by Henry James
“Why, that’s rather shabby,” said Newman. “You shouldn’t drop your friends that way. Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought you particularly jolly.”
“Yes, I remember,” said M. Nioche, musingly; “I was in a fever. I didn’t know what I said, what I did. It was delirium.”
“Ah, well, you are quieter now.”
M. Nioche was silent a moment. “As quiet as the grave,” he whispered softly.
“Are you very unhappy?”
M. Nioche rubbed his forehead slowly, and even pushed back his wig a little, looking askance at his empty glass. “Yes—yes. But that’s an old story. I have always been unhappy. My daughter does what she will with me. I take what she gives me, good or bad. I have no spirit, and when you have no spirit you must keep quiet. I shan’t trouble you any more.”
“Well,” said Newman, rather disgusted at the smooth operation of the old man’s philosophy, “that’s as you please.”
M. Nioche seemed to have been prepared to be despised but nevertheless he made a feeble movement of appeal from Newman’s faint praise. “After all,” he said, “she is my daughter, and I can still look after her. If she will do wrong, why she will. But there are many different paths, there are degrees. I can give her the benefit—give her the benefit”—and M. Nioche paused, staring vaguely at Newman, who began to suspect that his brain had softened—”the benefit of my experience,” M. Nioche added.
“Your experience?” inquired Newman, both amused and amazed.
“My experience of business,” said M. Nioche, gravely.
“Ah, yes,” said Newman, laughing, “that will be a great advantage to her!” And then he said good-by, and offered the poor, foolish old man his hand.
M. Nioche took it and leaned back against the wall, holding it a moment and looking up at him. “I suppose you think my wits are going,” he said. “Very likely; I have always a pain in my head. That’s why I can’t explain, I can’t tell you. And she’s so strong, she makes me walk as she will, anywhere! But there’s this—there’s this.” And he stopped, still staring up at Newman. His little white eyes expanded and glittered for a moment like those of a cat in the dark. “It’s not as it seems. I haven’t forgiven her. Oh, no!”
“That’s right; don’t,” said Newman. “She’s a bad case.”
“It’s horrible, it’s horrible,” said M. Nioche; “but do you want to know the truth? I hate her! I take what she gives me, and I hate her more. To-day she brought me three hundred francs; they are here in my waistcoat pocket. Now I hate her almost cruelly. No, I haven’t forgiven her.”
“Why did you accept the money?” Newman asked.
“If I hadn’t,” said M. Nioche, “I should have hated her still more. That’s what misery is. No, I haven’t forgiven her.”
“Take care you don’t hurt her!” said Newman, laughing again. And with this he took his leave. As he passed along the glazed side of the cafe, on reaching the street, he saw the old man motioning the waiter, with a melancholy gesture, to replenish his glass.
One day, a week after his visit to the Cafe de la Patrie, he called upon Valentin de Bellegarde, and by good fortune found him at home. Newman spoke of his interview with M. Nioche and his daughter, and said he was afraid Valentin had judged the old man correctly. He had found the couple hobnobbing together in all amity; the old gentleman’s rigor was purely theoretic. Newman confessed that he was disappointed; he should have expected to see M. Nioche take high ground.
“High ground, my dear fellow,” said Valentin, laughing; “there is no high ground for him to take. The only perceptible eminence in M. Nioche’s horizon is Montmartre, which is not an edifying quarter. You can’t go mountaineering in a flat country.”
“He remarked, indeed,” said Newman, “that he has not forgiven her. But she’ll never find it out.”
“We must do him the justice to suppose he doesn’t like the thing,” Valentin rejoined. “Mademoiselle Nioche is like the great artists whose biographies we read, who at the beginning of their career have suffered opposition in the domestic circle. Their vocation has not been recognized by their families, but the world has done it justice. Mademoiselle Nioche has a vocation.”
“Oh, come,” said Newman, impatiently, “you take the little baggage too seriously.”
“I know I do; but when one has nothing to think about, one must think of little baggages. I suppose it is better to be serious about light things than not to be serious at all. This little baggage entertains me.”
“Oh, she has discovered that. She knows you have been hunting her up and asking questions about her. She is very much tickled by it. That’s rather annoying.”
“Annoying, my dear fellow,” laughed Valentin; “not the least!”
“Hanged if I should want to have a greedy little adventuress like that know I was giving myself such pains about her!” said Newman.
“A pretty woman is always worth one’s pains,” objected Valentin. “Mademoiselle Nioche is welcome to be tickled by my curiosity, and to know that I am tickled that she is tickled. She is not so much tickled, by the way.”
“You had better go and tell her,” Newman rejoined. “She gave me a message for you of some such drift.”
“Bless your quiet imagination,” said Valentin, “I have been to see her—three times in five days. She is a charming hostess; we talk of Shakespeare and the musical glasses. She is extremely clever and a very curious type; not at all coarse or wanting to be coarse; determined not to be. She means to take very good care of herself. She is extremely perfect; she is as hard and clear-cut as some little figure of a sea-nymph in an antique intaglio, and I will warrant that she has not a grain more of sentiment or heart than if she was scooped out of a big amethyst. You can’t scratch her even with a diamond. Extremely pretty,—really, when you know her, she is wonderfully pretty,—intelligent, determined, ambitious, unscrupulous, capable of looking at a man strangled without changing color, she is upon my honor, extremely entertaining.”
