PARIS, with all its lamps and shop-windows, dazzled Nancy. It was before the days in which ruins were visible from that brilliant Rue de Rivoli, through which they drove to their hotel. She thought it was an illumination as she saw the sweeping circles of light in the Place de la Concorde, and the long line of lamps under the archways, and could not be persuaded that this was how the brightest of cities adorned herself every night. And when she opened her eyes next morning to the brilliancy of the winter sunshine, and saw the brightness and gaiety of everything around, Nancy was fairly transported out of herself. She had never even been in a great hotel before, for Arthur had taken her to London lodgings he had been in the habit of using, in Jermyn Street, which were not dazzling. But here everything was lovely, Nancy thought. They had a little appartement in one of the great hotels over-looking the garden of the Tuileries, with a little balcony; and from the white carpet with its bouquet, and the sparkling wood-fire which was so bright and clean, and supplemented the sunshine so delightfully, to the mirrors and gilding, and white panels of the walls, everything she looked upon filled Nancy with a bewildering delicious sense of having arrived at the summit of fineness and splendour, and being a lady indeed, a princess almost, enshrined in a bower of bliss. Nothing she had ever seen in all her limited experience was half so splendid; and the noiseless waiters who ran up and down with every luxury that Arthur could think of, and the dainty food, and the perpetual service bewildered her unaccustomed brain. This then was how great people lived! with carpets like velvet, sofas covered with satin, a host of eager servants to find out what they wanted, and bring them everything that could be thought of; mirrors to reflect them on every side (Nancy had never been so sure about the sit of her dress, or knew so well what her figure was like before—and it was a very pretty figure). No wonder they were happy! When they had breakfasted, a pretty Victoria, with a fur rug to cover their knees, came to the door, and in this they drove all about, taking what Arthur called a general view of Paris, its pretty streets, its river and quays, its boulevards, the Champs Elysées, brilliant in the sunshine, with the great arch at the end. When Arthur stopped to let her see Notre Dame, Nancy was respectful but failed a little in interest. It chilled her to go into a church in the middle of a week day so soon after she was married. Church was for Sundays, she felt, not a place to go into in the midst of laughing and talk. She felt it like a memento mori, a sudden chill upon her exhilaration, and supposed that Arthur took her there with the intention of making her remember her duty and her “latter end,” which was a suggestion she did not like.
“Now you shall see something quite different in the ecclesiastical way,” he said, stopping at another church before they went back to their hotel; for he felt that somehow, though he did not quite know how, Notre Dame had not been successful with Nancy. But she altogether refused to go into the Madeleine.
“I don’t know why you are so anxious that I should see the churches,” she said, pouting. “I never knew you were so religious.” Arthur made haste to disavow the imputation, as may be supposed, which all the same he did not like her to make. He was not “so religious,” but he did not like to hear women speak of the matter so—it was “bad taste.”
“It is because the building is supposed to be fine,” he said, standing at the door of the little carriage to hand her out; but Nancy declined firmly. If she could not think of her duty without being taken into a lot of churches to be reminded of religion and of dying, and all that sort of thing, she did not feel at all disposed to be instructed so—and they came in from their drive a little silent, and not so delighted with each other, and with everything about them as they had been when they went out, though Arthur, for his part, had not the slightest idea why.
