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The Idol of Paris

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She put the white orchids that Count Styvens had just sent to her in
her belt. Jean Perliez picked up the discarded bouquet and the card.
He was more disturbed by her anger against the Duke than by her
passive acceptance of the young Count's gift. She had talked to him
continually of the Duke, criticizing him it is true, but Jean felt in
these reproaches that Esperance was more or less practising some
deceit. Esperance had wished to have Jean defend the Duke, heap on him
praise rather than the blame he did. The young artist felt
instinctively that this man--the Duke--would not marry his little
comrade.

The three went back to work. When the rehearsal was finished, M. and
Mme. Darbois came in gaily to take their breakfast coffee with them.
Esperance kissed them tenderly and departed for the struggle on which,
perhaps, her career depended.

A day of competition at the Conservatoire offers the spectators a
series of amusing studies, instructive, puzzling and deceptive also at
times. Ambition, jealousy, vanity border on loyalty, sensibility, and
pride. Most of these young people are preparing themselves to begin a
sharp and bitter struggle for life itself. Others--and these are very
few--are in search of, if not fame, at least notoriety. They have
elected to enter upon this career, led by enthusiastic hope, their
love of the beautiful, and unconscious consecration to art; nor will
they cease throughout their lives to spread their propaganda in behalf
of all there is that is good.

When Esperance appeared for the scene of _Phedre_, a fluttering
murmur of approval greeted her, while several little outbursts of
applause were heard. She was so pretty in her gown of white crepe de
chine! Her youthfully cut bodice revealed the slender flexibility of
her neck; she might have been a bust in rose wax modelled by Leonardo
da Vinci. She carried all before her by her interesting interpretation
of the role. The tragic grief of the daughter of "_Minos_" and
"_Pasiphae_" was a revelation for many there from one so young.
Tears coursed down Esperance's pretty cheeks. The abandon of her
graceful arms, her renouncement of a struggle against the gods, her
longing for death, her shame after the tale of "_Oenone_," her
radiant vision of the son of "_Theseus_," all was fully appreciated
by the public, and by a distinguished company of connoisseurs,
often strongly critical, but never insensible to real talent as it
developed.

In the competition for comedy the young girl achieved the same
triumph. When the jury proclaimed her first in tragedy, all being
unanimously agreed on the verdict, a storm of applause and admiration
greeted the announcement. Mlle. Frahender wept with pleasure,
Genevieve Hardouin, enfolding her little friend in her lovely bare
arms, kissed her on the hair. Esperance felt more touched by the
affectionate admiration of her comrades, than she had been even by the
applause the day of the first presentation of Victorien Sardou's play
at the Vaudeville. In the afternoon she received the same kind of
ovation for her competition for the first prize in comedy. When she
came out of the Conservatoire they would have unharnessed her
carriage, but Mlle. Frahender and Jean Perliez absolutely opposed this
manifestation. Genevieve Hardouin had obtained a second prize in
tragedy and an honourable mention in comedy. Jean, who had only
entered the competition for tragedy, had a first, shared with two
other comrades. The three young people were radiant, each neglecting
his own fortune to magnify the triumph of the others.

When Esperance returned to the Boulevard Raspail, she found her
parents much elated at her success. Count Styvens, who had been
present at the competition, had hurried to tell them the good news and
give them all the details of their daughter's significant triumph.

"She surpassed herself in _Phedre_," he had said. "She is, I
think, the equal to some of the greatest tragedienes," and when they
told Esperance she said, "Is he still here?" looking towards the
salon.

"No, he did not wish to weary you. He only left this note:"

"_You were divine in Phedre, delightfully feminine in Barberine. No
one is happier at your phenomenal success than your always devoted,
Albert Styvens._"

Esperance felt a world of gratitude to the young Count for not having
waited to see her. She went into her room to undress, and in doing so
drew gently from her belt the white orchid. She was about to put it in
one of the two vases on the mantel-piece, when her hand paused of its
own accord and remained inert; her gaze had been caught by the Duke de
Morlay-La-Branche's gardenias in the other vase. Radiant with
freshness it caught the eye, it invited her to come and smell. The
girl bent towards its whiteness. The intoxicating perfume held her.
Her head drooped nearer and nearer the delicate blossoms. Her lip
touched the smooth flesh of the petal. She trembled violently and
threw her head back. It seemed as if a kiss had been given her! She
quivered, closing her eyes, longing for the unpleasant feeling to
pass.