“It’s a fine list of attractions,” said Newman; “they would serve as a police-detective’s description of a favorite criminal. I should sum them up by another word than ‘entertaining.’”
“Why, that is just the word to use. I don’t say she is laudable or lovable. I don’t want her as my wife or my sister. But she is a very curious and ingenious piece of machinery; I like to see it in operation.”
“Well, I have seen some very curious machines too,” said Newman; “and once, in a needle factory, I saw a gentleman from the city, who had stopped too near one of them, picked up as neatly as if he had been prodded by a fork, swallowed down straight, and ground into small pieces.”
Reentering his domicile, late in the evening, three days after Madame de Bellegarde had made her bargain with him—the expression is sufficiently correct—touching the entertainment at which she was to present him to the world, he found on his table a card of goodly dimensions bearing an announcement that this lady would be at home on the 27th of the month, at ten o’clock in the evening. He stuck it into the frame of his mirror and eyed it with some complacency; it seemed an agreeable emblem of triumph, documentary evidence that his prize was gained. Stretched out in a chair, he was looking at it lovingly, when Valentin de Bellegarde was shown into the room. Valentin’s glance presently followed the direction of Newman’s, and he perceived his mother’s invitation.
“And what have they put into the corner?” he asked. “Not the customary ‘music,’ ‘dancing,’ or ‘tableaux vivants’? They ought at least to put ‘An American.’”
“Oh, there are to be several of us,” said Newman. “Mrs. Tristram told me to-day that she had received a card and sent an acceptance.”
“Ah, then, with Mrs. Tristram and her husband you will have support. My mother might have put on her card ‘Three Americans.’ But I suspect you will not lack amusement. You will see a great many of the best people in France. I mean the long pedigrees and the high noses, and all that.
Some of them are awful idiots; I advise you to take them up cautiously.”
“Oh, I guess I shall like them,” said Newman. “I am prepared to like every one and everything in these days; I am in high good-humor.”
Valentin looked at him a moment in silence and then dropped himself into a chair with an unwonted air of weariness.
“Happy man!” he said with a sigh. “Take care you don’t become offensive.”
“If any one chooses to take offense, he may. I have a good conscience,” said Newman.
“So you are really in love with my sister.”
“Yes, sir!” said Newman, after a pause.
“And she also?”
“I guess she likes me,” said Newman.
“What is the witchcraft you have used?” Valentin asked. “How do YOU make love?”
“Oh, I haven’t any general rules,” said Newman. “In any way that seems acceptable.”
“I suspect that, if one knew it,” said Valentin, laughing, “you are a terrible customer. You walk in seven-league boots.”
“There is something the matter with you to-night,” Newman said in response to this. “You are vicious. Spare me all discordant sounds until after my marriage. Then, when I have settled down for life, I shall be better able to take things as they come.”
“And when does your marriage take place?”
“About six weeks hence.”
Valentin was silent a while, and then he said, “And you feel very confident about the future?”
“Confident. I knew what I wanted, exactly, and I know what I have got.”
“You are sure you are going to be happy?”
“Sure?” said Newman. “So foolish a question deserves a foolish answer. Yes!”
“You are not afraid of anything?”
“What should I be afraid of? You can’t hurt me unless you kill me by some violent means. That I should indeed consider a tremendous sell. I want to live and I mean to live. I can’t die of illness, I am too ridiculously tough; and the time for dying of old age won’t come round yet a while. I can’t lose my wife, I shall take too good care of her. I may lose my money, or a large part of it; but that won’t matter, for I shall make twice as much again. So what have I to be afraid of?”
“You are not afraid it may be rather a mistake for an American man of business to marry a French countess?”
“For the countess, possibly; but not for the man of business, if you mean me! But my countess shall not be disappointed; I answer for her happiness!” And as if he felt the impulse to celebrate his happy certitude by a bonfire, he got up to throw a couple of logs upon the already blazing hearth. Valentin watched for a few moments the quickened flame, and then, with his head leaning on his hand, gave a melancholy sigh. “Got a headache?” Newman asked.
“Je suis triste,” said Valentin, with Gallic simplicity.
“You are sad, eh? It is about the lady you said the other night that you adored and that you couldn’t marry?”
“Did I really say that? It seemed to me afterwards that the words had escaped me. Before Claire it was bad taste. But I felt gloomy as I spoke, and I feel gloomy still. Why did you ever introduce me to that girl?”
“Oh, it’s Noemie, is it? Lord deliver us! You don’t mean to say you are lovesick about her?”
