CHAPTER XXXVI
AURORA'S LAST PICAYUNE
Not often in Aurora's life had joy and trembling so been mingled in onecup as on this day. Clotilde wept; and certainly the mother's heartcould but respond; yet Clotilde's tears filled her with a secretpleasure which fought its way up into the beams of her eyes and asserteditself in the frequency and heartiness of her laugh despite her sincereparticipation in her companion's distresses and a fearful lookingforward to to-morrow.
Why these flashes of gladness? If we do not know, it is because we haveoverlooked one of her sources of trouble. From the night of the _balmasque_ she had--we dare say no more than that she had been haunted; shecertainly would not at first have admitted even so much to herself. Yetthe fact was not thereby altered, and first the fact and later thefeeling had given her much distress of mind. Who he was whose imagewould not down, for a long time she did not know. This, alone, wastorture; not merely because it was mystery, but because it helped toforce upon her consciousness that her affections, spite of her, wereready and waiting for him and he did not come after them. That he lovedher, she knew; she had achieved at the ball an overwhelming victory, toher certain knowledge, or, depend upon it, she never would haveunmasked--never.
But with this torture was mingled not only the ecstasy of loving, butthe fear of her daughter. This is a world that allows nothing withoutits obverse and reverse. Strange differences are often seen between thetwo sides; and one of the strangest and most inharmonious in this worldof human relations is that coinage which a mother sometimes findsherself offering to a daughter, and which reads on one side, Bridegroom,and on the other, Stepfather.
Then, all this torture to be hidden under smiles! Worse still, when byand by Messieurs Agoussou, Assonquer, Danny and others had been appealedto and a Providence boundless in tender compassion had answered in theirstead, she and her lover had simultaneously discovered each other'sidentity only to find that he was a Montague to her Capulet. And thesource of her agony must be hidden, and falsely attributed to the rentdeficiency and their unprotected lives. Its true nature must beconcealed even from Clotilde. What a secret--for what a spirit--to keepfrom what a companion!--a secret yielding honey to her, but, it mightbe, gall to Clotilde. She felt like one locked in the Garden of Eden allalone--alone with all the ravishing flowers, alone with all the lionsand tigers. She wished she had told the secret when it was small and hadlet it increase by gradual accretions in Clotilde's knowledge day byday. At first it had been but a garland, then it had become a chain, nowit was a ball and chain; and it was oh! and oh! if Clotilde would onlyfall in love herself! How that would simplify matters! More than twiceor thrice she had tried to reveal her overstrained heart in brokensections; but on her approach to the very outer confines of the matter,Clotilde had always behaved so strangely, so nervously, in short, sobeyond Aurora's comprehension, that she invariably failed to make anyrevelation.
And now, here in the very central darkness of this cloud of troubles,comes in Clotilde, throws herself upon the defiant little bosom so fullof hidden suffering, and weeps tears of innocent confession that in amoment lay the dust of half of Aurora's perplexities. Strange world! Thetears of the orphan making the widow weep for joy, if she only dared.
The pair sat down opposite each other at their little dinner-table. Theyhad a fixed hour for dinner. It is well to have a fixed hour; it is inthe direction of system. Even if you have not the dinner, there is thehour. Alphonsina was not in perfect harmony with this fixed-hour idea.It was Aurora's belief, often expressed in hungry moments with the laughof a vexed Creole lady (a laugh worthy of study), that on the day whendinner should really be served at the appointed hour, the cook woulddrop dead of apoplexy and she of fright. She said it to-day, shuttingher arms down to her side, closing her eyes with her eyebrows raised,and dropping into her chair at the table like a dead bird from itsperch. Not that she felt particularly hungry; but there is a certaindesultoriness allowable at table more than elsewhere, and which suitedthe hither-thither movement of her conflicting feelings. This is why shehad wished for dinner.
Boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread--they were dining well theday before execution. Dining is hardly correct, either, for Clotilde, atleast, did not eat; they only sat. Clotilde had, too, if not herunknown, at least her unconfessed emotions. Aurora's were tossed by thewaves, hers were sunken beneath them. Aurora had a faith that the rentwould be paid--a faith which was only a vapor, but a vapor gilded by thesun--that is, by Apollo, or, to be still more explicit, by HonoreGrandissime. Clotilde, deprived of this confidence, had tried to raisemeans wherewith to meet the dread obligation, or, rather, had tried totry and had failed. To-day was the ninth, to-morrow, the street. JosephFrowenfeld was hurt; her dependence upon his good offices was gone. Whenshe thought of him suffering under public contumely, it seemed to her asif she could feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart; andwhen she recalled her own actions, speeches, and demonstrations in hispresence, exaggerated by the groundless fear that he had guessed intothe deepest springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of bloodcongeal. Even if the apothecary had been duller of discernment than shesupposed, here was Aurora on the opposite side of the table, readingevery thought of her inmost soul. But worst of all was 'SieurFrowenfel's indifference. It is true that, as he had directed upon herthat gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty gladness, if shedared believe her eyes. But no, she dared not; there was nothing therefor her, she thought,--probably (when this anguish of public disgraceshould by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and herbetrayal of interest. Clotilde felt as though she had been laid entireupon a slide of his microscope.
Aurora at length broke her reverie.
"Clotilde,"--she spoke in French--"the matter with you is that you haveno heart. You never did have any. Really and truly, you do not carewhether 'Sieur Frowenfel' lives or dies. You do not care how he is orwhere he is this minute. I wish you had some of my too large heart. Inot only have the heart, as I tell you, to think kindly of our enemies,those Grandissime, for example"--she waved her hand with the air ofselecting at random--"but I am burning up to know what is the conditionof that poor, sick, noble 'Sieur Frowenfel', and I am going to do it!"
The heart which Clotilde was accused of not having gave a stir of deepgratitude. Dear, pretty little mother! Not only knowing full well theexistence of this swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of itsevery warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery withmake-believe reproaches. The tears started in her eyes; that washer reply.
"Oh, now! it is the rent again, I suppose," cried Aurora, "always therent. It is not the rent that worries _me_, it is 'Sieur Frowenfel',poor man. But very well, Mademoiselle Silence, I will match you formaking me do all the talking." She was really beginning to sink underthe labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both. "Come," she said,savagely, "propose something."
"Would you think well to go and inquire?"
"Ah, listen! Go and what? No, Mademoiselle, I think not."
"Well, send Alphonsina."
"What? And let him know that I am anxious about him? Let me tell you, mylittle girl, I shall not drag upon myself the responsibility ofincreasing the self-conceit of any of that sex."
"Well, then, send to buy a picayune's worth of something."
"Ah, ha, ha! An emetic, for instance. Tell him we are poisoned onmushrooms, ha, ha, ha!"
Clotilde laughed too.
"Ah, no," she said. "Send for something he does not sell."
Aurora was laughing while Clotilde spoke; but as she caught these wordsshe stopped with open-mouthed astonishment, and, as Clotilde blushed,laughed again.
"Oh, Clotilde, Clotilde, Clotilde!"--she leaned forward over the table,her face beaming with love and laughter--"you rowdy! you rascal! Youare just as bad as your mother, whom you think so wicked! I accept youradvice. Alphonsina!"
"Momselle!"
The answer came from the kitchen.
"Come go--or, rather,-
-_vini 'ci courri dans boutique de l'apothecaire_.Clotilde," she continued, in better French, holding up the coin toview, "look!"
"What?"
"The last picayune we have in the world--ha, ha, ha!"
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