The Reverberator (16 page)

“Why, Mr. Flack—Mr. Flack!” Francie quickly replied. She was appalled, overwhelmed; but her foremost feeling was the wish not to appear to disavow her knowledge.

“Mr. Flack? do you mean that awful person—? He ought to be shot, he ought to be burnt alive. Maxime will kill him, Maxime is in an unspeakable rage. Everything is at end, we have been served up to the rabble, we shall have to leave Paris. How could he know such things? and they are all too infamously false!” The poor woman poured forth her trouble in questions and contradictions and groans; she knew not what to ask first, against what to protest. “Do you mean that person Marguerite saw you with at Mr. Waterlow’s? Oh, Francie, what has happened? She had a feeling then, a dreadful foreboding. She saw you afterwards—walking with him—in the Bois.”

“Well, I didn’t see her,” the girl said.

“You were talking with him—you were too absorbed: that’s what Margot says. Oh, Francie, Francie!” cried Mme. de Brécourt, catching her breath.

“She tried to interfere at the studio, but I wouldn’t let her. He’s an old friend—a friend of my father’s, and I like him very much. What my father allows, that’s not for others to criticise!” Francie continued. She was frightened, extremely frightened, at her companion’s air of tragedy and at the dreadful consequences she alluded to, consequences of an act she herself did not know, could not comprehend nor measure yet. But there was an instinct of bravery in her which threw her into defence—defence even of George Flack, though it was a part of her
consternation that on her too he should have practised a surprise, a sort of selfish deception.

“Oh, how can you bear with such wretches—how can your father—? What devil has he paid to tattle to him?”

“You scare me awfully—you terrify me,” said the girl. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I haven’t seen it, I don’t understand it. Of course I have talked to Mr. Flack.”

“Oh, Francie, don’t say it—don’t
say
it! Dear child, you haven’t talked to him in that fashion: vulgar horrors, and such a language!” Mme. de Brécourt came nearer, took both her hands now, drew her closer, seemed to plead with her. “You shall see the paper; they have got it in the other room—the most disgusting sheet. Margot is reading it to her husband; he can’t read English, if you can call it English: such a style! Papa tried to translate it to Maxime, but he couldn’t, he was too sick. There is a quantity about Mme. de Marignac—imagine only! And a quantity about Jeanne and Raoul and their economies in the country. When they see it in Brittany—heaven preserve us!”

Francie had turned very white; she looked for a minute at the carpet. “And what does it say about me?”

“Some trash about your being the great American beauty, with the most odious details, and your having made a match among the ‘rare old exclusives.’ And the strangest stuff about your father—his having gone into a ‘store’ at the age of twelve. And something about your poor sister—heaven help us! And a sketch of our career in Paris, as they call it, and the way that we have got on and our great pretensions. And a passage about Blanche de Douves, Raoul’s sister, who had that disease—what do they call it?—that she used to steal things in shops: do
you see them reading that? And how did he know such a thing? it’s ages ago—it’s dead and buried!”

“You told me, you told me yourself,” said Francie, quickly. She turned red the instant she had spoken.

“Don’t say it’s you—don’t, don’t, my darling!” cried Mme. de Brécourt, who had stared at her a moment. “That’s what I want, that’s what you must do, that’s what I see you this way for, first, alone. I’ve answered for you, you know; you must repudiate every responsibility. Margot suspects you—she has got that idea—she has given it to the others. I have told them they ought to be ashamed, that it’s an outrage to you. I have done everything, for the last hour, to protect you. I’m your godmother, you know, and you mustn’t disappoint me. You’re incapable, and you must say so, face to face, to my father. Think of Gaston, cherie;
he
will have seen it over there, alone, far from us all. Think of
his
horror and of
his
faith, of what
he
would expect of you.” Mme. de Brécourt hurried on, and her companion’s bewilderment deepened on seeing that the tears had risen to her eyes and were pouring down her cheeks. “You must say to my father, face to face that you are incapable—you are stainless.”

“Stainless?” Francie repeated. “Of course I knew he wanted to write a piece about the picture—and about my marriage.”

“About your marriage—of course you knew. Then, wretched girl, you are at the bottom of
all
!” wailed Mme. de Brécourt, flinging herself away from her, falling back on the sofa, covering her face with her hands.

“He told me—he told me when I went with him to the studio!” Francie declared, passionately. “But he has printed more.”

“
More
? I should think so!” And Mme. de Brécourt sprang up, standing before her. “And you
let
him—about yourself? You gave him facts?”

