________________________________________________
_ She had been placed for her education, fourteen years before, in a
Parisian convent, by a widowed mammma who was fonder of Homburg and Nice
than of letting out tucks in the frocks of a vigorously growing
daughter. Here, besides various elegant accomplishments--the art of
wearing a train, of composing a bouquet, of presenting a cup of tea--she
acquired a certain turn of the imagination which might have passed for a
sign of precocious worldliness. She dreamed of marrying a man of
hierarchical "rank"--not for the pleasure of hearing herself called
Madame la Vicomtesse, for which it seemed to her she should never
greatly care, but because she had a romantic belief that the enjoyment
of inherited and transmitted consideration, consideration attached to
the fact of birth, would be the direct guarantee of an ideal delicacy of
feeling. She supposed it would be found that the state of being noble
does actually enforce the famous obligation. Romances are rarely worked
out in such transcendent good faith, and Euphemia's excuse was the prime
purity of her moral vision. She was essentially incorruptible, and she
took this pernicious conceit to her bosom very much as if it had been a
dogma revealed by a white-winged angel. Even after experience had given
her a hundred rude hints she found it easier to believe in fables, when
they had a certain nobleness of meaning, than in well-attested but
sordid facts. She believed that a gentleman with a long pedigree must be
of necessity a very fine fellow, and enjoyment of a chance to carry
further a family chronicle begun ever so far back must be, as a
consciousness, a source of the most beautiful impulses. It wasn't
therefore only that noblesse oblige, she thought, as regards yourself,
but that it ensures as nothing else does in respect to your wife. She
had never, at the start, spoken to a nobleman in her life, and these
convictions were but a matter of extravagant theory. They were the
fruit, in part, of the perusal of various Ultramontane works of fiction
--the only ones admitted to the convent library--in which the hero was
always a Legitimist vicomte who fought duels by the dozen but went twice
a month to confession; and in part of the strong social scent of the
gossip of her companions, many of them filles de haut lieu who, in the
convent-garden, after Sundays at home, depicted their brothers and
cousins as Prince Charmings and young Paladins. Euphemia listened and
said nothing; she shrouded her visions of matrimony under a coronet in
the silence that mostly surrounds all ecstatic faith. She was not of
that type of young lady who is easily induced to declare that her
husband must be six feet high and a little near-sighted, part his hair
in the middle and have amber lights in his beard. To her companions her
flights of fancy seemed short, rather, and poor and untutored; and even
the fact that she was a sprig of the transatlantic democracy never
sufficiently explained her apathy on social questions. She had a mental
image of that son of the Crusaders who was to suffer her to adore him,
but like many an artist who has produced a masterpiece of idealisation
she shrank from exposing it to public criticism. It was the portrait of
a gentleman rather ugly than handsome and rather poor than rich. But his
ugliness was to be nobly expressive and his poverty delicately proud.
She had a fortune of her own which, at the proper time, after fixing on
her in eloquent silence those fine eyes that were to soften the feudal
severity of his visage, he was to accept with a world of stifled
protestations. One condition alone she was to make--that he should have
"race" in a state as documented as it was possible to have it. On this
she would stake her happiness; and it was so to happen that several
accidents conspired to give convincing colour to this artless
philosophy.