After a few moments she looked at the poor orchid which had dropped on
the cold marble mantel-piece. She lifted it up carefully and placed it
in some fresh water.

Then she sat down before the vases where the two rival flowers
displayed their charms. She was bitterly conscious of being impelled
by a new inner force, an almost evil force. And she looked from the
mantel to the ivory Virgin, whose open hands seemed to be showering
blessings.

Esperance looked back to the white orchid.

"If I do not marry that man I am lost," she thought.

Almost terrified, she got up and walked about to calm herself, to
conquer the instinct which her reason told her was wrong. Still under
the strain of the emotions of the triumphal day, and to escape the
disagreeable thought the sight of the radiant gardenias provoked in
her, she began to write a long letter to the Countess Styvens. That
soothed her nervousness a little. She poured out all her heart in the
letter, for she knew that this woman loved her independently of the
love of her son--loved her entirely for her own self.

Two days later Esperance received a letter from the Director of the
Comedie-Française, asking her to call at four o'clock that same day at
the theatre. At the right hour she went with her mother and Mlle.
Frahender. Without delay she was at once engaged, for Madame Darbois
had the spoken and written authority of her husband to make what
arrangements her daughter should desire. The Director was most
complimentary to the young actress and asked what rôle she would care
to choose for her debut. Esperance proclaimed her preference for
"_Dona Sol_" in _Hernani_ or "_Camille_" in "_On ne badine pas
avec
l'amour_."

Her heart was filled with emotion as she was leaving the great house
of which in future she would be a part. The Place du Carrousel, the
perspective of the Tuileries, and the Champs Elysées seemed more
beautiful than ever before. The passers-by were charming. Everything,
everywhere, spoke only of happiness and hope.

"Mama, dear mama, I am so happy."





PART III. THE COUNTRY





CHAPTER XVI


After the recent excitement at the Conservatoire, following the
competition, Esperance was delighted to act upon the Doctor's advice
to leave Paris. Doctor Potain had told the philosopher that it was
absolutely imperative that his daughter should have two or three
months of absolute quiet. He suggested the mountains; but Esperance
would have none of them. She loved far horizons and vast plains, but
her real choice was the sea. So it was decided that the family should
go to their little farm at Belle-Isle-en-Mer.

"You must go immediately," the Doctor commanded, "and to begin with
you must have two weeks' complete repose, in the sun, in a comfortable
reclining chair."

Esperance was beside herself with joy. To see the pretty farm again
nestling in its circle of tall tamarisks, to dream for hours by the
seaside, to breathe the breath of furze and seaweed! The windows of
her room overlooked the land on one side, and on the other she had
wild ocean, studded with black rocks gleaming under the sea's
caresses.

Maurice Renaud, Jean Perliez and Genevieve Hardouin were invited by
the Darbois to spend their vacation at the farm of Penhouet. Their
arrival at the Gare d'Orsay was a complete surprise to Esperance, who
threw herself on her father's neck, sobbing with pleasure.

He chided her gently, "Daughter, are you going to break your word to
the Doctor?"

So she at once began to laugh in the midst of her tears.

"No, papa dear, only I have not yet begun to keep it. The cure will
only commence with my first day in the long chair on the seashore. So
you see I can still cry a little in gratitude for all your
thoughtfulness."

The trip was gay, thanks to Maurice's nonsense. Modern painter,
cosmopolitan, elegant, and cultivated gentleman, he could still become
frolicsome and frivolous with nonsense in happy company.

M. Darbois, ordinarily so quiet, laughed at his antics till the tears
came, while Mme. Darbois smiled that pleasant smile that had first
long ago appealed to François's heart. As to Mlle. Frahender, the
artist's wit fairly made her dizzy. As at Brussels, she soon gave up
trying to follow him, for at the moment when she thought she had
caught the trend of his humour he had already branched off into
another anecdote, this time serious, and her laugh would come too
late. So she tried to read the names of the little stations flying
past, but the speed of the train was so great that, like Maurice's
anecdotes, she only got as far as the first syllable. She closed her
eyes and slept.

They changed trains at Auray about six in the morning. The young
people took charge of the luggage while Maurice went to make sure that
the portmanteau with his canvas and paints was securely on the right
train. With his mind at rest, he joined them at the little buffet,
where they were having shrimps, pink as roses, fresh eggs, coffee and
the little cakes of the countryside.

