The Idol of Paris Part 11

Mlle. Frahender at that moment had her reward for all the little sacrifices she had made for her pupil.

The critics were dithyrambic in their discourses concerning the new "Dona Sol," but the casual reporters were, as always, indiscreet, and disguised the truth under little prevarications, fantastic and suggestive. After having read two or three of the articles, Esperance pushed them all aside. She took the name of all the critics, and wrote them little notes of thanks, while Mlle. Frahender added the addresses. In the neighbouring room a discussion was going on between her knight-attendants. Esperance did not gather its cause, although certain phrases were audible.

"No, I tell you," Maurice was saying, "if it is worth while at all, I must be the one."

"I could always demand a correction," replied Jean.

"Correction of what? It is simply one of those ambiguous phrases which are used every day. Why notice it?"

The sound of Esperance's voice cut short their discussion.

"What are you talking about?" she called out.

"Nothing at all," returned Maurice, "that is, only stupid things you would not understand."

"That is not a very gallant morning greeting, cousin, but you have not forgotten your promise to lake me to the Museum this morning, I hope."

"Yes, my dear, we will go to the Museum in a very little while."

She heard the door close.

"Are you still there, Jean?" she called.

"And at your service," he replied.

"There is nothing I need, thank you. I just want to know what correction you were talking about."

"It is a private affair of Maurice's," stammered the young actor.

"I see, thank you."

After lunch the travellers set out for the Museum. Maurice was surprised and delighted by the instinct that guided his cousin towards the best that was in the pictures. He explained to her in the language affected by painters the reason for certain unreal shadows in a certain picture, and the necessity for them, the tact a painter must use in managing his light, the difficulty of foreshortening. He told her the well-known anecdote of Delacroix replying to the professor who objected that he had put a full face eye in a profile, "But, my dear master, I have tried everything and that is the only eye that gives the profile its proper value." And the professor of the great painter-to-be, after several sketches on the transparent paper over his pupil's canvas, said to him, "You are entirely right. Keep that full face eye."

They left the Museum, animated by different feelings. The more that Maurice discovered his cousin's n.o.ble qualities, the delicacy of her feelings, the strength of her loyalty, the more he felt of protective affection for this child who was so pure, so free, and who had made her entry so bravely into the whirlpool where things are generally turbulent, and most brutal in the brutal side of Parisian life. The admiration of his twenty years, for Esperance's alluring beauty, was purified into a friends.h.i.+p which he felt growing deeper and stronger.

As to Jean Perliez, he had become more and more resigned that his love should remain forever in the shade, unlimited devotion for all time, all his being offered in sacrifice to the frail idol, who went her way star-gazing, unsuspecting all the time that she was trampling upon hearts under her foot.

CHAPTER XI

M. and Madame Darbois had received the telegram announcing the return of their daughter, and were at the station to meet her. Esperance saw them and would have jumped out before the train had fully slopped.

Maurice held her just in time.

"No foolishness there, little cousin. Your bodyguards must return you intact to your family's four arms. One more moment of patience. What a hurry you are in to be rid of us."

She held out her little hands to the two young men. "Oh, naughty Maurice! You know very well that I shall never forget these three days we have pa.s.sed together, when you have been so good to me and taught me so very much."

Maurice kissed her boldly; Jean put his lips very respectfully to the warm, soft little hand.

The train stopped and the Darbois family were in an instant reunited.

Mlle. Frahender declined escort to her convent. Francois Darbois installed her in a landau, and after he had thanked her heartily for her kindness to his daughter, gave the address to the coachman, who drove away with the old lady holding her inevitable little package on her lap, and steadying her old-fas.h.i.+oned little attache case on the seat opposite.

The Darbois family took their places in another carriage. Esperance must sit between her father and mother, leaning close to them, caressing them endlessly, and dropping her little blonde head on her mother's shoulder.

"Oh! how long it seems since I have seen you," she kept repeating.

She held her father's hand and pressed it against her heart. It seemed to her suddenly as if she had suffered from that absence of three days, and yet she could not specify at what moment she had wished herself back with them. She recounted all the little events that had taken place during the three eventful days.

"You know," she explained to her father, "I am bringing you all the newspaper articles. Then I have the letter from the President of the Committee, and the beautiful presents from the King and Queen."

The carriage stopped at the Boulevard Raspail. The _concierge_ came forward.

"I am sure I hope that Mademoiselle has had a success."

Esperance looked at her with astonishment, but the woman's husband came up with a newspaper in his hand, which he unfolded to display the picture of Esperance just beneath the headlines.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "they will make me odious to the public.

Mounet-Sully was so wonderful. Worms so fine in his monologue...."

Sadness overcame her.

She was still sad when she entered her own room. She touched all the familiar little objects, and kissed the feet of the ivory Virgin upon her mantel-piece with great emotion. She thanked her mother with a look when she saw the fresh marguerites in the two enamel vases. In comparison with the luxury of her apartment at the Grand Hotel in Brussels, the simple surroundings of her own room charmed her anew.

She swayed for a moment in her rocking-chair, sat down on her low stool, knelt upon her bed to straighten the branch of box beneath the silver crucifix her mother had given her when she was seventeen.

Marguerite came in with the trunk and luggage.

"What is that?" asked Esperance, spying a big box fastened with nails.

"I don't know anything about it, Mademoiselle. They gave it to me at the hotel saying it was for you."

The box on being opened displayed a magnificent basket of orchids.

Attached by a white ribbon was a card--"Countess Styvens."

Esperance grew pale; she took the card from her mother's hands, fearing that she might be mistaken. It was indeed the Countess and not the Count. She breathed again! Marguerite and the maid carried the basket into the salon; then the young girl went into the library with her mother. The newspaper clippings were spread out on the table, and the two famous trinkets had been taken from their cases. Madame Darbois clasped and unclasped her hands.

"Oh! but they are too beautiful, simply too beautiful!" she said.

And the philosopher, half in indignation, half in indulgence, exclaimed, "My poor child, you can not possibly wear such jewels at your age!"

"Ah!" said Esperance with disappointment, "I cannot wear them?"

"Why, no, it is out of the question."

"You will be able to wear them in a play, at the theatre," said Madame Darbois, but her tone lacked a.s.surance, for she did not know whether that would be possible either.

M. Darbois had turned his attention to the notices, having pushed aside the descriptive paragraphs. He read them and gave them to his wife.