Inclined to long pauses and slow approaches herself, Euphemia was a
great sitter at the feet of breathless volubility, and there were
moments when she fairly hung upon the lips of Mademoiselle Marie de
Mauves. Her intimacy with this chosen schoolmate was founded on the
perception--all her own--that their differences were just the right
ones. Mademoiselle de Mauves was very positive, very shrewd, very
ironical, very French--everything that Euphemia felt herself
unpardonable for not being. During her Sundays en ville she had examined
the world and judged it, and she imparted her impressions to our
attentive heroine with an agreeable mixture of enthusiasm and
scepticism. She was moreover a handsome and well-grown person, on whom
Euphemia's ribbons and trinkets had a trick of looking better than on
their slender proprietress. She had finally the supreme merit of being a
rigorous example of the virtue of exalted birth, having, as she did,
ancestors honourably mentioned by Joinville and Commines, and a stately
grandmother with a hooked nose who came up with her after the holidays
from a veritable castel in Auvergne. It seemed to our own young woman
that these attributes made her friend more at home in the world than if
she had been the daughter of even the most prosperous grocer. A certain
aristocratic impudence Mademoiselle de Mauves abundantly possessed, and
her raids among her friend's finery were quite in the spirit of her
baronial ancestors in the twelfth century--a spirit regarded by Euphemia
but as a large way of understanding friendship, a freedom from
conformities without style, and one that would sooner or later express
itself in acts of surprising magnanimity. There doubtless prevailed in
the breast of Mademoiselle de Mauves herself a dimmer vision of the
large securities that Euphemia envied her. She was to become later in
life so accomplished a schemer that her sense of having further heights
to scale might well have waked up early. The especially fine appearance
made by our heroine's ribbons and trinkets as her friend wore them
ministered to pleasure on both sides, and the spell was not of a nature
to be menaced by the young American's general gentleness. The concluding
motive of Marie's writing to her grandmamma to invite Euphemia for a
three weeks' holiday to the castel in Auvergne involved, however, the
subtlest considerations. Mademoiselle de Mauves indeed, at this time
seventeen years of age and capable of views as wide as her wants, was as
proper a figure as could possibly have been found for the foreground of
a scene artfully designed; and Euphemia, whose years were of like
number, asked herself if a right harmony with such a place mightn't come
by humble prayer. It is a proof of the sincerity of the latter's
aspirations that the castel was not a shock to her faith. It was neither
a cheerful nor a luxurious abode, but it was as full of wonders as a box
of old heirlooms or objects "willed." It had battered towers and an
empty moat, a rusty drawbridge and a court paved with crooked grass-
grown slabs over which the antique coach-wheels of the lady with the
hooked nose seemed to awaken the echoes of the seventeenth century.
Euphemia was not frightened out of her dream; she had the pleasure of
seeing all the easier passages translated into truth, as the learner of
a language begins with the common words. She had a taste for old
servants, old anecdotes, old furniture, faded household colours and
sweetly stale odours--musty treasures in which the Chateau de Mauves
abounded. She made a dozen sketches in water-colours after her
conventual pattern; but sentimentally, as one may say, she was for ever
sketching with a freer hand.
Old Madame de Mauves had nothing severe but her nose, and she seemed to
Euphemia--what indeed she had every claim to pass for--the very image
and pattern of an "historical character." Belonging to a great order of
things, she patronised the young stranger who was ready to sit all day
at her feet and listen to anecdotes of the bon temps and quotations from
the family chronicles. Madame de Mauves was a very honest old woman; she
uttered her thoughts with ancient plainness. One day after pushing back
Euphemia's shining locks and blinking with some tenderness from behind
an immense face-a-main that acted as for the relegation of the girl
herself to the glass case of a museum, she declared with an energetic
shake of the head that she didn't know what to make of such a little
person. And in answer to the little person's evident wonder, "I should
like to advise you," she said, "but you seem to me so all of a piece
that I'm afraid that if I advise you I shall spoil you. It's easy to see
you're not one of us. I don't know whether you're better, but you seem
to me to have been wound up by some key that isn't kept by your
governess or your confessor or even your mother, but that you wear by a
fine black ribbon round your own neck. Little persons in my day--when
they were stupid they were very docile, but when they were clever they
were very sly! You're clever enough, I imagine, and yet if I guessed all
your secrets at this moment is there one I should have to frown at? I
can tell you a wickeder one than any you've discovered for yourself. If
you wish to live at ease in the doux pays de France don't trouble too
much about the key of your conscience or even about your conscience
itself--I mean your own particular one. You'll fancy it saying things it
won't help your case to hear. They'll make you sad, and when you're sad
you'll grow plain, and when you're plain you'll grow bitter, and when
you're bitter you'll be peu aimable. I was brought up to think that a
woman's first duty is to be infinitely so, and the happiest women I've
known have been in fact those who performed this duty faithfully. As
you're not a Catholic I suppose you can't be a devote; and if you don't
take life as a fifty years' mass the only way to take it's as a game of
skill. Listen to this. Not to lose at the game of life you must--I don't
say cheat, but not be too sure your neighbour won't, and not be shocked
out of your self-possession if he does. Don't lose, my dear--I beseech
you don't lose. Be neither suspicious nor credulous, and if you find
your neighbour peeping don't cry out; only very politely wait your own
chance. I've had my revenge more than once in my day, but I really think
the sweetest I could take, en somme, against the past I've known, would
be to have your blest innocence profit by my experience."
