several strangers, and before a person in the habit of a priest. Madeline had now no power to resist, for the influence of some strange opiate was upon her—dulling all her senses, and making the first few days of her married life pass in a sort of dream.
They travelled for a couple of days; then paused, and lived for a week or so in some quaint little village by the sea. Where it was Madeline did not know; she had not even energy enough to inquire; unresisting, uncomplaining, she was led about like a lamb going to the slaughter. In the morning she walked along the sands by the Frenchman’s side, and dreamily watched the fashionable Parisian bathers disporting themselves in the waves; then she returned home to spend the rest of the day with Madame de Fontenay (who, for some mysterious reason, had never once left the married pair), while Monsieur Belleisle betook himself to the café to spend his evenings in his own favourite way.
It could not be expected that the days would continue to glide thus smoothly along; nevertheless the peace was broken rather sooner than one would have anticipated. One morning, as Madeline rose from the breakfast table and put on her hat for a stroll along the sands, her husband laid his hand upon her arm and drew her into her seat again.
‘Madeline, mon amie! he said in his blandest tone, ‘I wish to arrange with you concerning our domestic life. I should have wished the first advance to come from you; but since that cannot be, since you take so little interest in our menage as to be indifferent to it, it is time for me to speak.’
The girl sat quietly where she had been placed, and fixed her eyes sadly upon the Frenchman. He had used her like a villain, but for the moment the part which he had played was partially or entirely forgotten. She thought only of the man who had first awakened romance within her. Had Monsieur Belleisle spoken kindly, had he infused into his tone and words one-half the tenderness which at one time he had at his command, she might have thrown herself into his arms, with tears of tenderness and sorrow; but his manner chilled her, and her rising tears were checked by the presence of Madame de Fontenay, who sat in the room quietly watching and waiting.
Madeline remained silent; so the Frenchman spoke again—
‘How do you suppose,’ said he, ‘that we are to live, my dear?’
Still Madeline was dumb—what could he mean by asking her such a question?
‘You will write,’ continued Monsieur Belleisle—‘write at once, for enough time has been wasted, to your English guardian—M’sieur White, I think you have called him—and ask him to send you two hundred pounds.’
Still Madeline stared in silence. She was not thinking of the Frenchman now. All her present surroundings faded away, and she saw only the pleasant little studio in St. John’s Wood, with the dearly beloved figure of White standing amidst his brushes, canvas, and paints. But he was not looking genially about him, as she had so often seen him do; his eyes were fixed with a look of sad reproach upon the painted face of a gipsy-like girl of ten, and his voice cried out with a ring of terrible sorrow—
‘Madeline—my little Madeline!’
The girl saw and heard, and in her anguish she dropped her face in her hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears.
They were the first tears she had shed since her marriage. The storm had been long in bursting; but now its violence was intense. For a time she remained utterly prostrated by her sorrow; when she raised her head she saw that the Frenchman was calmly looking on..
‘Is it over?’ he asked.
Madeline did not answer him; she stifled her sobs, dried her eyes, and walked over to the window. The Frenchman followed her with his eyes.
‘You are longing for your morning walk, my wife,’ he said; ‘eh bien, write the letter and you shall go.’
‘I cannot write the letter, M’sieur Belleisle.’
‘Then give me the address of M’sieur White, and I will do so for you, mon amie.’
‘If your only object in writing is to get money,’ remarked Madeline quietly, ‘you may save yourself the trouble, M’sieur—I do not think Mr. White has two hundred pounds in the whole world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say, M’sieur.’
‘That M’sieur White is a poor man?’
‘Very, very poor——
‘And yet he sent you to the pension of Madame Collemache, and you spread the report in Millefleurs that your English guardian was a great artist and a rich man.’
‘I am sure I did not spread any such report. Mr. White pinched himself to pay for my schooling, and I have repaid him by—by——’
She paused, for Belleisle suddenly interposed with an exclamation so brutal, so coarse and savage, that she stared at him in a new terror.
The outburst over, he sank into a chair, looking positively livid. What could Madeline say or do? She did not know. She stood staring stupidly at the Frenchman until he spoke again. He rose and came towards her, hissing his words through his teeth.
‘If M’sieur White has no money, if you have no money, why then did you run away from your school and marry me?’
‘I ran away from school because I was a foolish, ungrateful, headstrong girl, M’sieur, and I married you because you used cowardly, cruel means and forced me to do so!’
The Frenchman laughed, stretching his long thin mouth from ear to ear.
