Her Royal Highness Woman Part 20

Fanchette herself was dumfounded. It seemed to them that their boy was going to slip from them--that fame and fortune must needs raise an inseparable barrier between the luxurious studio which Henri talked of, and was embellis.h.i.+ng day by day, and the humble maternal home which never changed at all. They were both believers in the quiet and un.o.btruding happiness that hides itself and goes unenvied, and they could neither of them understand how happiness was possible in that feverish Paris, where artists and men of letters are drawn body and soul into the whirl of a great vortex; and the good souls bewailed themselves, foreseeing terrible things and getting into their heads a thousand ideas, which all had but one conclusion--'Our Henri is lost to us!'

How mistaken they were!

The years followed one another, and Henri came regularly twice a year to the dear little house where the ivy and jasmine, the clematis and the honeysuckle protected our successful man against intruders: the jealous, the gossips, the bores and all the jostling crowd that hovers around celebrities, and often makes them its prey.

Better than that, he soon did something that should still strengthen his position in the good books of Madame Proquet and Fanchette. He married a girl as good as she was beautiful, an artist's ideal, whom he had the greatest difficulty to get Fanchette to _tutoyer_.

'But, my dear, I cannot say "thee" and "thou" to that beautiful lady,'

pleaded poor Fanchette.

'Nonsense, Fanchette! and why not? She is your daughter as much as I am your boy.'

And the good Fanchette, with her eyes full of tears of joy, kissed everybody and exclaimed:

'He has not changed a bit, you see. I told you so; I knew it.'

Then the young couple came twice a year to Brittany to live and love with more freedom. Soon, instead of two, it was a trio that came, and Fanchette declared that the loveliest baby in the world was the one that she called hers.

'And,' she added, 'no one can accuse me of partiality, for everyone knows how I laugh at the people who think their babies the finest in the world.'

And the others would reply in chorus:

'Certainly not, Fanchette.'

Madame Proquet was overwhelmed with joy, the proudest and happiest of mothers.

She went so far as to say to her neighbours, as well as to herself: 'Did I not do well after all to encourage Henri to be an artist!' I say advisedly 'as well as to herself,' for by dint of innocently and honestly deceiving others, one ends by innocently and honestly deceiving one's self.

Madame Proquet had no more fear for her son's future. His fame was well established, and he remained to her the same devoted son, perfectly unaffected, his head turned neither by celebrity nor riches.

The good lady unhappily reckoned without that very absorbing mistress called Art, who was to supplant her a little, if not in Henri's affection, yet in his rule of conduct. The name of Henri Proquet was not celebrated in Paris alone, but in all the capitals of the civilized world. He one day wrote to his mother that he had just received from England a most flattering invitation to go and paint the portrait of the Queen and the princ.i.p.al members of the Royal Family, and that he had resolved to settle in London with his family for several years; for no doubt, after the Royal Family, his brush would be in demand by lords and ladies, and he would return from the land of fogs laden with guineas and glory.

'And,' he added, 'I embrace the opportunity with all the more alacrity, having just lost 100,000 francs in a gold mine in the United States, a loss which makes an ugly hole in my savings. Thank Heaven I am young, full of life and energy, and in less than two years I shall have forgotten the thing altogether and replaced the money.'

Madame Proquet was aghast at the news.

'So, then,' she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, 'Henri speculates! He has lost everything, and that in a gold mine, a hole in the earth, which, instead of yielding money, swallows up what fools fling into it. After that, how is it possible to feel any security about him? With all his talent, his genius, he will end in the poor-house. He talks of expatriating himself now. He is out of his mind.'

She believed in none but sure investments, and saw no difference between speculation and gambling. Land, house-property and Government securities, no other stock had any value in her eyes. She would not for the world have had anything to do with shares in even the great railways of her own country. However, in the end she calmed herself.

'He will be prudent in the future,' she said to herself, 'and the lesson will be a wholesome one. After all, England is not far from Brittany. I shall see the dear children almost as often as before.'

