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[Illustration]

_THE REPENTANT HUSBAND_


_Jacques no longer had the strength to spurn him; Edouard approached
Adeline and threw himself at her feet, placing his head against the
ground, and sobbing piteously._




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME XVII

BROTHER JACQUES

[Illustration: PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS]

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK




I

A WEDDING PARTY AT THE CADRAN-BLEU.--THE MURVILLE FAMILY


It is midnight; whence come these joyful shouts, these bursts of
laughter, these outcries, this music, this singing, this uproar? Pause a
moment on the boulevard, in front of the Cadran-Bleu; follow the example
of those folk who look on at all the wedding parties, all the banquets,
which take place at the restaurants on Boulevard du Temple, by walking
in front of the windows, or in the roadway, and who enjoy comfortably
the spectacle of a ladies' chain, a waltz, or a chocolate cream,--at the
risk, however, of being jostled by passers-by, splashed by carriages and
insulted by drivers. But at midnight the idlers, the loiterers, or the
loungers--whichever you may choose to call them--have returned home;
nothing remains in front of the door of the Cadran-Bleu except cabs or
private carriages, according as the guests choose to assume an air of
greater or less importance; but that is the hour at which the tableau
becomes more interesting, more varied, more animated; for not until then
do the guests begin to become really acquainted.

But, you will ask me, what is the occasion of this assemblage at the
Cadran-Bleu? Is it a birthday party, an anniversary, or a banquet of
some society? Better than any of these; it is a wedding party.

A wedding party! What a world of reflections those words arouse! To how
many thoughts, hopes, and memories they give rise! How fast they make
the young girl's heart beat, who sighs for the moment to come when she
will be the heroine of that great day, when she will carry that pretty
white bouquet, that wreath of orange blossoms, the symbols of modesty
and of maidenhood, which have unhappily lied to more than one husband
who has never boasted about it, and for a good reason! But how the
thought of that ceremony saddens the young wife, but a few years
married, who already has ceased to know happiness except in her memory!
She trembles for the lot of the poor child who is pledging herself! She
remembers the day of her own wedding, the ardor and zealous attentions
of her husband; she compares that day with those that have followed, and
realizes how much confidence can be placed in the vows of man.

But let us leave such reflections. Let us enter the Cadran-Bleu, and
make the acquaintance of the principal persons at this function, whom,
probably, we shall have occasion to see more than once in the course of
this narrative, unless it happens that this chapter has no connection
with the plot, which is quite possible; we read many chapters of that
sort.

Edouard Murville was twenty-five years of age; he was of medium stature
but well-proportioned; his face was attractive, his voice soft, his
manners distinguished. He had all the social talents, played moderately
well on the violin, sang with expression, and danced gracefully; his
language was well-chosen, he was accustomed to society, and he knew how
to enter and leave a salon, which, be it said in passing, is not so easy
as one might think. What! I hear my readers say, does this fellow
suppose that we do not know how to walk, to enter a room, and to bow
gracefully? God forbid that I should express such a judgment upon the
nation which dances best! But there are degrees in everything, and it is
upon those degrees that I base my judgment. A very clever, but slightly
sarcastic woman, beside whom I was sitting not long ago, in the salon of
a banker, favored me with some of her observations, which in general are
very just.

"Come," she said, "let us examine together the people who come into this
salon; I will wager that I can guess their dispositions, their humor, by
the way in which they enter.--See that tall lady passing through the
crowd, not deigning to notice anybody with even so much as a nod! Now
she is sitting down in front of the fireplace, she places her feet upon
the screen, and installs herself in the best place, without looking to
see whether she is in the way of the people behind her or not. What do
you think of that woman?"

"That she is very pretentious and desires to display her fine dress."

"That is not all,--add that she is a fool. A clever woman has a thousand
ways of attracting attention without assuming ridiculous airs; and when
she desires to create a sensation, she goes about it skilfully at least,
and does not look with disdain upon people who are dressed in an
old-fashioned way, or whose toilet is slightly careless.--But what is
that noise in the reception room? Has some virtuoso arrived? Has a
sideboard been knocked over? The master of the house is hurrying in that
direction, and we shall soon know what the matter is. Ah! I recognize
that voice. It is Monsieur J----. Listen; you can easily hear him from
here."

"Ah! my dear friend! I am terribly distressed to arrive so late! Upon my
honor, I am covered with confusion! I don't know whether I ought to
come in! I am dressed like a thief! I must hide in some corner!"

"Well," said my neighbor to me, "what do you think of this gentleman,
who does not want to be seen, and who so declares in such a loud voice
that he makes everybody in the salon turn his head?--Ah! he has made up
his mind to come in, nevertheless."