“I told him—I told him—I don’t know what. It was for his paper—he wants everything. It’s a very fine paper.”

“A very fine paper?” Mme. de Brécourt stared, with parted lips. “Have you
seen
, have you touched the hideous sheet? Ah, my brother, my brother!” she wailed again, turning away.

“If your brother were here you wouldn’t talk to me this way—he would protect me!” cried Francie, on her feet, seizing her little muff and moving to the door.

“Go away, go away or they’ll kill you!” Mme. de Brécourt went on, excitedly. “After all I have done for you—after the way I have lied for you!” And she sobbed, trying to repress her sobs.

Francie, at this, broke out into a torrent of tears. “I’ll go home. Father, father!” she almost shrieked, reaching the door.

“Oh, your father—he has been a nice father, bringing you up in such ideas!” These words followed her with infinite scorn, but almost as Mme. de Brécourt uttered them, struck by a sound, she sprang after the girl, seized her, drew her back and held her a moment, listening, before she could pass out. “Hush—hush—they are coming in here, they are too anxious! Deny—deny it—say you know nothing! Your sister must have said things—and such things: say it all comes from
her
!”

“Oh, you dreadful—is that what
you
do?” cried Francie, shaking herself free. The door opened as she spoke and Mme. de Brécourt walked quickly to the window, turning her back. Mme. de Cliché was there and
Mr. Probert and M. de Brécourt and M. de Cliché. They entered in silence and M. de Brécourt, coming last, closed the door softly behind him. Francie had never been in a court of justice, but if she had had that experience these four persons would have reminded her of the jury filing back into their box with their verdict. They all looked at her hard as she stood in the middle of the room; Mme. de Brécourt gazed out of the window, wiping her eyes; Mme. de Cliché grasped a newspaper, crumpled and partly folded. Francie got a quick impression, moving her eyes from one face to another, that old Mr. Probert was the worst; his mild, ravaged expression was terrible. He was the one who looked at her least; he went to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel, with his head in his hands. He seemed ten years older.

“Ah, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliché, slowly, impressively, in a tone of the most respectful but most poignant reproach.

“Have you seen it—have they sent it to you?” his wife asked, thrusting the paper towards her. “It’s quite at your service!” But as Francie neither spoke nor took it she tossed it upon the sofa, where, as it opened, falling, the girl read the name of the
Reverberator
. Mme. de Cliché carried her head very far back.

“She has nothing to do with it—it’s just as I told you—she’s overwhelmed,” said Mme. de Brécourt, remaining at the window.

“You would do well to read it—it’s worth the trouble,” Alphonse de Brécourt remarked, going over to his wife. Francie saw him kiss her as he perceived 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 Cliché 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 is spared—it’s a deluge of 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 have told her everything—don’t you see she’s
anéantie
? Let her go, let her go!” exclaimed Mme. de Brécourt, still at the window.

“Ah, your journalist, your journalist, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliché. “I am 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 Cliché 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 Cliché. “Mr. Flack has gone to London.”

At this M. de Brécourt 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 Cliché declared.

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

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

“I’m not in the least nervous, but I have made you all so,” Francie replied, laughing.

“I defend you, my dear young lady—I insist that you are only a wretched victim, like ourselves,” M. de Brécourt 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 greatest cad on earth. But please don’t doubt that I have maintained that that woman is not you.”

“The way you talk—I don’t know how to write,” said Francie.

“My poor child, when one knows you as I do!” murmured Mme. de Brécourt, with her arm around her.

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

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

Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brécourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire, with his back to her. “Mr. Probert, I’m very sorry at what I’ve done to distress you; I had no idea you would all feel so badly. I didn’t mean any harm. I thought you would 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 did not look angry but he looked very ill. A strange inarticulate sound, a kind of exclamation of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they would like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to judge of the droll effect of that speech. “Like it—
like it
?” said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if he were a little afraid of her.

“What do you mean? She admits—she admits!” cried Mme. de Cliché 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 girl, 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.”

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

Mme. de Brécourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it
home, take it home immediately—then she would see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed the girl 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 would just praise my picture and give pleasure to Mr. Waterlow,” Francie went on. “I thought he would 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 Brécourt kindly. “
Voyons
, 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 should do something you wouldn’t like.”

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

“My poor child, do you think he will like it any better?” asked Mme. de Brécourt.

Francie fastened her eyes on her a moment. “He’ll see it over there—he has seen it now.”