The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  “You’d do well to read it—it’s worth the trouble,” Alphonse de Brecourt remarked, going over to his wife. Francie saw him kiss her as he noted her tears. She was angry at her own; she choked and swallowed them; they seemed somehow to put her in the wrong.

  “Have you had no idea that any such monstrosity would be perpetrated?” Mme. de Cliche went on, coming nearer to her. She had a manner of forced calmness—as if she wished it to be understood that she was one of those who could be reasonable under any provocation, though she were trembling within—which made Francie draw back. “C’est pourtant rempli de choses— which we know you to have been told of—by what folly, great heaven! It’s right and left—no one’s spared—it’s a deluge of the lowest insult. My sister perhaps will have told you of the apprehensions I had —I couldn’t resist them, though I thought of nothing so awful as this, God knows—the day I met you at Mr. Waterlow’s with your journalist.”

  “I’ve told her everything—don’t you see she’s aneantie? Let her go, let her go!” cried Mme. de Brecourt all distrustfully and still at the window.

  “Ah your journalist, your journalist, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliche. “I’m very sorry to have to say anything in regard to any friend of yours that can give you so little pleasure; but I promise myself the satisfaction of administering him with these hands a dressing he won’t forget, if I may trouble you so far as to ask you to let him know it!”

  M. de Cliche fingered the points of his moustache; he diffused some powerful scent; his eyes were dreadful to Francie. She wished Mr. Probert would say something kind to her; but she had now determined to be strong. They were ever so many against one; Gaston was far away and she felt heroic. “If you mean Mr. Flack—I don’t know what you mean,” she said as composedly as possible to M. de Cliche. “Mr. Flack has gone to London.”

  At this M. de Brecourt gave a free laugh and his brother-in-law replied: “Ah it’s easy to go to London.”

  “They like such things there; they do them more and more. It’s as bad as America!” Mme. de Cliche declared.

  “Why have you sent for me—what do you all want me to do? You might explain—I’m only an American girl!” said Francie, whose being only an American girl didn’t prevent her pretty head from holding itself now as high as Mme. de Cliche’s.

  Mme. de Brecourt came back to her quickly, laying her hand on her arm. “You’re very nervous—you’d much better go home. I’ll explain everything to them—I’ll make them understand. The carriage is here—it had orders to wait.”

  “I’m not in the least nervous, but I’ve made you all so,” Francie brought out with the highest spirit.

  “I defend you, my dear young lady—I insist that you’re only a wretched victim like ourselves,” M. de Brecourt remarked, approaching her with a smile. “I see the hand of a woman in it, you know,” he went on to the others; “for there are strokes of a vulgarity that a man doesn’t sink to—he can’t, his very organisation prevents him—even if he be the dernier des goujats. But please don’t doubt that I’ve maintained that woman not to be you.”

  “The way you talk! I don’t know how to write,” Francie impatiently quavered.

  “My poor child, when one knows you as I do—!” murmured Mme. de Brecourt with an arm round her.

  “There’s a lady who helps him—Mr. Flack has told me so,” the girl continued. “She’s a literary lady—here in Paris—she writes what he tells her. I think her name’s Miss Topping, but she calls herself Florine—or Dorine,” Francie added.

  “Miss Dosson, you’re too rare!” Marguerite de Cliche exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. “Then you’ve been three to it,” she went on; “that accounts for its perfection!”

  Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brecourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire with his back to her. “Mr. Probert, I’m very sorry for what I’ve done to distress you; I had no idea you’d all feel so badly. I didn’t mean any harm. I thought you’d like it.”

  The old man turned a little, bending his eyes on her, but without taking her hand as she had hoped. Usually when they met he kissed her. He didn’t look angry now, he only looked very ill. A strange, inarticulate sound, a chorus of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they’d like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to measure the droll effect of that speech. “Like it—LIKE IT?” said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if a little afraid of her.

  “What do you mean? She admits—she admits!” Mme. de Cliche exulted to her sister. “Did you arrange it all that day in the Bois—to punish me for having tried to separate you?” she pursued to the poor child, who stood gazing up piteously at the old man.

  “I don’t know what he has published—I haven’t seen it—I don’t understand. I thought it was only to be a piece about me,” she said to him.

  “‘About me’!” M. de Cliche repeated in English. “Elle est divine!” He turned away, raising his shoulders and hands and then letting them fall.

  Mme. de Brecourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it home, take it home immediately— then she’d see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed their flushed little guest with his sick stare. “You gave information for that? You desired it?”

  “Why I didn’t desire it—but Mr. Flack did.”

  “Why do you know such ruffians? Where was your father?” the old man groaned.

  “I thought he’d just be nice about my picture and give pleasure to Mr. Waterlow,” Francie went on. “I thought he’d just speak about my being engaged and give a little account; so many people in America would be interested.”

