The Aspirations of Jean Servien | Page 7

into
which the half-drawn curtains admitted shafts of sunlight that were
flashed back in countless broken reflections from mirrors and gilt
cornices. A sweet, stimulating perfume hung about the room, which
was crowded with a superabundance of padded chairs and couches and
piles of cushions.
In the half-light jean beheld a lady so different from all he had ever set
eyes on till that moment that he could form no notion of what she was,

no idea of her beauty or her age. Never had he seen eyes that flashed so
vividly in a face of such pale fairness, or lips so red, smiling with such
an unvarying almost tired-looking smile. She was sitting at a piano,
idly strumming on the keys without playing any definite tune. What
drew Jean's eyes above all was her hair, arranged in some fashion that
struck him with a sense of mystery and beauty.
She looked round, and smoothing the lace of her peignoir with one
hand:
"You are Edgar's friend?" she asked, in a cordial tone, though her voice
struck Jean as harsh in this beautiful room that was perfumed like a
church.
"Yes, Madame."
"You like being at school?"
"Yes, madame."
"The masters are not too strict?"
"No, Madame."
"You have no mother?"
As she put the question Madame Evans' voice softened.
"No, Madame."
"What is your father?"
"A bookbinder, Madame"--and the bookbinder's son blushed as he gave
the answer. At that moment he would gladly have consented never to
see his father more, his father whom he loved, if by the sacrifice he
could have passed for the son of a Captain in the Navy or a Secretary of
Embassy. He suddenly remembered that one of his fellow-pupils was
the son of a celebrated physician whose portrait was displayed in the
stationers' windows.

If only he had had a father like that to tell Madame Ewans of! But that
was out of the question--and how cruelly unjust it was! He felt ashamed
of himself, as if he had said something shocking.
But his friend's mother seemed quite unaffected by the dreadful avowal.
She was still moving her hands at random up and down the keyboard.
Then presently:
"You must enjoy yourself finely to-day, boys," she cried. "We will all
go out. Shall I take you to the fair at Saint-Cloud?"
Yes, Edgar was all for going, because of the roundabouts.
Madame Ewans rose from the piano, patted her pale flaxen hair in place
with a pretty gesture, and gave a sidelong look in the mirror as she
passed.
"I'm going to dress," she told them; "I shall not be long."
While she was dressing, Edgar sat at the piano trying to pick out a tune
from an opera bouffe, and Jean, perched uncomfortably on the edge of
his chair, stared about the room at a host of strange and sumptuous
objects that seemed in some mysterious way to be part and parcel of
their beautiful owner, and affected him almost as strangely as she
herself had done.
Preceded by a faint waft of scent and a rustle of silk, she reappeared,
tying the strings of the hat that made a dainty diadem above her smiling
eyes.
Edgar looked at her curiously:
"Why, mother, there's something... I don't know what. . . something that
alters you."
She glanced in the mirror, examining her hair, which showed pale
violet shadows amid the flaxen plaits.
"Oh! it's nothing," she said; "only I have put some powder in my hair.

Like the Empress," she added, and broke into another smile.
As she was drawing on her gloves, a ring was heard, and the maid came
in to tell her mistress that Monsieur Delbèque was waiting to see her.
Madame Ewans pouted and declared she could not receive him,
whereupon the maid spoke a few words in a very peremptory whisper.
Madame Ewans shrugged her shoulders.
"Stay where you are!" she told the boys, and passed into the
dining-room, whence the murmur of two voices could presently be
heard.
Jean asked Edgar, under his breath, who the gentleman was.
"Monsieur Delbèque," Edgar informed him. "He keeps horses and a
carriage. He deals in pigs. One evening he took us to the theatre,
mother and me."
Jean was surprised and rather shocked to find Monsieur Delbèque dealt
in pigs. But he hid his surprise and asked if he was a relation.
"Oh! no," said Edgar, "he's one of our friends. It's a long time... at least
a year we have known him."
Jean, harking back to his first idea, put the question:
"Have you ever seen him selling his pigs?"
"How stupid you are!" retorted Edgar; "he deals in them wholesale.
Mother says it's a famous trade. He has a cigar-holder with an amber
mouthpiece and a woman all naked