This was rather bewildering advice, but Euphemia understood it too
little to be either edified or frightened. She sat listening to it very
much as she would have listened to the speeches of an old lady in a
comedy whose diction should strikingly correspond to the form of her
high-backed armchair and the fashion of her coif. Her indifference was
doubly dangerous, for Madame de Mauves spoke at the instance of coming
events, and her words were the result of a worry of scruples--scruples
in the light of which Euphemia was on the one hand too tender a victim
to be sacrificed to an ambition and the prosperity of her own house on
the other too precious a heritage to be sacrificed to an hesitation. The
prosperity in question had suffered repeated and grievous breaches and
the menaced institution been overmuch pervaded by that cold comfort in
which people are obliged to balance dinner-table allusions to feudal
ancestors against the absence of side-dishes; a state of things the
sorrier as the family was now mainly represented by a gentleman whose
appetite was large and who justly maintained that its historic glories
hadn't been established by underfed heroes.
Three days after Euphemia's arrival Richard de Mauves, coming down from
Paris to pay his respects to his grandmother, treated our heroine to her
first encounter with a gentilhomme in the flesh. On appearing he kissed
his grandmother's hand with a smile which caused her to draw it away
with dignity, and set Euphemia, who was standing by, to ask herself what
could have happened between them. Her unanswered wonder was but the
beginning of a long chain of puzzlements, but the reader is free to know
that the smile of M. de Mauves was a reply to a postscript affixed by
the old lady to a letter addressed to him by her granddaughter as soon
as the girl had been admitted to justify the latter's promises.
Mademoiselle de Mauves brought her letter to her grandmother for
approval, but obtained no more than was expressed in a frigid nod. The
old lady watched her with this coldness while she proceeded to seal the
letter, then suddenly bade her open it again and bring her a pen.
"Your sister's flatteries are all nonsense," she wrote; "the young
lady's far too good for you, mauvais sujet beyond redemption. If you've
a particle of conscience you'll not come and disturb the repose of an
angel of innocence."
The other relative of the subject of this warning, who had read these
lines, made up a little face as she freshly indited the address; but she
laid down her pen with a confident nod which might have denoted that by
her judgement her brother was appealed to on the ground of a principle
that didn't exist in him. And "if you meant what you said," the young
man on his side observed to his grandmother on his first private
opportunity, "it would have been simpler not to have sent the letter."
Put out of humour perhaps by this gross impugnment of her sincerity, the
head of the family kept her room on pretexts during a greater part of
Euphemia's stay, so that the latter's angelic innocence was left all to
her grandson's mercy. It suffered no worse mischance, however, than to
be prompted to intenser communion with itself. Richard de Mauves was the
hero of the young girl's romance made real, and so completely accordant
with this creature of her imagination that she felt afraid of him almost
as she would have been of a figure in a framed picture who should have
stepped down from the wall. He was now thirty-three--young enough to
suggest possibilities of ardent activity and old enough to have formed
opinions that a simple woman might deem it an intellectual privilege to
listen to. He was perhaps a trifle handsomer than Euphemia's rather grim
Quixotic ideal, but a very few days reconciled her to his good looks as
effectually they would have reconciled her to a characterised want of
them. He was quiet, grave, eminently distinguished. He spoke little, but
his remarks, without being sententious, had a nobleness of tone that
caused them to re-echo in the young girl's ears at the end of the day.
He paid her very little direct attention, but his chance words--when he
only asked her if she objected to his cigarette--were accompanied by a
smile of extraordinary kindness.
It happened that shortly after his arrival, riding an unruly horse which
Euphemia had with shy admiration watched him mount in the castle-yard,
he was thrown with a violence which, without disparaging his skill, made
him for a fortnight an interesting invalid lounging in the library with
a bandaged knee. To beguile his confinement the accomplished young
stranger was repeatedly induced to sing for him, which she did with a
small natural tremor that might have passed for the finish of vocal art.
