Still, he did get something said of the fair vision of a womanthat hovered for ever before his eyes, and of the door he hadkissed in a night of frenzy.
Monsieur Servien was disturbed to note how his son had grownheedless, absent-minded, and hollow-eyed, coming back late atnight, and hardly up before noon. Before the mute reproach inhis father's eyes the boy hung his head. But his home-life wasnothing now; his whole thoughts were abroad, hovering aroundthe unknown, in regions he pictured as resplendent with poetry,wealth and pleasure.
Occasionally, at a street corner, he would meet the Marquis Tudescoagain. He had found it impossible to replace his waistcoat ofticking. Moreover, he now advised Jean to pay his addresses toshop-girls.
When the summer came, the theatrical posters announced in quicksuccession _Mithridate, Adrienne Lecouvreur, Rodogune, lesEnfants d'Edouard, la Fiammina_. Jean, having secured the moneyto pay for a seat by hook or by crook, by some bit of trickery orfalsehood, by cajoling his aunt or by a surreptitious raid onthe cash-box, would watch from an orchestra stall the startlingmetamorphoses of the woman he loved. He saw her now girt withthe white fillet of the virgins of Hellas, like those figurescarved with such an exquisite purity in the marble of the Greekbas-reliefs that they seem clad in inviolate innocence, now in aflowered gown, with powdered ringlets sweeping her naked shoulders,that had an inexpressible charm in their spare outlines suggestiveof the bitter-sweet taste of an unripe fruit. She reminded himin this attire of some old-time pastel of gallant ladies suchas the bookbinder's son had pored over in the dealers' shopson the _Quai Voltaire_. Anon she would be crowned with ahawk's crest, girdled with plaques of gold on which were tracedmagic symbols in clustered rubies, clad in the barbaric splendourof an Eastern queen; presently she would be wearing the blackhood, pointed above the brow, and the dusky velvet robe of aRoyal widow, like the portraits to be seen guarded as holy relicsin a chamber of the Louvre; last travesty of all (and it was inthis guise he found her most adorable), as a modern horsewoman,clothed from neck to heel in a close-fitting habit, a man's hatset rakishly on her dainty head. He would fain spend his life inthese romantic dreams, and devoured Racine, the Greek tragedians,Corneille, Shakespeare, Voltaire's verses on the death of AdrienneLecouvreur, and whatever in modern literature appealed to himas elegant or fraught with passion. But in all these creationsit was one image, and one only, that he saw.
Going one evening to the dram-shop with the Marquis Tudesco,who had given up all idea of discarding his checked waistcoat,he made the acquaintance of an old man whose white hair lay inringlets on his shoulders and who still had the blue eyes of achild. He was an architect fallen to ruin along with the littleGothic erections he had raised at great expense in the Parissuburbs about 1840. His name was Théroulde, and the old fellow,whose smiling face belied his wretched condition, overflowedwith anecdotes of artists and pretty women.
In his prosperous days he had built country villas for actressesand attended many a joyous house-warming, the fun and frolic ofwhich were still fresh in the light-hearted veteran's memory. Hehad long ceased to care who heard him, and primed with maraschino,he would unfold his reminiscences like some sumptuous tapestrygone to tatters. The bookseller's son, meeting an artist for thefirst time, listened to the old Bohemian with rapt enthusiasm.
All these forgotten celebrities, or half-celebrities, all theseold young beauties of whom Théroulde spoke, came to life againfor him, fascinated him with an unexpected charm and a piquantsense of familiarity. Servien pictured them as he had seen themrepresented in the old foxed lithographs that litter the second-handbookstalls along the _Quais_, wearing the hair in flat bandeauxwith a jewel on a gold chain in the middle of the forehead, orelse in heavy ringlets _à l'Anglaise_ brushing the cheeks. Obsessedby his one idea, he endeavoured to recall one who seemed so wellacquainted with ladies of the stage to the present day. He spokeof tragedy, but Théroulde said he thought that sort of playsridiculous, and repeated a number of parodies. Jean mentionedGabrielle T----.
"T----," exclaimed the artist-architect; "I knew her mother well."Never in all his life had Jean heard a sentence that interestedhim so profoundly.
"I knew her in 1842," Théroulde went on, "at Nantes, where shecreated fourteen r?les in six weeks. And folks imagine actresseshave nothing to do! A fine thing, the stage! But the mischief is,there's not a single architect capable of building a playhousewith any sense. As to scenery, it is simply puerile, even at theOpera--so childish it might make a South Sea Islander blush.
I have thought out a system of rollers in the flies so as toget rid of those long top-cloths that represent the sky withouta pretence at deceiving anyone. I have likewise invented anarrangement of lamps and reflectors so placed as to light thecharacters on the stage from above downwards, as the sun does,which is the rational way, and not from below upwards, as thefootlights do, which is absurd.""Of course it is," agreed Servien. "But you were speaking ofGabrielle T----'s mother.""She was a fine woman," replied the architect; "tall, dark, witha little moustache that became her to perfection.... You see theeffect of my roller contrivance--a vast sky shedding an equalillumination over the actors and giving every object its naturalshadows. _La Muette_ is being played, we will say; the famous_cavatina_, the slumber-song, is heard beneath a transparentsky, vaulted like the real thing and giving the impression ofboundless space. The effect of the music is doubled! Fenellawakes, crosses the boards with cadenced tread; her shadow, whichfollows her on the floor, is cadenced like her steps; it is natureand art both together. That is my invention! As for putting itin execution, why, the means are childishly simple."Thereupon he entered upon endless explanations, using technicalterms and illustrating his meaning with everything he could layhands on--glasses, saucers, matches. His frayed sleeves, as theyswept to and fro, wiped the marble top of the table and set theglasses rattling. Disturbed by the noise, the Marquis Tudesco,who was asleep, half opened his eyes mechanically.