"This way for Quiberon," called out the guard. And the train carried
the whole family away to its next stage.

When Esperance breathed the life-giving breath of the sea, when she
could distinguish the green line of ocean beyond the trees, she
clapped her hands with ecstasy. She became a guide for Genevieve,
explaining to her the conformation of Carnac, and recounting with
pretty fancy the legends of the country they were passing through.

At last the train stopped at Quiberon. They stopped at the Hotel de
France to speak to the Proprietress, Mme. Le Dantec, and get a picnic
dinner from her to take with them. The boat, the _Soulacroup,_
was filling the air with its second whistle, so they had to hurry
along. The tide was not yet full, so they had to climb down the slimy
quay, slippery with trodden seaweed, shiny with fish scales. The boat
was taking on board a dozen red hogs that snorted mightily. Several
women with well-laden baskets settled themselves in the fore part of
the vessel, using the baskets as a barricade between themselves and
the pigs. Our travellers settled themselves as well as possible, which
was not well at all, on the little bridge under an awning. However,
Esperance found it all delightful.

The trip was rather rough and uncomfortable, but most of the company
made the best of it. Mlle. Frahender grew pale and ill, and her hair
flew about in the most comic disarray. Cosily ensconced in a corner,
Maurice sketched the various attitudes his companions assumed with
every antic of the lightly-laden, wave-tossed Soulacroup. Hunched up
on the seat, Esperance clung to the rigging. Genevieve clutched at her
when a wave pitched the boat too far over. The others, well muffled
up, waited in silence. Jean Perliez sighted the shore continually with
his glasses, wishing it ever nearer so that his impatient idol might
soon be safe on shore again.

In due course the port of Palais came in view. The Soulacroup's
whistle shrieked through the air and in a quarter of an hour more they
landed. First the red pigs were taken off, tottering even on solid
land, no doubt brooding over the evils they had just passed through.

Maurice was enthusiastic when he caught a good view of the little port
of Palais, filled with a hundred little boats lined with blue nets.
The tuna boats carried from their ropes and around their sides long,
stiff silver tunas, so bright in the sun's rays that they hurt the
eyes.

"Oh! Do look," cried Esperance.

A little boat had just approached, overladen with sardines, and soon a
silver shower was falling on the hard stones of the quay. It was a
beautiful sight, and the excitement of the Parisians amused the jolly
fishermen mightily.

François Darbois led his party to the carriage that was waiting, a
brake with six seats, drawn by two farm horses. The farmer on the box
seat was beaming with pride at the return of his patrons.

It is more than an hour's journey from Palais to Penhouet, but the
road seemed short, on account of its variety of view. Leaving Palais,
there was first of all the ropemakers rolling long strands of hemp
with their fingers almost bleeding over the task. They had chosen a
charming spot; shaded by a little orchard they worked and sang the
ropemaker's song, with a lingering, dragging melody. And then, after
passing a little wood, the island itself came into view. It was
covered with gorse, like a series of Oriental carpets dotted with the
gold of the broom in bloom, woven with rose heather, and red heather,
and purple heather. The bright green foliage of the wild roses
"appeared" like arabesques. The sky, hanging low, bluish green,
without a cloud, seemed as a silken film stretched to filter the heat
of the sun. At a turn in the road the plain disappeared to give place
to little hills, which rise from every side to defend from wind and
rain the beautiful golden wheat, with its heads drooping under the
weight of the heavy grain.

"Ah!" cried Esperance joyfully, standing up in the carriage, "I can
see there is the farm just ahead."

The road dropped abruptly so they had to put on the brakes in spite of
Esperance's impatience.

And the two young girls, clinging to each other, saw the little
red-roofed farm house enlarge, as they grew nearer. At last the
carriage stopped, and the farmer's wife came forward to meet them
with her three children. At twenty-six she looked forty, like most
peasant women exhausted by work and child-bearing. Madame Darbois
caressed the children, who had just been having their ears washed
and their hair combed vigorously to prepare them for the advent of
their master's family.

