The Reverberator

“MORE? I should think so!” And Mme. de Brecourt rebounded, standing before her. “And you LET him—about yourself? You gave him preposterous 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,” said the girl.

“A very fine paper?” Mme. de Brecourt flushed, with parted lips. “Have you SEEN, have you touched the hideous sheet? Ah my brother, my brother!” she quavered again, turning away.

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

“Go away, go away or they’ll kill you!” her friend went on excitedly. “After all I’ve done for you—after the way I’ve 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. Poppa, poppa!” 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 Brecourt 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’re coming in here, they’re 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 Brecourt walked quickly to the window, turning her back. Mme. de Cliche was there and Mr. Probert and M. de Brecourt and M. de Cliche. They entered in silence and M. de Brecourt, 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 Brecourt gazed out of the window, wiping her tears; Mme. de Cliche 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 Cliche 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 toward 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 Cliche carried her head very far aloft.

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

“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.