He never overwhelmed her with compliments, but he listened with
unfailing attention, remembered all her melodies and would sit humming
them to himself. While his imprisonment lasted indeed he passed hours in
her company, making her feel not unlike some unfriended artist who has
suddenly gained the opportunity to devote a fortnight to the study of a
great model. Euphemia studied with noiseless diligence what she supposed
to be the "character" of M. de Mauves, and the more she looked the more
fine lights and shades she seemed to behold in this masterpiece of
nature. M. de Mauves's character indeed, whether from a sense of being
so generously and intensely taken for granted, or for reasons which bid
graceful defiance to analysis, had never been so much on show, even to
the very casual critic lodged, as might be said, in an out-of-the-way
corner of it; it seemed really to reflect the purity of Euphemia's pious
opinion. There had been nothing especially to admire in the state of
mind in which he left Paris--a settled resolve to marry a young person
whose charms might or might not justify his sister's account of them,
but who was mistress, at the worst, of a couple of hundred thousand
francs a year. He had not counted out sentiment--if she pleased him so
much the better; but he had left a meagre margin for it and would hardly
have admitted that so excellent a match could be improved by it. He was
a robust and serene sceptic, and it was a singular fate for a man who
believed in nothing to be so tenderly believed in. What his original
faith had been he could hardly have told you, for as he came back to his
childhood's home to mend his fortunes by pretending to fall in love he
was a thoroughly perverse creature and overlaid with more corruptions
than a summer day's questioning of his conscience would have put to
flight. Ten years' pursuit of pleasure, which a bureau full of unpaid
bills was all he had to show for, had pretty well stifled the natural
lad whose violent will and generous temper might have been shaped by a
different pressure to some such showing as would have justified a
romantic faith. So should he have exhaled the natural fragrance of a
late-blooming flower of hereditary honour. His violence indeed had been
subdued and he had learned to be irreproachably polite; but he had lost
the fineness of his generosity, and his politeness, which in the long
run society paid for, was hardly more than a form of luxurious egotism,
like his fondness for ciphered pocket-handkerchiefs, lavender gloves and
other fopperies by which shopkeepers remained out of pocket. In after-
years he was terribly polite to his wife. He had formed himself, as the
phrase was, and the form prescribed to him by the society into which his
birth and his tastes had introduced him was marked by some peculiar
features. That which mainly concerns us is its classification of the
fairer half of humanity as objects not essentially different--say from
those very lavender gloves that are soiled in an evening and thrown
away. To do M. de Mauves justice, he had in the course of time
encountered in the feminine character such plentiful evidence of its
pliant softness and fine adjustability that idealism naturally seemed to
him a losing game.
Euphemia, as he lay on his sofa, struck him as by no means
contradictory; she simply reminded him that very young women are
generally innocent and that this is on the whole the most potent source
of their attraction. Her innocence moved him to perfect consideration,
and it seemed to him that if he shortly became her husband it would be
exposed to a danger the less. Old Madame de Mauves, who flattered
herself that in this whole matter she was very laudably rigid, might
almost have taken a lesson from the delicacy he practised. For two or
three weeks her grandson was well-nigh a blushing boy again. He watched
from behind the Figaro, he admired and desired and held his tongue. He
found himself not in the least moved to a flirtation; he had no wish to
trouble the waters he proposed to transfuse into the golden cup of
matrimony. Sometimes a word, a look, a gesture of Euphemia's gave him
the oddest sense of being, or of seeming at least, almost bashful; for
she had a way of not dropping her eyes according to the mysterious
virginal mechanism, of not fluttering out of the room when she found him
there alone, of treating him rather as a glorious than as a pernicious
influence--a radiant frankness of demeanour in fine, despite an infinite
natural reserve, which it seemed at once graceless not to be
complimentary about and indelicate not to take for granted. In this way
had been wrought in the young man's mind a vague unwonted resonance of
soft impressions, as we may call it, which resembled the happy stir of
the change from dreaming pleasantly to waking happily. His imagination
was touched; he was very fond of music and he now seemed to give easy
ear to some of the sweetest he had ever heard. In spite of the bore of
being laid up with a lame knee he was in better humour than he had known
for months; he lay smoking cigarettes and listening to the nightingales
with the satisfied smile of one of his country neighbours whose big ox
should have taken the prize at a fair. Every now and then, with an
impatient suspicion of the resemblance, he declared himself pitifully
bete; but he was under a charm that braved even the supreme penalty of
seeming ridiculous. One morning he had half an hour's tete-a-tete with
his grandmother's confessor, a soft-voiced old Abbe whom, for reasons of
her own, Madame de Mauves had suddenly summoned and had left waiting in
the drawing-room while she rearranged her curls. His reverence, going up
to the old lady, assured her that M. le Comte was in a most edifying
state of mind and the likeliest subject for the operation of grace. This
was a theological interpretation of the count's unusual equanimity. He
had always lazily wondered what priests were good for, and he now
remembered, with a sense of especial obligation to the Abbe, that they
were excellent for marrying people.
