A Woman of Thirty [90]
seems inexplicable, sometimes, and to a close observer, only too easy to explain. Her darling's pretty face, the sound of Moina's voice, her ways, her manner, her looks and gestures, roused all the deepest emotions that can stir a mother's heart with trouble, rapture, or delight. The springs of the Marquise's life, of yesterday, to-morrow, and to-day, lay in that young heart. Moina, with better fortune, had survived four older children. As a matter of fact, Mme. d'Aiglemont had lost her eldest daughter, a charming girl, in a most unfortunate manner, said gossip, nobody knew exactly what became of her; and then she lost a little boy of five by a dreadful accident.
The child of her affections had, however, been spared to her, and doubtless the Marquise saw the will of Heaven in that fact; for those who had died, she kept but very shadowy recollections in some far-off corner of her heart; her memories of her dead children were like the headstones on a battlefield, you can scarcely see them for the flowers that have sprung up about them since. Of course, if the world had chosen, it might have said some hard truths about the Marquise, might have taken her to task for shallowness and an overweening preference for one child at the expense of the rest; but the world of Paris is swept along by the full flood of new events, new ideas, and new fashions, and it was inevitable the Mme. d'Aiglemont should be in some sort allowed to drop out of sight. So nobody thought of blaming her for coldness or neglect which concerned no one, whereas her quick, apprehensive tenderness for Moina was found highly interesting by not a few who respected it as a sort of superstition. Besides, the Marquise scarcely went into society at all; and the few families who knew her thought of her as a kindly, gentle, indulgent woman, wholly devoted to her family. What but a curiosity, keen indeed, would seek to pry beneath the surface with which the world is quite satisfied? And what would we not pardon to old people, if only they will efface themselves like shadows, and consent to be regarded as memories and nothing more!
Indeed, Mme. d'Aiglemont became a kind of example complacently held up by the younger generation to fathers of families, and frequently cited to mothers-in-law. She had made over her property to Moina in her own lifetime; the young Countess' happiness was enough for her, she only lived in her daughter. If some cautious old person or morose uncle here and there condemned the course with--"Perhaps Mme. d'Aiglemont may be sorry some day that she gave up her fortune to her daughter; she may be sure of Moina, but how can she be equally sure of her son- in-law?"--these prophets were cried down on all sides, and from all sides a chorus of praise went up for Moina.
"It ought to be said, in justice to Mme. de Saint-Hereen, that her mother cannot feel the slightest difference," remarked a young married woman. "Mme. d'Aiglemont is admirably well housed. She has a carriage at her disposal, and can go everywhere just as she used to do--"
"Except to the Italiens," remarked a low voice. (This was an elderly parasite, one of those persons who show their independence--as they think--by riddling their friends with epigrams.) "Except to the Italiens. And if the dowager cares for anything on this earth but her daughter--it is music. Such a good performer she was in her time! But the Countess' box is always full of young butterflies, and the Countess' mother would be in the way; the young lady is talked about already as a great flirt. So the poor mother never goes to the Italiens."
"Mme. de Saint-Hereen has delightful 'At Homes' for her mother," said a rosebud. "All Paris goes to her salon.
"And no one pays any attention to the Marquise," returned the parasite.
"The fact is that Mme. d'Aiglemont is never alone," remarked a coxcomb, siding with the young women.
"In the morning," the old observer continued in a discreet voice, "in the morning dear Moina is asleep. At four o'clock dear Moina drives in the Bois. In the evening dear Moina goes
The child of her affections had, however, been spared to her, and doubtless the Marquise saw the will of Heaven in that fact; for those who had died, she kept but very shadowy recollections in some far-off corner of her heart; her memories of her dead children were like the headstones on a battlefield, you can scarcely see them for the flowers that have sprung up about them since. Of course, if the world had chosen, it might have said some hard truths about the Marquise, might have taken her to task for shallowness and an overweening preference for one child at the expense of the rest; but the world of Paris is swept along by the full flood of new events, new ideas, and new fashions, and it was inevitable the Mme. d'Aiglemont should be in some sort allowed to drop out of sight. So nobody thought of blaming her for coldness or neglect which concerned no one, whereas her quick, apprehensive tenderness for Moina was found highly interesting by not a few who respected it as a sort of superstition. Besides, the Marquise scarcely went into society at all; and the few families who knew her thought of her as a kindly, gentle, indulgent woman, wholly devoted to her family. What but a curiosity, keen indeed, would seek to pry beneath the surface with which the world is quite satisfied? And what would we not pardon to old people, if only they will efface themselves like shadows, and consent to be regarded as memories and nothing more!
Indeed, Mme. d'Aiglemont became a kind of example complacently held up by the younger generation to fathers of families, and frequently cited to mothers-in-law. She had made over her property to Moina in her own lifetime; the young Countess' happiness was enough for her, she only lived in her daughter. If some cautious old person or morose uncle here and there condemned the course with--"Perhaps Mme. d'Aiglemont may be sorry some day that she gave up her fortune to her daughter; she may be sure of Moina, but how can she be equally sure of her son- in-law?"--these prophets were cried down on all sides, and from all sides a chorus of praise went up for Moina.
"It ought to be said, in justice to Mme. de Saint-Hereen, that her mother cannot feel the slightest difference," remarked a young married woman. "Mme. d'Aiglemont is admirably well housed. She has a carriage at her disposal, and can go everywhere just as she used to do--"
"Except to the Italiens," remarked a low voice. (This was an elderly parasite, one of those persons who show their independence--as they think--by riddling their friends with epigrams.) "Except to the Italiens. And if the dowager cares for anything on this earth but her daughter--it is music. Such a good performer she was in her time! But the Countess' box is always full of young butterflies, and the Countess' mother would be in the way; the young lady is talked about already as a great flirt. So the poor mother never goes to the Italiens."
"Mme. de Saint-Hereen has delightful 'At Homes' for her mother," said a rosebud. "All Paris goes to her salon.
"And no one pays any attention to the Marquise," returned the parasite.
"The fact is that Mme. d'Aiglemont is never alone," remarked a coxcomb, siding with the young women.
"In the morning," the old observer continued in a discreet voice, "in the morning dear Moina is asleep. At four o'clock dear Moina drives in the Bois. In the evening dear Moina goes