Read Ebook: Odette's Marriage A Novel from the French of Albert Delpit Translated from the Revue des Deux Mondes by Emily Prescott by Delpit Albert Prescott Emily Translator

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Ebook has 841 lines and 42245 words, and 17 pages

"But I am sure, my dear Laviguerie, that this reunion will give Odette the greatest happiness, and I do not see--"

"Why I called it annoying? I will tell you. You never met my first wife. When I married her, she was a lovely young girl, cultivated and charming. Perhaps I ought to have inquired into the antecedents of the family; but I was in love. I did nothing of the kind, and I was wrong. I soon discovered that my wife was one of those women whose nervous system rules the whole body. At first, I hoped I was mistaken; but a physiologist can never deceive himself long. She would be seized with fits of the deepest depression, morbid despair, followed by floods of tears, or else immoderate laughter. Her character changed little by little, until I no longer dared to take her out with me. When Germaine was born, she seemed to rally for a time, but soon became again a prey to the most violent nervous affection, and, in one of her spasms, died, leaving me a widower, with a little girl who, of course, had inherited the mother's disease. I had a daughter a prey to hysteria, as others have a deformed or a blind child. I married again, as you know; I wanted a home. I will say nothing of my second wife. You know how I loved her--so sweet, so calm, so gentle. She died when Odette was born. Ah! my friend, I should have died of grief, if it had not been for my work."

He stopped a few minutes. The strong man was shaken by these sad memories, as the tempest tosses the oak tree. He continued more slowly:

"For eight years Germaine and Odette grew up side by side, and I watched them with the most searching eyes. I soon found in Germaine the frightful symptoms of her mother's disease. She was excessively nervous and sensitive, so that when her aunt asked for her, it was with great satisfaction I consented. I had ceased to love her. It was cruel and selfish of me, I know; but I am only a man, and subject to the same faults and failings as the meanest of them!"

"And now Germaine is coming home," replied M. Descoutures, "permit me to say, with the greatest respect, that I think you did wrong. But what is past is past. To-day, your duty--if I may venture to say that word to a man like you--is to receive your daughter as if everything were all right. You need not fear that Odette could possibly become nervous by living with her. Odette is too full of vitality, and--" M. Descoutures stopped short. Corinne had appeared, and he never spoke more than was absolutely necessary, when she was near.

Corinne had painted her cheeks as red as those dolls that speak when they are pressed in the stomach. Her hair fell over her shoulders like the blonde locks of some little twelve-year-old, or the drooping branches of a weeping willow.

She was beaming with happiness. Her heart was beating fast for that Paul Frager of whom she had been speaking to Odette. She had always supposed his frequent visits to the villa had been on Odette's account. But, as she learned this to have been a mistake, there was no longer any room for doubt--she, Corinne, was the beloved object of his affections.

Almost at the same time Odette returned, simply dressed as usual, looking like a beautiful Amazon with her helmet of sparkling gold.

She kissed her father, shook hands with M. Descoutures, and cried cheerfully, "Are we never to have any lunch? I am famishing."

Laviguerie was still harassed by Germaine's near arrival. However, nothing could be done to prevent it. As they were passing into the lunch room, he detained Odette a few minutes. "My dear child," he said, "you have not heard from your sister for several days, I believe. Has it not seemed strange to you?" Odette grew pale, and said anxiously:

"Is she sick?"

"No! but a great sorrow has befallen her. Mme. Rozan is dead."

"Her aunt is dead? But then she will come to us?"

"Yes; this evening."

Odette threw her arms around her father's neck. "She is coming back! Oh! how happy I am! I wanted her every minute and every hour. Let me kiss you again for the glorious news!" And she embraced him a third time with all the grace and roguishness of a spoiled child. Then, running into the dining-room, she danced up to her friends, saying: "Germaine is coming! She is coming this evening! We will all go to the depot to meet her!"

M. Laviguerie came in behind his daughter, silent and sad. "You know, father, there is a room next to mine that she can have. We have been separated so long that now we must be together all the time." Laviguerie looked on, sadly smiling at his daughter's happiness. Putting her arms around his neck, she continued: "Do you not like to see me so happy? Are you afraid that I shall love Germaine more than I do you? You need not fear. I have always loved Germaine the most, and yet had plenty of love for my dear father."

Laviguerie took his daughter in his arms and, kissing her brow, simply said: "You have a loving heart, dear child."

Lunch passed off gayly. Nothing is more contagious than joy or sadness. Which of us has not experienced the effect of a hearty laugh? Odette chatted merrily on about her plans for the future. She would make Germaine so happy; they would have so much to see together, and then they must make plans to marry off our "dear little Germaine"--not to any of the old Academy professors, but to some nice, interesting young gentleman.