Luncheon, however, obliterated all recollection of the churches, and made her again feel that everything was delightful in her present lot. Not that Nancy was gourmande, or given to dwell upon what she ate. One of those horrible luxuries, known in England as a Bath bun, would have contented her, so far as eatables went, quite as well as the daintiest little fricandeau. It was the accessories of the meal which told upon her, the obsequious attendants, the perpetual service, the silver dishes, the beautiful fruit on the table, and the sparkling wine, which she had heard the name of all her life, as the crown of luxury, but had never tasted it even in its cheapest form. They must be spending heaps of money, Nancy felt, to live like this. But she was not bold enough to interfere just then, and there was an unexpressed and subtle flattery in Arthur’s care to treat her as, she thought, only princesses, who were not brides, would be treated. As a bride, Nancy knew she had a prescriptive right to everything that was fine. Even in her own knowledge, sacrifices were made to secure everything that was better than usual, for the brief but exquisite moment in which a girl held this official position. A bride had a right to a drive in a cab if she wished it—to a glass of wine if she liked it—to cakes and dainties, and a great deal of coaxing and admiration. And to wear her best dress when she went out, even though it should be on a week-day. Arthur gave to his bride a glorified version of all these delights, except the last, the pretty Victoria instead of a Hansom, and this expedition to France and other unknown regions, instead of the day at the Crystal Palace, which Mr. Raisins would most likely suggest to Sarah Jane; though it was strange that he should object to her “silk,” the only thing of which she had been perfectly sure that it was right. It was in this point of view that she liked the dainty luncheon; and when they went out again arm-in-arm in the afternoon for a walk, the shops on the Boulevards threw her into an ecstasy. Arthur was complaisance itself to all her wishes here. He was willing to stand at the windows and look in as long as she pleased, and he took her here and there to glove-shops and milliners, and bought her a hundred pretty trifles. In every shop they entered, both men and women were so eager to know what pleased Madame, so anxious to prove triumphantly that this thing and the other was becoming to Madame, so openly admiring, so caressingly urgent, that Nancy’s head was turned. It seemed impossible not to believe in the sudden enthusiasm she called forth. Could it be only the ribbons, or collars, or gloves they bought that stimulated these delightful people into such warm and apparent admiration. No! Nancy could not entertain such an unworthy thought. It was their kindness, she said to herself, and something still more agreeable whispered in her heart that it was her own attractions that made these people so kind. Had they not a real pleasure in seeing a young bride like herself, so fair, so happy, making everything look well that was put upon her? Nancy did not flatter herself in this open way, but she had a pleased and delightful conviction that this was the feeling in their minds. She believed in their sincerity, and that she had made a real impression upon them. Was not this how all the nice people in books, small and great, showed their appreciation of the lovely young heroine? Nancy had not as yet any experience of the great—and indeed it was an effort on her part to keep up in her mind a certainty that she herself was in a superior position to the masters and mistresses, the “young ladies” and “young gentlemen” in these very fine shops; a little while ago she would have looked up to them; now this consciousness made her head turn round, and gave the most curious piquancy to their admiration and enthusiasm for Madame.
“How funny it is,” she said, as they came out into the crowded Boulevard, where the lamps were beginning to be lit, “to be called Madamm!”
Arthur looked a little strange at this pronunciation; but he did not venture to criticise. It was necessary to go very quietly with this touchy young woman. He told her some pretty things that Monsieur in the shop had said to him while his wife had been fitting on her wares upon Nancy.
“If you make as much sensation at the theatre,” he said, “what shall I do? I am nobody now. I am Madame’s attendant, her obsequious husband.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Nancy, radiant. “What funny people the French are! Are they always paying compliments?”
“To people who have any right to them, yes; to pretty people, and those who pay well, and those who will be likely to believe them.”
“Arthur, how unkind of you! I don’t believe that people are so barefaced, saying things they do not mean. One must have a very bad opinion of other people if one thinks that.”
