Before Giselle went home to her own house she called on the Abbe Bardin, whom a rather surly servant was not disposed to disturb, as he was just eating his breakfast. The Abbe Bardin was Jacqueline’s confessor, and he held the same relation to a number of other young girls who were among her particular friends. He was thoroughly acquainted with all that concerned their delicate and generally childish little souls. He kept them in the right way, had often a share in their marriages, and in general kept an eye upon them all their lives. Even when they escaped from him, as had happened in the case of Jacqueline, he did not give them up. He commended them to God, and looked forward to the time of their repentance with the patience of a father. The Abbe Bardin had never been willing to exercise any function but that of catechist; he had grown old in the humble rank of third assistant in a great parish, when, with a little ambition, he might have been its rector. “Suffer little children to come unto me,” had been his motto. These words of his Divine Master seemed more often than any others on his lips-lips so expressive of loving kindness, though sometimes a shrewd smile would pass over them and seem to say: “I know, I can divine.” But when this smile, the result of long experience, did not light up his features, the good Abbe Bardin looked like an elderly child; he was short, his walk was a trot, his face was round and ruddy, his eyes, which were short-sighted, were large, wide-open, and blue, and his heavy crop of white hair, which curled and crinkled above his forehead, made him look like a sixty-year-old angel, crowned with a silvery aureole.
Rubbing his hands affably, he came into the little parlor where Madame de Talbrun was waiting for him. There was probably no ecclesiastic in all Paris who had a salon so full of worked cushions, each of which was a keepsake—a souvenir of some first communion. The Abbe did not know his visitor, but the name Talbrun seemed to him connected with an honorable and well-meaning family. The lady was probably a mother who had come to put her child into his hands for religious instruction. He received visits from dozens of such mothers, some of whom were a little tiresome, from a wish to teach him what he knew better than they, and at one time he had set apart Wednesday as his day for receiving such visits, that he might not be too greatly disturbed, as seemed likely to happen to him that day. Not that he cared very much whether he ate his cutlet hot or cold, but his housekeeper cared a great deal. A man may be a very experienced director, and yet be subject to direction in other ways.
The youth of Giselle took him by surprise.
“Monsieur l’Abbe,” she said, without any preamble, while he begged her to sit down, “I have come to speak to you of a person in whom you take an interest, Jacqueline de Nailles.”
He passed the back of his hand over his brow and said, with a sigh: “Poor little thing!”
“She is even more to be pitied than you think. You have not seen her, I believe, since last week.”
“Yes—she came. She has kept up, thank God, some of her religious duties.”
“For all that, she has played a leading part in a recent scandal.”
The Abbe sprang up from his chair.
“A duel has taken place because of her, and her name is in all men’s mouths—whispered, of course—but the quarrel took place at the Club. You know what it is to be talked of at the Club.”
“The poison of asps,” growled the Abbe; “oh! those clubs—think of all the evil reports concocted in them, of which women are the victims!”
“In the present case the evil report was pure calumny. It was taken up by some one whom you also know—Frederic d’Argy.”
“I have had profound respect these many years for his excellent and pious mother.”
“I thought so. In that case, Monsieur l’Abbe, you would not object to going to Madame d’Argy’s house and asking how her son is.”
“No, of course not; but—it is my duty to disapprove—”
“You will tell her that when a young man has compromised a young girl by defending her reputation in a manner too public, there is but one thing he can do afterward-marry her.”
“Wait one moment,” said the Abbe, who was greatly surprised; “it is certain that a good marriage would be the best thing for Jacqueline. I have been thinking of it. But I do not think I could so suddenly—so soon after—”
“Today at four o’clock, Monsieur l’Abbe. Time presses. You can add that such a marriage is the only way to stop a second duel, which will otherwise take place.”
“Is it possible?”
“And it is also the only way to bring Frederic to decide on sending in his resignation. Don’t forget that—it is important.”
“But how do you know—”
The poor Abbe stammered out his words, and counted on his fingers the arguments he was desired to make use of.
“And you will solemnly assure them that Jacqueline is innocent.”
“Oh! as to that, there are wolves in sheeps’ clothing, as the Bible tells us; but believe me, when such poor young things are in question, it is more often the sheep which has put on the appearance of a wolf—to seem in the fashion,” added the Abbe, “just to seem in the fashion. Fashion will authorize any kind of counterfeiting.”