No one interrupted Odette. Her father was recalling the misery of his first marriage. M. Descoutures was enjoying her charming and gay vivacity; while Corinne was dreaming of her conquest. Happy Corinne! As usual, she was imagining a love scene. This time, it was Paul Frager at her feet, his eyes cast down, confessing his passion. She would reply: "Poor, dear boy," and imprint a chaste kiss on his brow.

Having brought things to so satisfactory a conclusion, Corinne deigned to smile and join in the merry conversation.

Paul Frager is a young man of a tall and elegant figure, with delicate and regular features. His black hair, cut close to his head, gives energy to his sweet expression. He has beautiful black eyes, frank and sincere, that look you full in the face. His dark heavy moustache can not hide his dazzlingly white teeth. He has many friends. No one can help loving that warm and sympathetic heart, always ready for any sacrifice to love or friendship. His manly strength would lead one to doubt the almost womanly tenderness and delicacy of sentiment which seem to be the foundation of his character. Admitted to the bar when very young, he has since lived quietly on a small income, inherited from his father, collecting material for a work on comparative legislation, which he hopes to publish some of these days.

Each year he travels two or three months, usually afoot, studying the manners and customs of different countries. Two years ago, he traveled in this way through Italy. Perhaps next year he may go to England.

Up to the year 1872, his life was as calm as a lake in Scotland on a Summer evening. His mother's second marriage took place at this time, and ever since his friends had noticed a great change in him. He became still more absorbed in his studies; became silent and almost morose. Then another change was noticed in him; his gaiety seemed to return. But suddenly, one morning, he left Paris and established himself at Canet, a pretty little fishing village, which lies stretched out sleepily like a great lizard, basking in the sun, on the shore of the Mediterranean.

When he had returned from his morning's ride with Odette, he sat down to his work by the open window. He heard from time to time the heavy waves breaking against the rocks below. He was gazing out of the window at the glorious panorama of water and clouds, when he heard a knock at the door. He called out, "Come in," without turning his head. The door opened with a creak, and some one entered.

"It is I, my dear fellow! Of course, you did not expect to see me; but I wished to have a little talk with you."

At the sound of this voice, Paul turned around quickly, and with evident astonishment:

"You? Can it be you--here?"

"Yes; here I am, returning from Italy with your mother. I did not want to pass so near you without dropping in to see you."

He was a man about forty years old, very tall, broad-shouldered, and strikingly handsome. His hair, slightly gray, covered only the back and sides of his head. He was elegantly but very simply dressed--the ribbon of the Legion of Honor at his button-hole.

Claude Sirvin, in 1876, was at the height of his fame and renown. Life had only caresses to offer him. When very young, he won the great "prix de Rome" by his "Death of Beaurepaire." As usual, wealth and honor accompanied success, and he stepped at once to the front rank among artists. He was a man of the world at the same time, and allowed himself to be made love to by the dozens of pretty little fools who are always ready to throw themselves at the head of any celebrated man. Having always plenty of money at his command, he lived the life of a prince, spending freely and enjoying life to the utmost. But he always kept his glowing, devoted passion for his art free from the least stain or impurity. It was his religion, his faith, his God. He was admitted to the Institute in 1873. A few months later, a rumor arose that Claude was Claude no longer--Claude was going to be married; then that Claude was married.

At first, no one would believe the absurd report. Every one added his witticism, to the effect that it was impossible. What would become of all the forsaken Ariadnes? Then arose a story that he had married a Russian princess, with eleven millions in her own right. Then, another story was heard, that he had married a little actress out of the "Com?die Fran?aise." When the truth first came out, his friends were dumb with astonishment. They learned that Claude had married a Creole widow, of small fortune and exquisite beauty. Elaine was a very cultivated, refined woman, and she fascinated Claude by her gentle, womanly dignity.

Paul offered an easy chair to his step-father, and sat down facing him.

"Well, my dear Paul, you are still the same. You can not conceal your thought that my visit is a disagreeable surprise to you."

"Sir!"

"Never mind--I am not annoyed; but we must have an important conversation together--may be a long one. You were studying as I came in. Can you give me your attention for an hour or two?"

"My time is at your disposal, sir; and, since you have taken the trouble to come and visit me, I should be very impolite if I did not express myself as grateful for your kindness."