And seeing Fanchette looking at her, she smiled, but the smile did not deceive the good woman, who saw clearly that something was being hidden from her, and that that something concerned Henri. Her eyes filled.

'It is nothing, my dear Fanchette!' said Madame Proquet, making her faithful servant sit down by her side while she read to her Henri's letter, and discussed with her its contents.

The painter remained three years in England, and returned to Paris after having made the conquest of the English public and the Royal Academy, just as he had made the conquest of the French public and the Salon.

Mayfair and Belgravia had been painted by Henri Proquet; Fifth Avenue, New York, now claimed him, and offered him fabulous prices. He set out for America, and pa.s.sed two years there. Madame Proquet and Fanchette both begged him earnestly, in all their letters, to give up these voyages, and to return to Paris and settle there definitely. 'Have a little patience, mother dear,' he wrote; 'I shall soon have 1,000,000 francs put by, and then I shall think of nothing but your wishes.' A few months later he wrote: 'I shall soon have finished my work in America, and we shall set out from New York to make our longest and last voyage. We shall cross America to the Californian side: from there we shall visit j.a.pan, the Pacific Islands, New Zealand, and Australia.

On the way home we shall stop at the Cape of Good Hope to sketch a few Zulus, who are said to be such fine people. We count on being back in Paris by the end of the year, and we will be with you on New Year's Day. What souvenirs of our travels you will have to listen to! What endless chats we will have, won't we?'

'Decidedly he is mad,' said Madame Proquet to herself. 'As if our French women were not far prettier than all those horrid black African creatures, or those hideous little dods of j.a.pan!' Even Fanchette began to ask herself seriously whether, after all, her boy was the same, and not a changed person. Henri had no longer any one to take his part under his mother's roof.

Madame Proquet fell ill meanwhile. The heart had been attacked for some time past; a herpetic affection threatened to complicate the state of affairs.

No sooner arrived in Paris than Henri and his wife sped into Brittany.

They found their mother very changed. The doctor did not attempt to conceal from them the danger of the disease, which, at Madame Proquet's age, must needs be incurable.

This illness, which was likely to be a long and painful one, necessitated the most constant and delicate attentions, continual doctor's visits, and expensive medicines. Fanchette and the _femme de chambre_, two brave devoted women such as provincial France alone still possesses, but such as the future scarcely holds in store for us, lavished their care upon their dear mistress. They were taxed to the utmost of their strength, Fanchette especially, who had just pa.s.sed her sixtieth year. To ease them, Madame Proquet engaged two nursing sisters from the convent, who came alternately to watch by her at night.

Henri, fearing that his mother's income might not be equal to the strain put upon it by these extra expenses, begged her to accept from him a little annuity of 2,000 francs. 'Every New Year's Day, dear mother,' he said to her, 'I shall send you that for my New Year's gift; you must be good and accept it. For too long a time you were my banker; now I am going to be yours.' Madame Proquet had such strong ideas of independence that he expected a refusal. Great was his joy to find his mother accept with alacrity. The disease followed its course for more than four years. Each New Year's Day Henri sent the sum he had promised. A few days before her death, in the month of December, 1890, Madame Proquet even wrote to Henri to remind him that New Year's Day was approaching, and that she would be looking out for her 2,000 francs by the next post. This made her son smile. 'Poor mother! She is perhaps hard up. What a good thing I induced her to accept help! Without it she would not have had enough for her nursing expenses. Thanks to me, we shall be able to keep her alive for years. And there are fools who say that money will not buy happiness!' Then, on the spot, he wrote out a cheque for the sum he sent every year. At the very moment that he was about to ring for a servant a telegram was handed to him.

The telegram announced the sudden death of Madame Proquet.

Henri's good mother had pa.s.sed away peacefully and without pain; she had fallen asleep thinking of her children and had never wakened again.