“Lovesick, no; it’s not a grand passion. But the cold-blooded little demon sticks in my thoughts; she has bitten me with those even little teeth of hers; I feel as if I might turn rabid and do something crazy in consequence. It’s very low, it’s disgustingly low. She’s the most mercenary little jade in Europe. Yet she really affects my peace of mind; she is always running in my head. It’s a striking contrast to your noble and virtuous attachment—a vile contrast! It is rather pitiful that it should be the best I am able to do for myself at my present respectable age. I am a nice young man, eh, en somme? You can’t warrant my future, as you do your own.”
“Drop that girl, short,” said Newman; “don’t go near her again, and your future will do. Come over to America and I will get you a place in a bank.”
“It is easy to say drop her,” said Valentin, with a light laugh. “You can’t drop a pretty woman like that. One must be polite, even with Noemie. Besides, I’ll not have her suppose I am afraid of her.”
“So, between politeness and vanity, you will get deeper into the mud? Keep them both for something better. Remember, too, that I didn’t want to introduce you to her: you insisted. I had a sort of uneasy feeling about it.”
“Oh, I don’t reproach you,” said Valentin. “Heaven forbid! I wouldn’t for the world have missed knowing her. She is really extraordinary. The way she has already spread her wings is amazing. I don’t know when a woman has amused me more. But excuse me,” he added in an instant; “she doesn’t amuse you, at second hand, and the subject is an impure one. Let us talk of something else.” Valentin introduced another topic, but within five minutes Newman observed that, by a bold transition, he had reverted to Mademoiselle Nioche, and was giving pictures of her manners and quoting specimens of her mots. These were very witty, and, for a young woman who six months before had been painting the most artless madonnas, startlingly cynical. But at last, abruptly, he stopped, became thoughtful, and for some time afterwards said nothing. When he rose to go it was evident that his thoughts were still running upon Mademoiselle Nioche. “Yes, she’s a frightful little monster!” he said.
CHAPTER XVI
The next ten days were the happiest that Newman had ever known. He saw Madame de Cintre every day, and never saw either old Madame de Bellegarde or the elder of his prospective brothers-in-law. Madame de Cintre at last seemed to think it becoming to apologize for their never being present. “They are much taken up,” she said, “with doing the honors of Paris to Lord Deepmere.” There was a smile in her gravity as she made this declaration, and it deepened as she added, “He is our seventh cousin, you know, and blood is thicker than water. And then, he is so interesting!” And with this she laughed.
Newman met young Madame de Bellegarde two or three times, always roaming about with graceful vagueness, as if in search of an unattainable ideal of amusement. She always reminded him of a painted perfume-bottle with a crack in it; but he had grown to have a kindly feeling for her, based on the fact of her owing conjugal allegiance to Urbain de Bellegarde. He pitied M. de Bellegarde’s wife, especially since she was a silly, thirstily-smiling little brunette, with a suggestion of an unregulated heart. The small marquise sometimes looked at him with an intensity too marked not to be innocent, for coquetry is more finely shaded. She apparently wanted to ask him something or tell him something; he wondered what it was. But he was shy of giving her an opportunity, because, if her communication bore upon the aridity of her matrimonial lot, he was at a loss to see how he could help her. He had a fancy, however, of her coming up to him some day and saying (after looking around behind her) with a little passionate hiss, “I know you detest my husband; let me have the pleasure of assuring you for once that you are right. Pity a poor woman who is married to a clock-image in papier-mache!” Possessing, however, in default of a competent knowledge of the principles of etiquette, a very downright sense of the “meanness” of certain actions, it seemed to him to belong to his position to keep on his guard; he was not going to put it into the power of these people to say that in their house he had done anything unpleasant. As it was, Madame de Bellegarde used to give him news of the dress she meant to wear at his wedding, and which had not yet, in her creative imagination, in spite of many interviews with the tailor, resolved itself into its composite totality. “I told you pale blue bows on the sleeves, at the elbows,” she said. “But to-day I don’t see my blue bows at all. I don’t know what has become of them. To-day I see pink—a tender pink. And then I pass through strange, dull phases in which neither blue nor pink says anything to me. And yet I must have the bows.”
“Have them green or yellow,” said Newman.
“Malheureux!” the little marquis
e would cry. “Green bows would break your marriage—your children would be illegitimate!”
Madame de Cintre was calmly happy before the world, and Newman had the felicity of fancying that before him, when the world was absent, she was almost agitatedly happy. She said very tender things. “I take no pleasure in you. You never give me a chance to scold you, to correct you. I bargained for that, I expected to enjoy it. But you won’t do anything dreadful; you are dismally inoffensive. It is very stupid; there is no excitement for me; I might as well be marrying some one else.”
“I am afraid it’s the worst I can do,” Newman would say in answer to this. “Kindly overlook the deficiency.” He assured her that he, at least, would never scold her; she was perfectly satisfactory. “If you only knew,” he said, “how exactly you are what I coveted! And I am beginning to understand why I coveted it; the having it makes all the difference that I expected. Never was a man so pleased with his good fortune. You have been holding your head for a week past just as I wanted my wife to hold hers. You say just the things I want her to say. You walk about the room just as I want her to walk. You have just the taste in dress that I want her to have. In short, you come up to the mark, and, I can tell you, my mark was high.”