I expected to see a young dandy, but I saw a man of between forty and
fifty, with a light wig, come forward with a mincing step, bowing to
right and to left and smiling almost agreeably.

"Who on earth is this man?" I asked my neighbor.

"Monsieur J---- is the universal man; he knows all Paris, he belongs to
all the clubs, especially those where they have music. He plays three or
four instruments; there is no amateur concert where he does not take
part; nor is there an artiste who does not know him. You have had an
opportunity of judging, by his method of entering this room, that his
happiness consists in making a sensation; I do not draw from that fact a
very favorable augury of his talents; for, as you know, merit is not in
the habit of seeking a brilliant light. Mediocrity, on the contrary,
makes a great deal of noise, thrusts itself forward, insists upon
pervading everything, and always succeeds in dazzling fools.

"But I see a new face, that of a young man; he at least makes no noise;
he comes in so softly that one can hardly hear him, he half bows, stands
near the door, then creeps along the wall, and finally seizes a chair,
upon which he seats himself very quickly, and from which he will not
stir throughout the evening, I promise you. Poor fellow, he twists his
mouth, winks and blinks, and does not know what to do with his hands. I
will wager that he thinks that all the women are looking at him and
discussing him. I have noticed, that as a general rule, timidity, yes,
even awkwardness, often results from excessive self-consciousness: the
fear of seeming ridiculous, or of not wearing a sufficiently fascinating
expression, imparts that embarrassment to the bearing, that almost
comical expression to the face; if you wish to convince yourself of it,
examine on the stage some _jeune premier_ who is rather good-looking,
and who would act well, perhaps, if he were not engrossed entirely by
his wig, his cravat, his attitude, and the effect which his face is
likely to produce in the hall."

My neighbor continued her observations; and I would gladly communicate
them to you, reader, were it not that I am beginning to notice that you
opened this volume, not to hear me talk with her, but to learn of the
adventures of Brother Jacques.--A thousand pardons for taking you to a
banker's salon. I return to the Cadran-Bleu.

You know now that the marriage of Edouard Murville is being celebrated
there, that the bridegroom is twenty-five years old and a very
good-looking fellow. But you do not yet know his wife, and I must hasten
to repair my neglect in that respect; for she is lovely, sweet,
attractive, and virtuous; it would be impossible to make her
acquaintance too soon.

Adeline Germeuil was eighteen years old, and she possessed all those
qualities which charm at first sight and attach one thereafter:
beautiful eyes, fine teeth, graceful manners, a fresh complexion, wit
unsullied by ill-temper, gaiety without coquetry, charm without
affectation, modesty without timidity. She knew that she was pretty, but
did not think that for that reason all men ought to do homage to her;
she loved pleasure but did not make that her sole occupation. In short,
she was a woman such as it is very pleasant to meet, especially when
one is a bachelor.

Adeline was devoted to Edouard, to whom she had given preference over
several much more advantageous offers, for Edouard's only fortune was
the place which he occupied in one of the government departments, while
Adeline had about fifteen thousand francs a year. But Mademoiselle
Germeuil had no ambition, she considered happiness to consist in
delights of the heart, and not in more or less wealth. Moreover, with
fifteen thousand francs a year, one can live without privation,
especially when one is the wife of a man of orderly habits, who knows
how to regulate his household expenses. Now Murville seemed such a man,
he seemed to have all the estimable qualities, and he carried the day.

Mademoiselle Germeuil had no parent but her mother, a most estimable
woman, who adored her daughter and was never willing to thwart her
desires. However, it was her duty to look after Adeline's future
welfare; and so, as soon as she discovered her daughter's love for
Edouard Murville, she made haste to seek information concerning the
young man's moral character, and concerning his family.

She found that he was born of well-to-do parents; that his father had
followed the profession of the law with honor, but that several
successive failures had reduced the family to the strict necessaries of
life. Edouard and Jacques were Monsieur Murville's only children.
Jacques was a year younger than Edouard; but Madame Murville had not
divided her affections equally between her two sons. Edouard was the
favorite. A circumstance, apparently most trivial, had influenced Madame
Murville's sentiments; she had little intellect and a great deal of
vanity; so that she was certain to set great store by all the petty,
puerile things which are of such great weight in society. When she first
became enceinte, she put her mind on the rack, to think what name she
should give to her child. Her desire was to find a name which should be
at once graceful, pleasant to the ear and distinguished; after long
discussions and profound reflections, she decided upon Edouard for a
boy, or Celenie for a girl, Monsieur Murville having left her entirely
free to decide that question.