Servien kept nodding his approval and repeating that he quiteunderstood, to stop the old man's babble. Then he advised thearchitect to try and put his invention in practice; but he onlyshrugged his shoulders--it was years since he had left off tryinganything. After all, what did it matter to him whether his systemwas applied or no? He was an inventor!
Recalled for the third time by his young listener to GabrielleT----'s mother:
"She never had any great success on the stage," he declared;"but she was a careful woman and saved money. She was near onfifty when I came upon her again in Paris living with Adolphe, avery handsome young fellow of twenty-five or twenty-six, nephewof a stockbroker. It was the most loving couple, the merriest,happiest household in the world. Never once did I breakfast at theirlittle flat, fifth floor of a house in the _Rue Taitbout_,without being melted to tears. 'Eat, my kitten,' 'Drink, my lamb!'
and such looks and endearments, and each so pleased with theother! One day he said to her: 'My kitten, your money does notbring you in what it ought; give me your scrip and in forty-eighthours I shall have doubled your capital.' She went softly to hercupboard and opening the glass doors, handed him her securitiesone by one with hands that trembled a little.
"He took them unconcernedly and brought her a receipt the sameevening bearing his uncle's signature. Three months after shewas pocketing a very handsome income. The sixth month Adolphedisappeared. The old girl goes straight to the uncle with herscreed of paper. 'I never signed that,' says the stockbroker, 'andmy nephew never deposited any securities with me.' She flies likea mad-woman to the Commissary of Police, to learn that Adolphe,hammered at the Bourse, is off to Belgium, carrying with hima hundred and twenty thousand francs he had done another oldwoman out of. She never got over the blow; but we must say thisof her, she brought up her daughter mighty strictly, and showedherself a very dragon of virtue. Poor Gabrielle must feel hercheeks burn to this day only to think of her years at theConservatoire; for in those days her mother used to smack themsoundly for her, morning and evening. Gabrielle, why I can seeher now, in her sky-blue frock, running to lessons nibblingcoffee-berries between her teeth. She was a good girl, that.""You knew her!" cried Jean, for whom these confidences formedthe most exciting love adventure he had ever known.
The old man assured him:
"We used to have fine rides with her and a lot of artists in olddays on horseback and donkey-back in the woods of Ville d'Avray;she used to dress as a man, and I remember one day..." He finishedhis story in a whisper,--it was just as well. He went on to sayhe hardly ever saw her now that she was with Monsieur Didier,of the Crédit Bourguignon. The financier had sent the artiststo the right-about; he was a conceited, narrow-minded fellow,a dull, tiresome prig.
Jean was neither surprised nor excessively shocked to hear thatshe had a lover, because having studied the ways of the ladiesof the theatre in the proverbs in verse of Alfred de Musset, hepictured the life of Parisian actresses without exception asone continual feast of wit and gallantry. He loved her; with orwithout Didier, he loved her. She might have had three hundredlovers, like Lesbia,--he would have loved her just as much. Isit not always so with men's passions? They are in love becausethey are in love, and in spite of everything.
As for feeling jealousy of Monsieur Didier, he never so muchas thought of it. The infatuation of the lad! He was jealousof the men and women who saw her pass to and fro in the street,of the scene-shifters and workmen whom the business of the stagebrought into contact with her. For the present these were his onlyrivals. For the rest, he trusted to the future, the ineffablefuture big whether with bliss or torment. Indeed, the literatureof romance had inspired him with no small esteem of courtesans,if only their attitude was as it should be--leaning pensivelyon the balcony-rail of their marble palace.
What did shock him in the rapscallion architect's stories, whatwounded his love without weakening it, was all the rather squalidelements these narratives implied in the actress's young days.
Of all things in the world he thought anything sordid the mostrepugnant.
Monsieur Tudesco, feeling sure his brandy-cherries would be paidfor, did not trouble himself to talk, and the conversation waslanguishing when the architect remarked casually:
"By-the-by! As I was going to Bellevue yesterday on businessof my own, I came upon that actress of yours, young man, at hergate... oh! a rubbishy little villa, run up to last through alove affair, standing in six square yards of garden, meant togive a stock-broker some sort of notion what the country's like.
She invited me in--but what was the use?"...
She was at Bellevue! Jean forgot all the humiliating detailsthe old man had told him, retaining the one fact only, that shewas at Bellevue and it was possible to see her there in the sweetintimacy of the country.
He got up to go. Monsieur Tudesco caught him by the skirt of hisjacket to detain him:
"My young friend, you have my admiration; for I see you riseon daring pinions above the hindrances of a lowly station tothe realms of beauty, fame and wealth. You will yet cull thesplendid blossom that fascinates you, at least I hope so. But howmuch better had you loved a simple work-girl, whose affectionsyou could have beguiled by offering her a penn'orth of friedpotatoes and a seat among the gods to see a melodrama. I fear youare a dupe of men's opinion, for one woman is not very differentfrom another, and it is opinion, that mistress of the world, andnothing else, which sets a high price on some and a low one onothers. Do you profit, my young and very dear friend, by theexperience afforded me by the vicissitudes of fortune, whichare such that I am obliged at this present moment to borrow ofyou the modest sum of two and a half francs."So spake the Marquis Tudesco.