“Well, you will say all that, will you not, to Madame d’Argy? It will be very good of you if you will. She will make no difficulties about money. All she wants is a quietly disposed daughter-in-law who will be willing to pass nine months of the year at Lizerolles, and Jacqueline is quite cured of her Paris fever.”
“A fever too often mortal,” murmured the Abbe; “oh, for the simplicity of nature! A priest whose lot is cast in the country is fortunate, Madame, but we can not choose our vocation. We may do good anywhere, especially in cities. Are you sure, however, that Jacqueline—”
“She loves Monsieur d’Argy.”
“Well, if that is so, we are all right. The great misfortune with many of these poor girls is that they have never learned to love anything; they know nothing but agitations, excitements, curiosities, and fancies. All that sort of thing runs through their heads.”
“You are speaking of a Jacqueline before the duel. I can assure you that ever since yesterday, if not before, she has loved Monsieur d’Argy, who on his part for a long time—a very long time—has been in love with her.”
Giselle spoke eagerly, as if she forced herself to say the words that cost her pain. Her cheeks were flushed under her veil. The Abbe, who was keen-sighted, observed these signs.
“But,” continued Giselle, “if he is forced to forget her he may try to expend elsewhere the affection he feels for her; he may trouble the peace of others, while deceiving himself. He might make in the world one of those attachments—Do not fail to represent all these dangers to Madame d’Argy when you plead the cause of Jacqueline.”
“Humph! You are evidently much attached, Madame, to Mademoiselle de Nailles.”
“Very much, indeed,” she answered, bravely, “very much attached to her, and still more to him; therefore you understand that this marriage must—absolutely must take place.”
She had risen and was folding her cloak round her, looking straight into the Abbe’s eyes. Small as she was, their height was almost the same; she wanted him to understand thoroughly why this marriage must take place.
He bowed. Up to that time he had not been quite sure that he had not to do with one of those wolves dressed in fleece whose appearance is as misleading as that of sheep disguised as wolves: now his opinion was settled.
“Mon Dieu! Madame,” he said, “your reasons seem to me excellent—a duel to be prevented, a son to be kept by the side of his sick mother, two young people who love each other to be married, the saving, possibly, of two souls—”
“Say three souls, Monsieur l’Abbe!”
He did not ask whose was the third, nor even why she had insisted that this delicate commission must be executed that same day. He only bowed when she said again: “At four o’clock: Madame d’Argy will be prepared to see you. Thank you, Monsieur l’Abbe.” And then, as she descended the staircase, he bestowed upon her silently his most earnest benediction, before returning to the cold cutlet that was on his breakfast table.
Giselle did not breakfast much better than he. In truth, M. de Talbrun being absent, she sat looking at her son, who was eating with a good appetite, while she drank only a cup of tea; after which, she dressed herself, with more than usual care, hiding by rice-powder the trace of recent tears on her complexion, and arranging her fair hair in the way that was most becoming to her, under a charming little bonnet covered with gold net-work which corresponded with the embroidery on an entirely new costume.
When she went into the dining-room Enguerrand, who was there with his nurse finishing his dessert, cried out: “Oh! mamma, how pretty you are!” which went to her heart. She kissed him two or three times—one kiss after another.
“I try to be pretty for your sake, my darling.”
“Will you take me with you?”
“No, but I will come back for you, and take you out.”
She walked a few steps, and then turned to give him such a kiss as astonished him, for he said:
“Is it really going to be long?”
“What?”
“Before you come back? You kiss me as if you were going for a long time, far away.”
“I kissed you to give myself courage.”
Enguerrand, who, when he had a hard lesson to learn, always did the same thing, appeared to understand her.
“You are going to do some thing you don’t like.”
“Yes, but I have to do it, because you see it is my duty.”
“Do grown people have duties?”
“Even more than children.”
“But it isn’t your duty to write a copy—your writing is so pretty. Oh! that’s what I hate most. And you always say it is my duty to write my copy. I’ll go and do it while you do your duty. So that will seem as if we were both together doing something we don’t like—won’t it, mamma?”
She kissed him again, even more passionately.
“We shall be always together, we two, my love!”
This word love struck the little ear of Enguerrand as having a new accent, a new meaning, and, boy-like, he tried to turn this excess of tenderness to advantage.
“Since you love me so much, will you take me to see the puppet-show?”
“Anywhere you like—when I come back. Goodby.”
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