  “So many people in America—that’s just the dreadful thought, my dear,” said Mme. de Brecourt kindly. “Foyons, put it in your muff and tell us what you think of it.” And she continued to thrust forward the scandalous journal.

  But Francie took no notice of it; she looked round from Mr. Probert at the others. “I told Gaston I’d certainly do something you wouldn’t like.”

  “Well, he’ll believe it now!” cried Mme. de Cliche.

  “My poor child, do you think he’ll like it any better?” asked Mme. de Brecourt.

  Francie turned upon her beautiful dilated eyes in which a world of new wonders and fears had suddenly got itself reflected. “He’ll see it over there—he has seen it now.”

  “Oh my dear, you’ll have news of him. Don’t be afraid!” broke in high derision from Mme. de Cliche.

  “Did HE send you the paper?” her young friend went on to Mr. Probert.

  “It was not directed in his hand,” M. de Brecourt pronounced. “There was some stamp on the band—it came from the office.”

  “Mr. Flack—is that his hideous name?—must have seen to that,” Mme. de Brecourt suggested.

  “Or perhaps Florine,” M. de Cliche interposed. “I should like to get hold of Florine!”

  “I DID—I did tell him so!” Francie repeated with all her fevered candour, alluding to her statement of a moment before and speaking as if she thought the circumstance detracted from the offence.

  “So did I—so did we all!” said Mme. de Cliche.

  “And will he suffer—as you suffer?” Francie continued, appealing to Mr. Probert.

  “Suffer, suffer? He’ll die!” cried the old man. “However, I won’t answer for him; he’ll tell you himself, when he returns.”

  “He’ll die?” echoed Francie with the eyes of a child at the pantomime who has found the climax turning to demons or monsters or too much gunpowder.

  “He’ll never return—how can he show himself?” said Mme. de Cliche.

  “That’s not true—he’ll come back to stand by me!” the girl flashed out.

  “How couldn’t you feel us to be the last—the very last?” asked Mr. Probert with great gentleness. “How couldn’t you feel my poor son to be the last—?”

/>   “C’est un sens qui lui manque!” shrilled implacably Mme. de Cliche.

  “Let her go, papa—do let her go home,” Mme. de Brecourt pleaded. “Surely. That’s the only place for her to-day,” the elder sister continued.

  “Yes, my child—you oughtn’t to be here. It’s your father—he ought to understand,” said Mr. Probert.

  “For God’s sake don’t send for him—let it all stop!” And Mme. de Cliche made wild gestures.

  Francie looked at her as she had never looked at any one in her life, and then said: “Good-bye, Mr. Probert—good-bye, Susan.”

  “Give her your arm—take her to the carriage,” she heard Mme. de Brecourt growl to her husband. She got to the door she hardly knew how— she was only conscious that Susan held her once more long enough to kiss her. Poor Susan wanted to comfort her; that showed how bad—feeling as she did—she believed the whole business would yet be. It would be bad because Gaston, Gaston—! Francie didn’t complete that thought, yet only Gaston was in her mind as she hurried to the carriage. M. de Brecourt hurried beside her; she wouldn’t take his arm. But he opened the door for her and as she got in she heard him murmur in the strangest and most unexpected manner: “You’re charming, mademoiselle—charming, charming!”

  XII

  Her absence had not been long and when she re-entered the familiar salon at the hotel she found her father and sister sitting there together as if they had timed her by their watches, a prey, both of them, to curiosity and suspense. Mr. Dosson however gave no sign of impatience; he only looked at her in silence through the smoke of his cigar—he profaned the red satin splendour with perpetual fumes—as she burst into the room. An irruption she made of her desired reappearance; she rushed to one of the tables, flinging down her muff and gloves, while Delia, who had sprung up as she came in, caught her closely and glared into her face with a “Francie Dosson, what HAVE you been through?” Francie said nothing at first, only shutting her eyes and letting her sister do what she would with her. “She has been crying, poppa—she HAS,” Delia almost shouted, pulling her down upon a sofa and fairly shaking her as she continued. “Will you please tell? I’ve been perfectly wild! Yes you have, you dreadful—!” the elder girl insisted, kissing her on the eyes. They opened at this compassionate pressure and Francie rested their troubled light on her father, who had now risen to his feet and stood with his back to the fire.

  “Why, chicken,” said Mr. Dosson, “you look as if you had had quite a worry.”

  “I told you I should—I told you, I told you!” Francie broke out with a trembling voice. “And now it’s come!”

  “You don’t mean to say you’ve DONE anything?” cried Delia, very white.

  “It’s all over, it’s all over!” With which Francie’s face braved denial.

  “Are you crazy, Francie?” Delia demanded. “I’m sure you look as if you were.”

  “Ain’t you going to be married, childie?” asked Mr. Dosson all considerately, but coming nearer to her.

  Francie sprang up, releasing herself from her sister, and threw her arms round him. “Will you take me away, poppa? will you take me right straight away?”