The farm house was long, and close to the earth, being only one
story high. The front door gave directly on the same level into the
dining-room, a large room which also served as the salon or parlour,
with a bright kitchen to one side, where shining casseroles spoke of
the order of the proprietors; to the left, was a large bedroom, sacred
to the Darbois themselves. Close to the kitchen was a very comfortable
room for Marguerite and the other maid. A wooden staircase led to six
rooms above, which were very airy, and all hung with bright chintzes.
Mlle. Frahender was installed next to Esperance, with Genevieve on the
other side. The two young men were sent to what was known as the "Five
Divisions of the World," being composed of five cabins, Europe, Asia,
Africa, America and Oceania. These five rooms were always reserved for
guests, were built of pitchpine, and their windows gave directly on
the sea.

Farther away, at the edge of the fields, were the farmer's quarters,
with a long pond full of reeds and iris, hard by and adjoining the
pond a pigeon house with sixteen white pigeons which were very dear to
Esperance. She loved to see them fly across the water, like pretty
messengers disporting between two skies.

After a frugal dinner the young people climbed the dills as far as
Penhouet. The bay was surrounded on all sides by high rocks, behind
which were hidden smaller rocks, covered with mosses, and mussels; and
on the right the cliff hollowed out into a dark cave facing the land.
This little beach, cheerful by day, grew mysterious with the fall of
night. Esperance could point out Quiberon, outlined across the way
between land and sky like a ribbon of light. The little lighthouse,
high on the plateau above the farm, sent out its long lunar arms
regularly to sweep the country and search the sea.




CHAPTER XVII


Esperance kept her word to Doctor Potain, and spent fifteen days
stretched out in a cosy lounge chair. The particular part of the beach
had been chosen by Maurice, for it was during this time of forced
repose that he intended to do his cousin's portrait for the next
Salon. In a little hollow of the hill, he settled the chair. A great
tamarisk with feathery foliage of bright green formed a background. To
the right was the sea, to the left a glowering mass of dark rocks.
Jean and Genevieve took turns in reading aloud, and the picture was
said to be progressing famously. During the first two weeks Esperance
spent about five hours every day in the chair, but from the sixteenth
day she only devoted one hour for posing, after lunch, and then she
began to organize excursions to explore the country round about.

One morning as the four young people were returning from a bicycle
ride, they saw ahead of them the little brake on its return journey
from Palais to the farm which Mme. Darbois had used on a shopping
expedition with Marguerite. In the brake were two other persons--two
men. The excursionists were still too far from the carriage to
recognize the strangers. But Esperance, who was watching, stopped
suddenly. Genevieve, who was behind her, almost rode into her, and had
to jump lightly from her wheel. Maurice and Jean were some distance
behind. She called to them. They were much concerned to find
Esperance, with a pale face, clenching her hands on the handle-bar.

"What is it, cousin, what ails you?"

At first she did not speak at all, then her eyes lost their far-away
look and she gazed at Jean.

"I don't know," she said in a changed voice, "I think I had some
hallucination come upon me."

Then she pointed towards the distant brake which was approaching
Penhouet at a great pace.

"What did you see?" Maurice insisted. "You have had a dizzy feeling
come over you? You must be careful."

"Yes, perhaps so," she went on, shaking her head as if to rid it of
some vague thoughts that were disturbing her brain, "perhaps so. But
let us be quick, for one of the gentlemen was Doctor Potain."

"Were there two men," asked Jean.

"Yes, two."

And she started off again at a great pace.

Jean was dolefully perplexed.

When they arrived at the farm they were quite breathless from their
long ride. The philosopher was waiting for them at the door.

"Esperance, my dear," he said, "Doctor Potain is here with the Duke de
Morlay-La-Branche. Your mother met them at the Palais, just as they
had landed from the boat and were looking for a carriage."

"Very well, father, I must change my things and I will be with you as
quickly as possible."

Jean Perliez understood the emotion of his dear little comrade. She
seemed to him at once terrified and fascinated. Maurice was presented
to the Duke, who immediately began to make himself agreeable. He was
quite anxious he said to see the portrait of which M. Darbois had
spoken, so Maurice led him up the hill side. The portrait was on an
easel, and from a distance the Duke almost thought that he was seeing
the real Esperance, the little girl who was troubling his life. He was
delighted with the freshness of the colouring, and the perfection of
the likeness, so necessary when the model is so beautiful.

Maurice was pleased by the appreciation of such a skilled dilettante,
the praise was evidently sincere. He was very much taken with the
Duke, who predicted a glorious future for him.