The first-born was a boy, and he received the name of Edouard, with all
his mother's affection. When she became enceinte again, she did not
doubt for an instant that she should bring into the world a pretty
little Celenie; the birth of a daughter would have filled her cup to
overflowing. But after long suffering, she brought into the world a
bouncing boy.

It will be understood that this one was not so warmly received as the
first. Moreover, they had not had the slightest expectation of a boy,
and they had not decided what name he should bear. But this time any
previous deliberation upon that subject would have been wasted, for
Monsieur Murville informed his wife that a friend of his desired to be
his son's godfather. This friend was very rich and they were under some
obligation to him, so that they could not refuse him as godfather. So he
held the child at the altar, and to the great scandal of Madame
Murville, gave him the name of Jacques.

In truth, although Jacques is as good a name as another, it is not very
melodious, and it offended the delicate ear of Madame Murville, who
maintained that it was a name fit for a footman, a Savoyard, a
messenger, and that it was a shame to call her son by it. In vain did
her husband try to make her listen to reason, and recite to her again
and again the history of Scotland, where the throne had been occupied
by many Jacqueses. Madame Murville could never pronounce that name
without a sigh.

However, there was no way to change it, for the godfather, who was
naturally called Jacques also, and who came often to see his godson,
would have been deeply offended to hear him called by any other name.

So the little fellow remained Jacques, to the great distress of Madame
Murville. As for Edouard, whether from a spirit of mischief on his part,
or because the name pleased him, he called Brother Jacques every moment
during the day; and when he had done anything naughty, he always shifted
it to Brother Jacques's shoulders.

The two brothers were entirely different in disposition; Edouard placid,
well-behaved, obliging, was glad to pass his day by his mother's side;
Jacques, noisy, boisterous, quick-tempered, could not keep still, and
never went anywhere without turning everything upside down.

Edouard learned readily what was told him; Jacques would throw his books
and pens into the fire, and make a hoop or a wooden sword.

Finally, at sixteen, Edouard went into company with his parents; he had
already learned to listen to conversation and to smile pleasantly at a
pretty woman. At fifteen, Jacques left his parents' roof, and
disappeared, leaving no letter behind, nothing to indicate his plans, or
the purpose of his departure. They made all possible investigation and
search; they put his description in the newspapers, but they never
learned what had become of him; they waited for news of him, but none
ever came.

Monsieur Murville was deeply grieved at the flight of the hare-brained
young man; even Madame Murville herself realized that she was a mother,
and that a boy might be named Jacques and still be her son; she repented
of her unjust prejudice, she reproached herself for it, but it was too
late. The unfortunate name had had its effect; it had closed to Jacques
his mother's heart; it drew upon him the mockery of his brother; and
perhaps all these causes combined had driven the young man from the home
of his parents. Who knows? There is so much tossing to and fro in life!

"I caught the measles recently," said a young man to me yesterday,
"because a man who makes shoes for a young lady friend of mine broke his
spectacles."

"What connection is there?" said I, "between your measles and a
shoemaker's spectacles?"

"It was like this, my dear fellow; the lady in question had given me her
word to sing with me that evening at the house of one of our
acquaintances. But she expected some pretty cherry slippers in the
morning, to wear with a dress of that color; the shoemaker in question
had broken his spectacles on the day that he took her measure, so that
he brought her some slippers, which, though they were lovely, were too
small. However, she could not resist the desire to try them on; they
hurt a great deal, but the shoemaker assured her that they would be all
right after she had worn them a while. Ladies think a great deal about
having a small foot. She limped a little when she left the house; when
she was on the boulevard, in the presence of some of her acquaintances,
she did not wish to seem to be limping, so she exerted herself to walk
lightly; but the foot became inflamed and swollen; she suffered
horribly, and was obliged to return home. There she threw the infernal
slippers aside, and examined her feet; they were raw and swollen, and
she could not hope to go out for a week. I, knowing nothing about this,
went to our rendezvous, expecting to employ my evening singing. I did
not find the lady; the mistress of the house was alone; she is very
agreeable, but she is forty years old. The time dragged terribly, I
became impatient, and after waiting for an hour, I went out, having no
idea where I should go. I passed a theatre, went in mechanically, and
solely to kill time, for I knew the plays by heart. I saw a pretty face,
and instinctively took a seat beside it; I said a few words and she
answered; she seemed fond of talking, and I was very glad to find an
opportunity to amuse myself. At last the play came to an end and I
offered my pretty talker my arm. After some slight parley she accepted;
I escorted my fair conquest to her home and did not leave her until I
had obtained permission to call upon her. I did not fail to do so the
next day. In a word, I soon became an intimate friend, and in one of my
visits I caught the measles, which the lady had, unknown to me.