"Thank you, my dear Paul. I have only one request to make, and that is, that you will give me your attention. First, I must recall the past. In tropical countries, girls marry young. You were born when Mme. Frager was only fifteen years old. For eighteen years, she devoted her whole life to you. You were eighteen years old when I first saw your mother. I was deeply interested in her from the first moment. Although thirty-three years old, she barely appeared twenty-five. I was so fortunate as to please her. The noble woman had brought you to manhood. Her task might be considered as accomplished. I begged for her hand, and she made me the happiest of mortals by granting my request. Ever since that time, you have been opposed to me. The time has now come to put an end to this misunderstanding. Before my marriage, I confess, my life was not what it should have been. As you grow older, dear Paul, you will learn that one of the first virtues in this world is charity. I confessed my faults to your mother. She, alone, had the right to condemn me. She forgave me, and I had the inestimable happiness of giving my name to the one I love and reverence more than all else on earth. I regret to awaken these painful memories, but I am coming to our unfortunate disagreement; you have never forgiven me for marrying your mother. I was never angry at you. Children are always more or less selfish in their affections. You never reflected that, after having consecrated the best years of her life to you, your mother had the right to think at last of her own happiness. In short, you were offended at her marriage with me, and separated yourself entirely from us, leaving your mother, who loved you so tenderly, turning your back on me, who was anxious to give you the affection of an older brother. But, instead of being angry, we only respected you the more. Such pride shows that you are warm-hearted and impulsive. You will understand that, under ordinary circumstances, I should never have intruded upon you; but the cause of my journey here was the anxiety aroused by your last few letters to your mother."

Paul was listening with the greatest attention. Claude Sirvin was speaking with all his heart in his words, and Paul could not help being touched by them. The artist talked, as he painted, with his whole soul. His voice was sometimes tender and sweet, then it rose to firmness, according to the thought he was expressing. This eloquence was what made him so dangerously fascinating to women.

He continued: "Now we come to the cause of my visit. I have spoken of our anxiety. For some time past, your letters have been feverish, glowing, nervous, and it is easy to guess that you are in love at last."

Paul started visibly, blushed, and then grew pale, trembling violently. Claude gently took his hand:

"Do not say anything. Wait till I have finished. You love a young girl. Is it not so? I was sure of it, Paul. Love, with you, is not merely a violent caprice, as it is with some. Your heart belongs to her, once and for all; and, that frightens you, for you say to yourself: 'I can not marry. I am poor.' Have I not guessed aright?"

"Ah, sir," replied Paul, sadly, "every one of your words is truth. I love a young girl, but I can not describe her--you would think me a fool; and, then, there are no words strong enough to do her justice. It is absurd, I know, but you understand. I met her in Paris last Winter, at a party. And, to think that at first I did not notice her! She went to the piano, and played some sonata or nocturne, with her soul shining bright in her glorious eyes. I felt at once that I belonged no longer to myself, but to that young girl, so calm, so unconscious." Paul was completely carried away by the remembrance of that evening. He was again under its magic spell. He continued: "After that first interview, I was introduced to her, and seized every opportunity to be with her. Now you know the reason of my burying myself at Canet for the Winter. It is because she is staying hardly a mile away. You have been talking to me in a way that has opened my heart, and I have replied with frankness and truth."

"Thank you. That is what I expected. But, now, why are you not happy in your love? There are two reasons; either the young lady is poor, and you dread to offer her your small fortune, knowing that a life of straightened circumstances is often worse than absolute poverty; or else she is rich, and you are too proud to have her think you can be actuated by interested motives.

"Ah! that is it? You see that our affection for you has caused us to guess right once more. Now, what is the use of a father and mother, except to smoothe away difficulties? What is mine is your mother's. Do not deny it. That is law, you know. Mme. Frager was poor when she gave me her hand, and I had the happiness of presenting her with the wealth she was so fitted to adorn. Let me add that every year a small sum has been set aside from our abundance, for your marriage-portion. It now amounts to a little more than three hundred thousand francs. You know that I can make all the money I need with my brush; so it is a mere trifle for me. You can, you must, accept it as it is offered. Now, you can go to your loved one, and say: 'I am no longer poor. I love you. Will you accept my love?'"

Paul was deeply moved. This man, who had been showing him such thoughtful tenderness, he had bitterly hated for four years, for Claude was right; he had never forgiven him for coming between his mother and himself. He could not speak. Tears of gratitude and joy stood in his eyes. Claude understood his emotion, and gently pressed his hand.

"How good you are!" finally exclaimed the young man. "Not content with surpassing every one by your genius, you have the best heart in the world! You are right. An offer like yours should be accepted as generously as it is made. I will not swear an eternal gratitude. It is not necessary. You know me well enough to know that I am now bound to you for life!"

Claude was delighted. His really kind heart was pleased with the signs of Paul's happiness--his work; and then, he was flattered at having won the heart of this obstinate rebel at last. Claude was accustomed to charm every one around him, and, was he to blame if he took a certain pride in his r?le of universal fascinator?

"And now," he continued, "will you not tell me her name?"

Paul hesitated. "Will you forgive me, if I wait until I have proposed to her? Oh, Heavens! if she should not love me!"

Claude smiled at his step-son. He was thinking that he, too, had known the pangs and joys of youth and love, which the first gray hair banishes for ever! He repeated, half sadly, Metastasio's immortal couplet:

"O jeunesse! printemps de la vie-- O printemps! jeunesse de l'ann?e."

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