Jean waited at the foot of the staircase leading to the girl's rooms,
and watched them descend. Esperance was looking radiant. She had
dressed herself with particular care. He understood the tremors of her
heart and decided to keep watch in case she should need him.

When the girls came into the hall, the Duke was talking to Maurice,
and the Doctor to François Darbois. The gentlemen had not heard the
door open, but intuitively the Duke turned around.

Esperance met his burning eyes which were veiled by an expression that
suggested repentant submission. She inclined her head slowly and went
straight up to Doctor Potain, thanking him for coming, and apologizing
for having kept him waiting. Potain led her into her parents' room. He
was much disturbed by the uneven beating of her heart, stormier than
he had ever heard it.

"That is because I just rushed foolishly on my bicycle to see you,
Doctor. I recognized you a long way off. So...."

The Doctor looked closely at the young girl. Her eyes shone with
abnormal brightness. He sounded her, but found nothing wrong except
the irregularity of her heart. He sent Esperance back to the salon so
that he could talk with her father alone. The Duke hastened to
apologize for having come thus without notice. He was staying at the
Château of Castel-Montjoie with Doctor Potain, and when he heard that
the Doctor was leaving for Belle-Isle, he could not resist the
opportunity to come and ask pardon. He talked a long time, with
ardent, almost brotherly tenderness; asked when Esperance thought of
making her appearance at the Comedie-Française, urging her to play
_"Camille,"_ and spoke with considerable praise of Musset's
heroine.

"The character of the young girl seems to have been caught alive. I
criticize her only for her hardness."

"But," Esperance replied quickly, "that hardness is simply a light
veneer, the result of her education. _'Camille_,' who knew
nothing of life except through the disillusioned account of her friend
in the Convent, would soon become human if _'Perdican'_ had a
less complicated psychology."

She stopped, and was silent a minute.

The Duke looked at her.

"All the world has not the candour of a Count Styvens," he said.

This unfortunate sentence exactly answered a fleeting thought that was
passing in Esperance's brain.

"So much the worse for 'all the world,'" she said quietly and left
him.

Her father and Doctor Potain came in at this moment.

"What are you plotting against me?" she said, going up to them.

François caressed her velvet cheek. "You shall soon know."

The Duke had remained dumbfounded in his chair. The sudden mastery of
this child, who had for the second time rebuked him, touched his
pride. His instinct as an irresistible charmer told him she was not
indifferent to him. Still he could not define in what way he appealed
to her. Was it physical? Was it of a higher order? After a little
cogitation, he concluded that that was the secret. However, he was
wrong. Esperance was subjugated by the attraction of his masculinity
and strength, which was subtly energetic and audacious. His taste and
independence appealed to her artistic nature. His vibrant voice, the
grace of his slender hands, the lightness of his spirits always alert,
his superiority at every sport, made the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche
quite like a real hero of romance. He had expected to subjugate the
little Parisian idol, and found himself thwarted by her. This rather
annoyed him, and he vowed to conquer her.

Doctor Potain, who was looking at his watch, now chimed in with, "My
dear Duke, we must be thinking of leaving; the boat will not wait for
us."

Charles de Morlay thanked his farm hosts, and after bowing elegantly
over Mme. Darbois's hand, looked for Esperance.

"Jean," said Professor Darbois, "look and see if you can find
Esperance, and tell her to come and say good-bye to our dear Doctor."

But Jean returned alone. Esperance was not to be found. She had flown.

"She had not forgotten about the boat," said the young actor.

"Perhaps she has gone on her bicycle to gather news of old mother
Kabastron, who is very ill. That is about ten minutes' distance from
here. I will ride ahead on my bicycle."

The Duke laughed gaily, and prepared a scathing witticism with which
to wither the young girl. But he did not have the pleasure of
delivering it to Esperance, who had hidden herself behind her portrait
at the foot of the rook.

She reappeared much later, and was rebuked by her father for having
shown such discourtesy to his guests.

"You know very well, papa dear, that I am very grateful to Doctor
Potain, and I should not have gone away if he had been alone."

M. and Mme. Darbois looked at each other and at Esperance.

"Yes, my dear little mother, the Duke makes himself too agreeable for
your big daughter."

"But," said the philosopher, "I have never noticed it."

"You were absorbed in a philosophic discussion with the Doctor, and
the Duke was not speaking very loud."

"Can you not be more definite?" asked François Darbois a little
nervously.

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