‘I force you to marry me, and make you a martyr, I suppose?—that is very good. But hear the truth from me, Madame—and unless you are careful, all the world shall know it too. I marry you simply out of pity. I am seduced by you to carry you off from school, and then, out of pity for you, I marry you and save you; yes, I sacrifice myself by taking a wife whose fame is gone—and then, when I look for a little help from you, you say “I give you none——-”’
He ended with an expletive which made the girl’s cheek burn with shame, and brought her trembling to her feet, with wrathful flame in her great blue eyes. For a moment he shrank before her.
‘Do not try grand airs with me. Madame—you had better think how you are to live!——’ and, with another oath, he hurriedly left the room.
All this while Madame Fontenay had kept her seat; but though her body had been inactive, her tongue silent, her eyes had done enough for all.
During the whole of the preceding interview they had been fixed with calm, cold scrutiny on Madeline’s face. She had noted every flush on her cheek, every curve of the lip, every look that was shot from the tearful eyes; finally, her cold grey orbs were fixed more steadily than ever upon the girl as she stood watching the door which had just been closed upon the enraged husband.
‘Mon Dieu!’ mentally exclaimed Madame de Fontenay, ‘the girl is superb, is magnificent—a face like that should be fortune enough for any man!’
She rose from her seat and went over to Madeline.
‘My poor child,’ she said, ‘this is your first quarrel, let us hope it will be your last. Emile Belleisle is a fool and a brute this morning—but he is not always so. Do not grieve, ma chère, or your good looks will leave you. I will reprove him for his insolence, and he—well, he shall make amends!’ and she followed her accomplice, leaving Madeline alone.
For a time the girl stood, moveless, speechless, comprehending only in a dull, stupefied manner the reality of all that had passed. Her eyes were tearless, her lips firmly set together, but her hands were trembling and cold as death. She seemed to see the Frenchman’s face before her, she seemed to hear his words; then again there came to her the pitiful refrain from the man whose heart she feared to have broken—
‘Madeline—my little Madeline!’
Again she sank down, crying—ah, what a relief she found in those tears! When they subsided her brain began to work, and she wondered what she must do.
Up to that moment she had sometimes pitied Monsieur Belleisle, if she could not love him. But that was all over; he had slain her pity, and he had not awakened affection. She knew now why the man wooed her, carried her off from school, and by force married her—he fancied her a rich heiress, a girl who would enable him to renounce his slavery of teaching and live in luxury all his days. Had this indeed been the case, Belleisle would have made a tolerably quiet husband; the sudden darkening of his daydreams had turned him into a devil.
Again Madeline thought ‘What shall I do?’ but the answer would not shape itself. The idea of writing to White repelled her, for she remembered the letter which she had sent to him little more than three weeks before—a letter overflowing with eulogiums upon Monsieur Belleisle. She could not write yet—rather let White think her dead than alive to cause him further sorrow. She had made her own bed; come what may, she would lie on it alone.
So she sat, half crying, listening in a vague dreamy way to the traffic in the village street, when the room door suddenly opened, and Monsieur Belleisle returned. At his entrance she raised her head; at the sight of her tormentor she dropped it again, and coldly turned away. He did not approach her—he walked about the room for some minutes; then he sat, and there was silence. How still the room was! Madeline could hear the beating of her heart; her breath came fast and thick: her hands were growing clammily cold; anger, self-pity, resentment, were struggling in her breast, but her quivering lips would not open.
She looked round the room. There sat the Frenchman in his easy-chair, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the empty hearth. She rose to leave the room; in a moment the man sprang forward and stood in humiliation before her.
‘Madeline, my wife—will you forgive me?’
The girl looked at him in blank amazement. She could not answer him, and he continued—
‘I am a passionate man—I have an uncontrollable temper, but I am not slow to say I am wrong—forgive me, my Madeline, I have wronged you.’
As he spoke he stretched forth both his hands, but she instinctively shrank away. It was well that she could not see the expression of his face as she did so. He bowed before her, and spoke again.
‘Eh bien!’ he said softly—so softly, so meltingly, she could hardly bring herself to believe it to be the same man who had insulted her a little before. ‘Eh bien, I deserve that you should shrink from me, but now I will make amends for my brutal conduct, and you shall try to forget, chérie.’
If Madeline had been herself she might have remembered that it was in this very guise of humility that Monsieur Belleisle came to her when he had determined upon doing her the greatest wrong which she had ever received in her life; but she was a mere child, and did not remember; the agonising hours spent in the hotel at Fécamp were for the moment forgotten, and the Frenchman spoke on.
