The Idol of Paris Part 43

"Here is the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche who has come to say good-bye to you."

Esperance turned her eyes towards the Duke.

"It is a long time since I have seen you," she said simply.

And her voice sounded like the tone of a distant harp.

"You have been very ill!"

"I have been very ill, I believe, but I cannot remember very well. I feel as if I had had heavy blows in my brain; sometimes I hear dreadful calls and then everything is quiet again. And then sometimes I see a piece of a picture, no beginning, no end, sometimes horrible, sometimes lovely. Why, now I remember," she spoke gently with a charming smile, "that you are part of all my visions, but I do not know any more how, or why.... And Albert, where is he? Why does he not come? He must come and undo the collar.... Ah! my G.o.d, my G.o.d, I am wandering you see, nothing is clear yet."

She raised her arms.

"My G.o.d, my G.o.d, have pity on me or take me at once. I do not want to lose my mind!"

She took the Duke's hand.

"Say you are not sorry that you loved me?"

"I love you always!"

She clapped her hands with a silvery laugh, "Genevieve, Genevieve, he loves me still."

And she hid her head on the young girl's arm. Maurice led the Duke away, overcome. He looked questioningly at the painter.

"No, she will not be light-headed long, the Doctors all agree about that, but her memory will have to come back by degrees a little at a time. She recognized you. She remembered her love and yours. That is a great step. Her youth, her love, and time will be, I believe, certain restorers."

The Duke left soon after they had taken Esperance away.

In Belgium the Countess had prepared for her beloved daughter. This beautiful woman of forty, so charming, so handsome in her mauve mourning, had already become an old woman whose movements were ever slow and sad. Her back was bent, from constantly kneeling beside her son's grave. Her black clothes reflected the deeper gloom of her expression. And to those who had seen her a few months before, she was almost unrecognizable.

Poor little Esperance regained her health very slowly. Her mind seemed entirely clear only on one subject, the theatre. Little by little she remembered everything connected with her art. She repeated with Genevieve and Jean Perliez the scenes they had given at the Compet.i.tion. She worked hard on Musset's _On ne badine pas avec l'amour_; then busied herself with preparations for her friend's marriage. She did not know that the Duke was to be a witness.

"But," she would often object, "you must have two witnesses, and you have only one."

"I have two," said Genevieve, "but you must guess the name of the second."

CHAPTER x.x.x

The wedding, solemnized in the little church of Sauzen, at Belle-Isle-en-Mer, was very private. Maurice had for witnesses his uncle, Francois Darbois, and the Marquis de Montagnac, with whom he had become great friends. Doctor Potain and the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche were witnesses for Genevieve. The Dowager d.u.c.h.ess and the Princess de Bernecourt were present. The Countess Styvens had been ill for a month and could not leave Brussels. She sent a magnificent present of diamonds and pearls to Genevieve, who was filled with joy. The d.u.c.h.ess gave the young bride a splendid silver service, and the Princess brought with her some beautiful lace.

Genevieve had attached herself very strongly to the first of these sweet women, and Maurice had made a conquest of the Princess by painting her an admirable portrait.

The sight of the Duke made the invalid exuberant with joy. She constantly forgot her duties as maid of honour to draw near the loved being.

Doctor Potain watched her closely, and made a thorough examination. He knew nothing of her love for the Duke, but when the latter questioned him about her health, he said, "There is only one chance of restoring her health. She must go back on the stage."

The Duke jumped. "Impossible!" he said.

"Why impossible? Her fiance is dead."

The Duke spoke to the man of science. "Listen to me, Doctor, I am pa.s.sionately in love with this girl who loved me, but only remembers that at intervals.... I cannot, indeed...."

"Approve of her going on the stage? Urge her yourself, and you will save her. When she is cured if she loves you, as you believe, she will leave everything to follow you; but now neurasthenia or madness await her. She must be roused to work outside herself. Do as I tell you and you will invite me to your wedding."

The Duke went straight to find Francois Darbois. Maurice would have retired. "No," said the Duke to him, "I want you to stay," and he told them word for word what the Doctor had said.

"Well, what do you think?" Francois Darbois asked him.

"I think that the most important thing in all the world is to save her! I will wait...."

Francois pressed his hand, and there was taken between these two men, who were so different in every way, a silent pledge that both were determined to keep at all costs.

From that instant each one strained every nerve to revive in Esperance her dearest desire.

Several days after this visit, Esperance received a letter from the Comedie-Francaise, asking her to come to the office. She turned pink.

Her lovely forehead brightened for the first time in many months. She handed the letter to her father, who knew what it contained, and had been watching his child's surprise very closely.

"We must go back to Paris, father, I feel entirely well."

"Good, Mademoiselle, we will obey your orders," he said tenderly.

She kissed her father as she used to do, and began to tease him a little.

"How nice it is to have such an agreeable papa! You have plenty of cause to be severe, for I give you endless trouble."

"So you are to make your debut at the Comedie-Francaise?"

"My G.o.d!" said the young girl, starting up, "that might cost you your election!"

Francois Darbois began to laugh, for his joy returned to him when his daughter's memory came back to her.

"Leave my election alone. They won't even nominate me, and I shall not worry."

Mme. Darbois came in and Francois pretended to disclose the news to her. She a.s.sumed surprise. To hide her emotion, she took her daughter in a long embrace.

Maurice had taken his young wife to Italy, to show her in its most harmonious setting the most beautiful aspirations of art towards the ideal. The Duke de Morlay travelled there with them, adoring Italy as does every devotee of art. There was not a corner of this rare country that he did not know.

The sojourn of the young couple in Italy was pure enchantment. Maurice was constantly surprised by the intellectual strength of his companion. Like most artists he had an indulgent scorn for what so many call and think the worldly cla.s.s. When he originally met the Duke he had recognized his cultivation, and found that his eclecticism was exact, profound, and not the superficial veneer he had at first supposed. He realized that men of the world do not vaunt their knowledge, though it is often far deeper than that of certain artists who never go below the depths of but one art: their own.

Almost every day Maurice received a letter or telegram giving him news of his cousin. The advice of Doctor Potain seemed to be justifying itself. Every day Esperance began to recover her health and spirits.

She was rehearsing at the Comedie, and her debut in _On ne badine pas avec l'amour_ was announced for the next month.

The travellers had intended to spend another ten days in Italy. But a letter to Genevieve alarmed them. She read it aloud.

"My darling, I am just now the happiest girl in the world. First because my dear cousin is seeing so many beautiful things that s.h.i.+ne through her letters and show her so enchanted with life that I feel the stimulus myself, and long to live to go myself to breathe the divine air of Italy, and admire the masterpieces there. Tell the Duke de Morlay that no day pa.s.ses without my thoughts flying to him. Only one thing worries me. I can confide it to you, Genevieve, you who are so perfectly happy. Why does the theatre draw me so that I am willing to sacrifice for it even those I love? I see the Countess Styvens every day. She seems a light ready to flicker out. Sometimes she looks at me as if she saw me far, very far away, and murmurs, 'Poor little thing, it is not her fault!' Then I s.h.i.+ver. What is not my fault?