A day or two after this he left off his bandages and tried to walk. He
made his way into the garden and hobbled successfully along one of the
alleys, but in the midst of his progress was pulled up by a spasm of
pain which forced him to stop and call for help. In an instant Euphemia
came tripping along the path and offered him her arm with the frankest
solicitude.
"Not to the house," he said, taking it; "further on, to the bosquet."
This choice was prompted by her having immediately confessed that she
had seen him leave the house, had feared an accident and had followed
him on tiptoe.
"Why didn't you join me?" he had asked, giving her a look in which
admiration was no longer disguised and yet felt itself half at the mercy
of her replying that a jeune fille shouldn't be seen following a
gentleman. But it drew a breath which filled its lungs for a long time
afterwards when she replied simply that if she had overtaken him he
might have accepted her arm out of politeness, whereas she wished to
have the pleasure of seeing him walk alone.
The bosquet was covered with an odorous tangle of blossoming creepers,
and a nightingale overhead was shaking out love-notes with a profusion
that made the Count feel his own conduct the last word of propriety.
"I've always heard that in America, when a man wishes to marry a young
girl, he offers himself simply face to face and without ceremony--
without parents and uncles and aunts and cousins sitting round in a
circle."
"Why I believe so," said Euphemia, staring and too surprised to be
alarmed.
"Very well then--suppose our arbour here to be your great sensible
country. I offer you my hand a l'Americaine. It will make me intensely
happy to feel you accept it."
Whether Euphemia's acceptance was in the American manner is more than I
can say; I incline to think that for fluttering grateful trustful
softly-amazed young hearts there is only one manner all over the world.
That evening, in the massive turret chamber it was her happiness to
inhabit, she wrote a dutiful letter to her mamma, and had just sealed it
when she was sent for by Madame de Mauves. She found this ancient lady
seated in her boudoir in a lavender satin gown and with her candles all
lighted as for the keeping of some fete. "Are you very happy?" the old
woman demanded, making Euphemia sit down before her.
"I'm almost afraid to say so, lest I should wake myself up."
"May you never wake up, belle enfant," Madame de Mauves grandly
returned. "This is the first marriage ever made in our family in this
way--by a Comte de Mauves proposing to a young girl in an arbour like
Jeannot and Jeannette. It has not been our way of doing things, and
people may say it wants frankness. My grandson tells me he regards it--
for the conditions--as the perfection of good taste. Very well. I'm a
very old woman, and if your differences should ever be as marked as your
agreements I shouldn't care to see them. But I should be sorry to die
and think you were going to be unhappy. You can't be, my dear, beyond a
certain point; because, though in this world the Lord sometimes makes
light of our expectations he never altogether ignores our deserts. But
you're very young and innocent and easy to dazzle. There never was a man
in the world--among the saints themselves--as good as you believe my
grandson. But he's a galant homme and a gentleman, and I've been talking
to him to-night. To you I want to say this--that you're to forget the
worldly rubbish I talked the other day about the happiness of frivolous
women. It's not the kind of happiness that would suit you, ma toute-
belle. Whatever befalls you, promise me this: to be, to remain, your own
sincere little self only, charming in your own serious little way. The
Comtesse de Mauves will be none the worse for it. Your brave little
self, understand, in spite of everything--bad precepts and bad examples,
bad fortune and even bad usage. Be persistently and patiently just what
the good God has made you, and even one of us--and one of those who is
most what we ARE--will do you justice!"