Ah, yes, his offence had been great; but he determined to make full reparation. He admitted that he was sorry to find that he had wed a penniless wife, but his sorrow was gone, his anger overcome; he declared now that his wife possessed attributes which money could not buy, and the want of money, save that it might deprive her of certain luxuries, troubled him not at all. This, then, was his purposed reparation, that Madeline should go to her room and spend the day in resting; that, subsequently, she should array herself in evening costume and accompany her Emile to a pleasant dinner, and go to a place of entertainment afterwards.
Poor Madeline looked at the man in stupefied amazement. Whether or not he was straightforward and honest she could not tell, nor did she pause to inquire; she gave a trembling consent to all his wishes, and passed alone up to her room.
How quiet it was there! What a blessed relief from the presence of her tormentor. She poured some eau de Cologne on her forehead, threw herself on the cool white bed, and closed her aching eyes. How long she lay thus she did not know; the next thing she was conscious of was a knock at the door—then a maid entered, hearing some biscuits and a glass of wine. She informed Madeline that Monsieur had sent this refreshment to Madame, as he feared that the long day’s fast would make her faint for the evening; she bore also, from Monsieur, a small three-cornered note, which Madeline laid aside until the girl had quitted the room, when she proceeded to acquaint herself with the contents.
My own little wife—my beautiful Madeline [thus wrote Monsieur Belleisle, in his own language], if you wish to please me—although I am not worthy your forbearance—still, sweet one, if you can forgive me, and will try to please me, you will make yourself look tonight divinely fair. There are many fair faces in this place—many will meet us to-night, but I wish my wife to be without a rival in the loveliness which is hers! Your own
Emile.
Madeline read the letter twice, crumpled it in her hand, and threw it aside. She drank the wine which had been sent to her, and ate a biscuit; then, feeling somewhat refreshed and a good deal clearer in the head, she reviewed in her mind the exact state of affairs.
Her first impulse that morning had been to leave her husband, to travel back to England and throw herself on the compassion of Mr. White. She knew that he would forgive her, kiss her, cry over her, and, looking a little saddened perhaps, take her to his hearth, as he had once done before. But now her common sense told her that a husband could not be disposed of so readily. It was quite evident to her that Monsieur Belleisle, despite his violent words in the morning, did not wish to resign the bride he had taken so much trouble to win. If she were to return to her home, he might seek her out, and force her to return to him—or if she hid herself, he would be quite capable in his anger of making public such a story as would shame her for ever. The affair would be raked up for public comment, and the woman would be martyred, the man made a hero—as usual. Mrs. Grundy would hold up her hands in horror at the idea of a girl, still in her teens, forcing her music master to run away with her.
Yes, the case would always stand so, for Madeline could not even urge in palliation of her act of desertion the fact of cruelty. Belleisle had spoken harshly, to be sure, but then how many husbands often did the same, and how few of them had the good taste to make so humiliating an apology? Perhaps after all he loved her in his own peculiar fashion, and if he was willing to atone, why the best thing she could do was to meet him half way, and, if she could not be happy, to try at least and be content.
She looked at her watch; five o’clock. How quickly, and yet how wearily, the day had gone by! How white, how haggard, and old she looked! And he wanted her to eclipse the Parisian ladies who had come down to revive their beauty by the sea. She did not know that she had already done so, that during her daily walks on the seashore she had several times been pointed out as ‘the beautiful Mademoiselle Anglaise,’ whose sad eyes had unconsciously touched many hearts, and whose story many were guessing at, but no one knew.
At last she shook off her apathy, and tried to forget her sorrow. If she must appear in public she would not disgrace herself or her nation. She gave no thought to Monsieur Belleisle, but she rubbed her pale cheeks until the roses came, and then threw open the doors of her wardrobe to select a dress for that evening’s wear.
‘select a dress!’ How farcial it seemed! Belleisle had spoken truly when he said that he had wed a beggar. The only dress which was at all fit for her to wear was one which had been presented to her by himself some two days after their marriage—a dress of black silk, very youthful in cut, displaying very freely her throat, neck, shoulders, and arms, and fastening in at the waist with an amber girdle—a dress Greek in design, French in the arrangement of colours, and looking most bewitching when draped about the figure of the sad-eyed English girl; whose arms were so round and white, whose shoulders so graceful and be fair, and whose whole appearance was pretty enough to subdue the most inveterate woman-hater in the world.