But for her own part, Nancy was not tempted to think so. She conceived a very high opinion of the French nation. If she could have got Arthur out of the way, she thought she would have liked to try a little conversation on her own account, for it would be delightful to be able to chatter as Arthur did, and talk to anyone; but in his presence she did not like to venture. Once more they went back to their hotel in the most delightful state of content with each other and all the world. They were to dine early, and then go to the “Français” to see the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Arthur had told her the story of the play, and how she would be sure to like it, and that there was not a better French actor living, and not such a good English one; all which had impressed Nancy. And she was to be allowed to wear her pink dress, with a pretty wrap which he had bought, an Algerian mantle, softly white, with threads of gold, and a flower in her hair. Nancy’s heart beat with the thought of all this gaiety and grandeur. He had bought her also a pretty fan; and they were to have a box, which was a thing which conveyed very magnificent ideas to her mind. To sit there throned like a young princess, and allow herself to be admired while the best of actors did his best to amuse her, in the midst of that which imagination had always painted to her as, after a ball, the most seductive of pleasures, a gaily lighted and brilliant theatre, what could be more delightful? And at first Nancy was quite as happy as she expected to be. When she looked out from the corner of the box with its silken curtains upon the bright, many-coloured crowd, it seemed to her as if she could understand a little how the Queen must feel when she came forward to thank her loyal subjects for their kind reception of her. Half of the people seemed to be looking up admiringly, wonderingly. She had never felt so truly great before. How well she remembered, in the days of her humility, when the highest she could hope for was the upper boxes, watching beautiful ladies come into their box, and giving a careless, splendid look over the rustling company below before they sat down. And now it was she who was the beautiful lady in the box. Was there, perhaps, some poor girl somewhere like Nancy Bates, looking at the lovely new-comer, surveying and envying her with a wistful gaze in all her finery, watching her look down upon the crowd, then sink gracefully into her chair as Nancy did, half retired behind the curtain? It seemed to her that she was two people, herself in the box—Mrs. Arthur Curtis—and Nancy Bates watching from her inferior place; and this doubled the enjoyment in the most wonderful way. How she would have noticed everything, the beautiful white mantle with its gold threads, the flower in the lady’s hair, her dress, and everything about her! and with great, yet less absorbing interest, the handsome young husband who completed her belongings, and was so “devoted” to her. Nancy would scarcely have had eyes for the play in her admiration of the beautiful lady; and now she was the beautiful lady herself, in full possession of all the greatness a box at the play could bestow! How wonderful it was, and delightful; but yet, perhaps, not altogether so delightful and wonderful as it had seemed to Nancy in the pit.
But when the curtain rose, Nancy was not so sure that it was delightful. She was not sufficiently at her ease to enter into even the frank fun of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. She stared at M. Got with wondering curiosity and doubt. No doubt it must be very amusing, for everybody laughed, and so did Arthur; but Nancy could not laugh. What did that queer man on the stage mean by all those strange antics of his?—trying on his clothes in public, fencing with his maid-servant, making his mouth into round O’s, when the still funnier man in the witch-like black hat directed him to do so. It was all strange to her. She puzzled over him, and could not make him out. “What is he saying?” she whispered to Arthur when there was a wilder laugh than usual; but before she could understand what Arthur whispered back, laughing, there was another burst of amusement, and she was thrown out again. At first the sensation was only disappointment, but by and by it became irritation. She could not bear to feel herself the only one who did not know. High up in the gallery above her, she could see a little French girl in a cap, who was enjoying it with all her heart. And Arthur, though he tried to explain all the jokes, forgot now and then, and gave himself up to the fun too, and never thought of her sitting there who did not know what it meant, and could not possibly enjoy it. The doubtful smile which she kept on her face for the first scene or two, gave way to a fixed and somewhat sullen stare. She fixed her eyes obstinately on the stage, and gazed at the fun with unsympathising face, blank and immovable. If M. Got had seen her, she would have been like a beautiful nightmare to him; and as a matter of fact, that inimitable actor played all his pranks before Nancy without conveying a single humorous idea to her mind, or one smile to her face. How weary, how angry, how dull and miserable she grew while the house rang with laughter, and all that fun went on under her eyes, now sore with staring! All this time the little French girl in the cap, up above, a poor little girl, not at all equal even to Nancy Bates, laughed till the tears came to her eyes; and Arthur laughed, untiring, too, though sometimes wondering a little why Nancy should be so quiet, and stealing anxious looks at her, which she would not respond to, but kept her eyes riveted on the stage. When the curtain fell, she gave a sigh of relief, but turned her back upon Arthur, and would not answer his questions as to how she had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it! How could he ask her, he who had done nothing but laugh, and never cared for her. When he rose, she rose too, but repulsed his attempts to wrap her cloak more closely round her.
“It will do very well as it is,” she said, twitching it out of his hand.
“What is the matter?” he asked, wistfully, drawing her arm through his, not without a little resistance on her part.