  “Of course I will, my precious. I’ll take you anywhere. I don’t want anything—it wasn’t MY idea!” And Mr. Dosson and Delia looked at each other while the girl pressed her face upon his shoulder.

  “I never heard such trash—you can’t behave that way! Has he got engaged to some one else—in America?” Delia threw out.

  “Why if it’s over it’s over. I guess it’s all right,” said Mr. Dosson, kissing his younger daughter. “I’ll go back or I’ll go on. I’ll go anywhere you like.”

  “You won’t have your daughters insulted, I presume!” Delia cried. “If you don’t tell me this moment what has happened,” she pursued to her sister, “I’ll drive straight round there and make THEM.”

  “HAVE they insulted you, sweetie?” asked the old man, bending over his child, who simply leaned on him with her hidden face and no sound of tears. Francie raised her head, turning round to their companion. “Did I ever tell you anything else—did I ever believe in it for an hour?”

  “Oh well, if you’ve done it on purpose to triumph over me we might as well go home, certainly. But I guess,” Delia added, “you had better just wait till Gaston comes.”

  “It will be worse when he comes—if he thinks the same as they do.”

  “HAVE they insulted you—have they?” Mr. Dosson repeated while the smoke of his cigar, curling round the question, gave him the air of putting it with placidity.

  “They think I’ve insulted THEM—they’re in an awful state—they’re almost dead. Mr. Flack has put it into the paper—everything, I don’t know what—and they think it’s too wicked. They were all there together —all at me at once, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth. I never saw people so affected.”

  Delia’s face grew big with her stare. “So affected?”

  “Ah yes, I guess there’s a good deal OF THAT,” said Mr. Dosson.

  “It’s too real—too terrible; you don’t understand. It’s all printed there—that they’re immoral, and everything about them; everything that’s private and dreadful,” Francie explained.

  “Immoral, is that so?” Mr. Dosson threw off.

  “And about me too, and about Gaston and my marriage, and all sorts of personalities, and all the names, and Mme. de Villepreux, and everything. It’s all printed there and they’ve read it. It says one of them steals.”

  “Will you be so good as to tell me what you’re talking about?” Delia enquired sternly. “Where is it printed and what have we got to do with it?”

  “Some one sent it, and I told Mr. Flack.”

  “Do you mean HIS paper? Oh the horrid ape!” Delia cried with passion.

  “Do they mind so what they see in the papers?” asked Mr. Dosson. “I guess they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Why there used to be things about ME—”

  “Well, it IS about us too—about every one. They think it’s the same as if I wrote it,” Francie ruefully mentioned.

  “Well, you know what you COULD do!” And Mr. Dosson beamed at her for common cheer.

  “Do you mean that piece about your picture—that you told me about when you went with him again to see it?” Delia demanded.

  “Oh I don’t know what piece it is; I haven’t seen it.”

  “Haven’t seen it? Didn’t they show it to you?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t read it. Mme. de Brecourt wanted me to take it—but I left it behind.”

  “Well, that’s LIKE you—like the Tauchnitzes littering up our track. I’ll be bound I’d see it,” Delia declared. “Hasn’t it come, doesn’t it always come?”

  “I guess we haven’t had the last—unless it’s somewhere round,” said Mr. Dosson.

  “Poppa, go out and get it—you can buy it on the boulevard!” Delia continued. “Francie, what DID you want to tell him?”

  “I didn’t know. I was just conversing. He seemed to take so much interest,” Francie pleaded.

  “Oh he’s a deep one!” groaned Delia.

  “Well, if folks are immoral you can’t keep it out of the papers—and I don’t know as you ought to want to,” Mr. Dosson remarked. “If they ARE I’m glad to know it, lovey.” And he gave his younger daughter a glance apparently intended to show that in this case he should know what to do.

  But Francie was looking at her sister as if her attention had been arrested. “How do you mean—’a deep one’?”

  “Why he wanted to break it off, the fiend!”

  Francie stared; then a deeper flush leapt to her face, already mottled as with the fine footprints of the Proberts, dancing for pain. “To break off my engagement?”

  “Yes, just that. But I’ll be hanged if he shall. Poppa, will you allow that?”

  “Allow what?”

  “Why Mr. Flack’s vile interference. You won’t let him do as he likes with us, I suppose, will you?”

  “It�
��s all done—it’s all done!” said Francie. The tears had suddenly started into her eyes again.

  “Well, he’s so smart that it IS likely he’s too smart,” her father allowed. “But what did they want you to do about it?—that’s what I want to know?”

  “They wanted me to say I knew nothing about it—but I couldn’t.”

  “But you didn’t and you don’t—if you haven’t even read it!” Delia almost yelled.

  “Where IS the d–d thing?” their companion asked, looking helplessly about him.

  “On the boulevard, at the very first of those kiosks you come to. That old woman has it—the one who speaks English—she always has it. Do go and get it—DO!” And Delia pushed him, looked for his hat for him.