Euphemia remembered this speech in after-years, and more than once,
wearily closing her eyes, she seemed to see the old woman sitting
upright in her faded finery and smiling grimly like one of the Fates who
sees the wheel of fortune turning up her favourite event. But at the
moment it had for her simply the proper gravity of the occasion: this
was the way, she supposed, in which lucky young girls were addressed on
their engagement by wise old women of quality.
At her convent, to which she immediately returned, she found a letter
from her mother which disconcerted her far more than the remarks of
Madame de Mauves. Who were these people, Mrs. Cleve demanded, who had
presumed to talk to her daughter of marriage without asking her leave?
Questionable gentlefolk plainly; the best French people never did such
things. Euphemia would return straightway to her convent, shut herself
up and await her own arrival. It took Mrs. Cleve three weeks to travel
from Nice to Paris, and during this time the young girl had no
communication with her lover beyond accepting a bouquet of violets
marked with his initials and left by a female friend. "I've not brought
you up with such devoted care," she declared to her daughter at their
first interview, "to marry a presumptuous and penniless Frenchman. I
shall take you straight home and you'll please forget M. de Mauves."
Mrs. Cleve received that evening at her hotel a visit from this
personage which softened her wrath but failed to modify her decision. He
had very good manners, but she was sure he had horrible morals; and the
lady, who had been a good-natured censor on her own account, felt a deep
and real need to sacrifice her daughter to propriety. She belonged to
that large class of Americans who make light of their native land in
familiar discourse but are startled back into a sense of having
blasphemed when they find Europeans taking them at their word. "I know
the type, my dear," she said to her daughter with a competent nod. "He
won't beat you. Sometimes you'll wish he would."
Euphemia remained solemnly silent, for the only answer she felt capable
of making was that her mother's mind was too small a measure of things
and her lover's type an historic, a social masterpiece that it took some
mystic illumination to appreciate. A person who confounded him with the
common throng of her watering-place acquaintance was not a person to
argue with. It struck the girl she had simply no cause to plead; her
cause was in the Lord's hands and in those of M. de Mauves.
This agent of Providence had been irritated and mortified by Mrs.
Cleve's opposition, and hardly knew how to handle an adversary who
failed to perceive that a member of his family gave of necessity more
than he received. But he had obtained information on his return to Paris
which exalted the uses of humility. Euphemia's fortune, wonderful to
say, was greater than its fame, and in view of such a prize, even a
member of his family could afford to take a snubbing.
The young man's tact, his deference, his urbane insistence, won a
concession from Mrs. Cleve. The engagement was to be put off and her
daughter was to return home, be brought out and receive the homage she
was entitled to and which might well take a form representing peril to
the suit of this first headlong aspirant. They were to exchange neither
letters nor mementoes nor messages; but if at the end of two years
Euphemia had refused offers enough to attest the permanence of her
attachment he should receive an invitation to address her again. This
decision was promulgated in the presence of the parties interested. The
Count bore himself gallantly, looking at his young friend as if he
expected some tender protestation. But she only looked at him silently
in return, neither weeping nor smiling nor putting out her hand. On this
they separated, and as M. de Mauves walked away he declared to himself
that in spite of the confounded two years he was one of the luckiest of
men--to have a fiancee who to several millions of francs added such
strangely beautiful eyes.
How many offers Euphemia refused but scantily concerns us--and how the
young man wore his two years away. He found he required pastimes, and as
pastimes were expensive he added heavily to the list of debts to be
cancelled by Euphemia's fortune. Sometimes, in the thick of what he had
once called pleasure with a keener conviction than now, he put to
himself the case of their failing him after all; and then he remembered
that last mute assurance of her pale face and drew a long breath of such
confidence as he felt in nothing else in the world save his own
punctuality in an affair of honour.
At last, one morning, he took the express to Havre with a letter of Mrs.
Cleve's in his pocket, and ten days later made his bow to mother and
daughter in New York. His stay was brief, and he was apparently unable
to bring himself to view what Euphemia's uncle, Mr. Butterworth, who
gave her away at the altar, called our great experiment of democratic
self-government, in a serious light. He smiled at everything and seemed
to regard the New World as a colossal plaisanterie. It is true that a
perpetual smile was the most natural expression of countenance for a man
about to marry Euphemia Cleve. _
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