“The matter? What should be the matter? I am only tired, and I shall be glad to get home,” said Nancy.
“I have made you do too much. I have dragged you about and worn you out, my poor darling!” cried Arthur, and he was full of compunctions, half carrying her downstairs. But when they got into the little coupé which waited for them, she burst forth.
“I can’t see what there was so very amusing. I don’t think it could be good French,” cried Nancy. “I don’t pretend that I can talk like you, but I learned French at school, and I am sure I could understand if it was good. You call that acting! I did not think he was clever at all.”
“My love,” said poor Arthur, “it was the great Got, the best comic actor in the world, I think. I never saw anyone like him.”
“I have seen a dozen better,” cried Nancy. “What did he do? nothing but make a fool of himself, putting on those ridiculous clothes, and dancing and singing, and learning lessons, an old man! The great Go! I wished he would go, I am sure, long before he did go,” she said, recovering her spirits a little by means of her pun. But the process was not so successful in respect to Arthur. He did not say anything, but shrugged his shoulders, which fortunately she did not perceive.
“I see,” he said, at last. “That is not the kind of acting you care for; the higher walks perhaps would please you better. We will try something quite different to-morrow.”
“Oh, to-morrow!” she said, with a little shiver. This delight of the play had already exploded for Nancy; and she recollected with dismay that they had agreed to go to a play every night! Was this how her life was to be spent? She thought regretfully of her mother and sisters sitting round the table, chatting about everything that had happened, and everything that was going to happen. The parlour was dingy, and she had thought of it with a wondering recoil of half disgust in comparison with her appartement, and all its coquetries, its white carpets and curtains; but she had never been so tired, so worn with trying to be happy at home. The little wood fire, however, was burning brightly, and the wax-candles lighted, and the pretty sitting-room looked very comfortable when they got back to the hotel, which they began to call “home,” with easy desecration of that word upon which the English pride themselves. Arthur put her into a comfortable chair, and made her take some wine, and petted and consoled her. Poor Arthur, he was disappointed too, but he concealed it manfully. His character was developing in this unexpected probation, he was growing patient, forbearing, ready to make all sorts of compromises and sacrifices, to ensure that his young wife should be happy. He had not been so good or so forbearing in his former relationships, when everything had been done to please him; but in marriage, if one will not be accommodating, why the other must, there is no changing that necessity of nature. This union which had cost so much must not turn out a failure. If she would not exert herself, he must. Therefore he swallowed his disappointment in respect to the immediate evening, and in respect to the narrowing of future resources, which, if Nancy could not be made to like the theatre, would be very serious, and also the deeper disappointment, which he scarcely allowed himself to look at, of finding in Nancy less understanding than he thought. He sat over the fire a little when she had gone to bed and pondered it all. After all, perhaps, it was not unnatural that a young girl who had no experience, and did not understand French, should not all at once appreciate Molière, even when interpreted by Got. Was it to be expected, was it likely? Arthur began to say to himself that his disappointment was the fault of his exaggerated expectations, and that he had been very foolish; poor Nancy, what an ordeal he had subjected her to! But he would not be discouraged, he would try again. Something romantic and sensational at the Porte St. Martin, or a sentimental comedy, such as was running at the Gymnase would do better. He would try that, something that would interest her. Arthur knew a good deal about the theatres, and he felt sure that one or the other would supply what was wanted. But there was a vague depression in his mind, notwithstanding the bright fire and the white carpets which were so warm and soft. This first effort had not been a success. Nancy had not responded to his call; it was, he supposed, his fault, but it was depressing. There was nothing injurious to Nancy in the comparison that suggested itself. He thought involuntarily of Lucy, how she would have laughed at Got’s acting, how lightly she would have come in and sat with him over the fire, and talked it all over, and enjoyed it a second time. All that this proved was the advantages of education—it proved nothing more—and he did not want to change Nancy for Lucy, or to abandon the ventures of this strange and alarming double existence, which, having once begun for him, could never end except by death. The little failures, the continual perils of opposition and resistance, excited at least, if they did not delight him. Life was no longer tame and monotonous whatever else might be said.