Arrayed in her simple dress the child stood before the mirror well pleased with herself.
‘I should like dear, kind, good Mr. White to see me now,’ she said to herself. ‘I should like just now to run into the dear old studio in St. John’s Wood, without letting Timothy announce me, as he did once before, and throw my arms round my dear old guardian’s neck.’
A knock came to the door.
‘Madeline, mon amie, forgive me for interrupting you,’ said Madame de Fontenay, advancing slowly into the room; ‘I knocked twice and you did not answer me, so I thought you must be sleeping.’
Madeline bit her lip, pretended to arrange some stray locks of her hair, but said nothing.
‘Ma foi,’ continued the widow, ‘but you look charming; add this diamond and your toilette will be complete.’ As Madeline turned to face the widow, she started on seeing that she too wore evening dress.
Madame de Fontenay looked more motherly, more thoroughly saddened with respectability, than ever she had been before. She wore a dress of heavy widow’s mourning—composed of silk, crape, and jet; a widow’s cap, composed of three pretty folds, crowned her wavy masses of glittering grey hair.
‘Do you go with us to-night, Madame?’
‘Emile has done me the honour to ask me, and I have consented. I trust my presence will not be unpleasant to you, my child.’
For a moment Madeline did not reply. She disliked Madame de Fontenay, and yet she feared her. She knew that the widow had been instrumental in marrying her to Monsieur Belleisle, and, not content with that, had kept with them, watching as the hawk watches the dove the poor victim whom she had caught, and frequently preventing by her very presence, anything like a proper understanding between man and wife. And Madeline had a repulsion for the woman. She felt that she was the Frenchman’s evil genius, ready to pander to his passions, and counteract any inclination he might have towards nobility and goodness. Still the pale widow’s star was in the ascendant just then, and Madeline was powerless. She felt it would be unwise to make an open enemy of Madame; at any rate until she had won over her accomplice. So she parried the question politely, and fixed her eyes on the case which Madame held in her hand.
‘Diamonds, did you say, for me, Madame? I thought Monsieur Belleisle was poor?’
‘So he was a week ago, but now he gives you these—put them on, my child—and hurry down, for Emile is waiting;’ and without saying more she quitted the room.
Madeline opened the case which the widow had left behind her, and looked in surprise at the contents. Three diamond stones for the hair, a ruby band for the neck, and a fragile diamond bracelet for the arm.
She put them on, and, throwing a thin lace scarf over her shoulders, ran down stairs.
She found Monsieur Belleisle waiting for her, clad also in becoming evening dress, and looking handsomer than she had ever seen him look before. He glanced at her approvingly from head to foot, kissed her, and led her to a carriage, which was waiting at the door, and which already held Madame de Fontenay. As soon as they were seated the horses moved off; whither, Madeline did not know. A drive of a few minutes brought them to the door of a brilliantly lighted building. The horses were pulled up; Monsieur Belleisle alighted, handed out Madame de Fontenay, then tenderly lifted Madeline in his arms and put her on the ground. He placed her hand upon his arm and led her forward—through a great lobby, and finally into a room where some two hundred people were seated at dinner.
The entrance of the three last guests attracted a good deal of attention. Madeline, still holding her husbands arm, and led by him down one side of the long room and up the other, began to blush and cast down her eyes in confusion, for she felt herself rapidly becoming the centre of observation.
At length places were found, and they commenced dinner. Again Madeline was confused and abashed, not by the public gaze this time, but by the assiduous attentions of her husband and Madame de Fontenay. They treated her if she were some princess, who condescended when she smiled upon them and did them honour when she spoke. The girl was more troubled than ever, but she no longer tried to solve the strange problem. She received the homage of her husband with becoming gentleness, and ate her dinner as contentedly as she could under the circumstances.
Dinner over, Monsieur Belleisle rose, offered Madeline his arm, and, with much bustle and turmoil, conducted her from the room—the pallid widow following. Again she felt herself the centre of attraction, and, feeling less abashed, she held up her head with becoming grace and confidence, and swept her bright eyes along the ranks of flushed, admiring faces.
‘My dear Madeline,’ said Monsieur Belleisle to her that night, ‘it is not always a rich wife who brings happiness to a man. I married a treasure when I married you, chérie.’ To the widow he said, when the two were closeted alone—
‘What say you to our plan now, Madame?’
‘What I said before. The girl has beauty enough to send Paris mad, if she remains in the hands of a careful master.’