Henri and his family took the first train to Brittany. Fanchette was at the door watching for the arrival of the carriage that should convey them from the station. In dumb grief the good creature led Henri and his wife and children to their dear dead one. They knelt and silently all kissed one another with tender effusion beside the mortal remains of that beloved and devoted mother, to whom they thus said a supreme adieu while showing her the depth of their mutual love.

Deprived of the mournful privilege of closing the eyes of his mother, Henri had at least the consolation of being present to piously render her the last sad duty. The day after the funeral, he opened the drawers which contained Madame Proquet's family doc.u.ments and the property which now belonged to him. In a corner of one of the drawers he found a little packet, carefully tied, sealed, and addressed:

'To my son, only to be opened after my death.'

This packet contained eight rolls of 1,000 francs, each placed in a red morocco sheath. By the side of this money lay a letter without any date, but evidently written quite recently. It ran as follows:

'MY BELOVED HENRI,

'The life that you lead makes me very anxious. You speak of returning once more to America, to Australia, even going round the world again. Really, I ask myself sometimes whether you are in your right senses, and whether those English people have not completely demoralized you. You buy shares, you run after large dividends, instead of placing your money in State securities at three per cent. It is pure madness, my dear son. I hate speculations! If an individual attempted to come and offer me ten per cent. for my money I would order my faithful Fanchette to show him the door.

There will come a time, perhaps, when the law, grown wiser, will condemn to six months' imprisonment, not only every man who takes more than five per cent., but also him who offers it. You have a million, you tell me. Well, then, my son, keep it carefully, and do not try to get others with it. You may possess a million, but if you get more the millions will possess you. There is no real happiness except in security and in obscurity. The kind that has to be sought far afield is ephemeral. Long voyages may make life interesting, but happy, no. Happiness is only to be found at home with our dear ones. Life is so short that each time you leave your good home to seek adventures you are robbing yourself. That is Fanchette's opinion, too, mind you. Of course, all this does not prevent us from loving you and following you with our thoughts wherever you are, nor from praying the great G.o.d to bring you safely to port, but at the same time to rid your head of these ideas of adventure which torment me so. In a corner of the drawer where you will find this letter you will find also, carefully rolled and wrapped, and all in good gold coin (you may say what you please, but I do not like paper), the 8,000 francs that you have sent me on New Year's Day for the past four years. You will find them intact. G.o.d be praised! I have not needed to use them. I have taken care of them for you, and--who knows?--you may be very glad one day to have them. My regret is that you did not offer years back to send me twenty thousand instead of two. I should have accepted every franc of it, and it would have been as much money saved from that miserable American gold mine or some other speculations, which, believe me, are bound to be just as mad.

'Thank you, my darling son, for the kind impulse that prompted you to send the money. In the future buy three per cents., give up your travels, and stay at home with your dear ones who adore you. My dear, generous son, when you read these lines I shall be no more of this world. Do not forget your old mother, who has lived only for you, who has been proud of her son, and now thanks him for all the happiness that his love and devotion have brought her.'

Fanchette is installed in the fine house that Henri occupies in the Champs Elysees. He pretends to follow her advice in everything.

CHAPTER XLIV

FAILINGS AND FOIBLES OF GOOD WOMEN

Women of strong character--Obstinacy and prejudice--Tastes and temperaments--The diplomatic woman--The strong-minded woman--The superiority of woman--Monopolizers--Little women--The woman who is wrong--'I told you so'--Why women were not given beards--Women who marry for money and for t.i.tles--The only chance of success in matrimony.

When you say that a man has a strong character, it means that when he has made up his mind to attain an object in view, nothing will divert him from the road that leads to the goal. He will take advice and profit by all the circ.u.mstances that may help him to succeed. That man, as a rule, is successful in the world.

When you say that a woman has a strong character, it often means that she is obstinate and prejudiced, and that whatever advice and arguments may be placed at her disposal, she will follow her own mind and have her own way. That woman, as a rule, is a failure in life.