# Zut and Other Parisians/The Only Son of His Mother
### The Only Son of His Mother

In the limited understanding of Pépin dwelt one great Fact, in the shadow of which all else shrank to insignificance, and that Fact was the existence of Comte Victor de Villersexel, the extremely tall and extraordinarily imposing person who was, first of all, Officier de la Légion d’Honneur, second, Membre de l’Académie Française, and, lastly, father to Pépin himself. It must be acknowledged that to the more observing of his limited kinsfolk and extensive acquaintance the clay feet of Pépin’s idol were distinctly in evidence. How he had contrived to attain to the proud eminence which he occupied was, in the earlier days of his publicity, a matter of curious conjecture and not over-plausible explanation. Certainly no inherent merit or ability it was which formed the first step of the stairway he had climbed. In diplomacy the Comte de Villersexel had never bettered his first appointment as second secretary of legation at Belgrade; in literature his achievements were limited to one ponderous work on feudalism, remarkable chiefly for its surpassing futility; and in society his sole claim to consideration lay in his marriage to a Brazilian heiress, who had died within the year, leaving her husband an income of two hundred thousand francs — and Pépin. In all this it was difficult to find a sufficient reason for the crimson button and the green embroidered coat, unless it was that the family of de Villersexel went back to the Crusades. That is not always a prudent thing for a family to do, but the present instance was an exception.
Born to the heritage of a name which his predecessors had made notable, Comte Victor was one of those whose greatness is thrust upon them rather than achieved, one of the bubbles in the ferment of Paris which their very levity brings to the top, to show rainbow tints in the sunlight of publicity. It is probable that no one was more surprised than de Villersexel himself at the honors which fell to his share, but one thing even the most contemptuous had, perforce, to concede. Once secure of his laurels, he wore them with a confidence that was akin to conviction. His reserve was iron-clad, his dignity stupendous. It required considerable time for new acquaintances to probe the secret of his insufficiency. Victor de Villersexel was, as the irreverent young military attaché at the American Embassy once said of him, “a dazzling imitation of the real thing.”
But to Pépin the idol was an idol without flaw. Through what shrewd appreciation of occasional words and chance comments he had contrived to grasp the significance of that speck of scarlet upon the Count’s lapel and that apparently simple phrase, “de l’Académie Française,” which, in formal introductions, was wont to follow his father’s name, must be numbered among childhood’s mysteries. But before he was seven, Pépin had solved these problems for himself, and the results of his reasoning were awestruck admiration and blind allegiance to the will of this wonderful creature who never smiled. His own small individuality was so completely overshadowed by that of his father that in the latter’s presence the child was scarcely noticeable, dressed in his sober blouses, and creeping about the stately rooms of the great apartment in the avenue d’Iéna with an absolutely noiseless step. He was all brown, was Pépin: brown bare legs, and brown hands, very small and slender, brown hair, cropped short and primly parted, and deep brown eyes, eloquent of unspoken and unspeakable things. He was earnest, his tutor said, earnest and willing, but not bright, poor Pépin! He spoke English, to be sure, with a curious accent caught from his Cornish nurse, but that was due not so much to ability as to enforced association. In his French grammar and such simple arithmetic as was required of him he was slow and often stupid. But he was rarely scolded, and never punished. Once, indeed, the Comte had been about to strike him for some trifling fault, but somehow the blow, for which Pépin stood waiting, never fell.
“He is like his mother,” the légionnaire had muttered, as he turned away, “an imbecile — but” —
Pépin, catching the unfinished phrase, grew sick with a great discouragement, mingled with profound pity for the man before him. It must be a dreadful thing for one so famous to be the father of an imbecile! From that day on the child was more inconspicuous than before.
Deliberately affected in the first instance, what was known in society as de Villersexel’s “academic manner” came in course of time to be second nature. Practice made perfect the chill reserve which was originally assumed as a precaution against possible discovery of his vapidity; and as the image of what the academician had been, before his election, grew dimmer in society’s recollection, his impressive solemnity, barely disguised by a veneer of superficial courtesy, did not fail of its effect. He was spoken of as a man in whom much lay below the surface, and his more recent acquaintances coupled their estimate of his character with the proverbial profundity of still waters, and the familiar gloved fist of steel. Others, more observant, smiled at the similes, but did not go to the pains of proving them ill applied. One of the most characteristic things about the Comte de Villersexel was that he inspired neither championship nor antagonism.
With all this, he was consistent, with that curious obstinacy which is sometimes made manifest in the shallowest natures. His rôle, once assumed, was, as we have said, played to perfection and never laid aside. The domestic threshold, which is, for the majority of men, a kind of uncloaking room, saw never an alteration, even of voice or expression, in his pose. The household affairs were regulated with almost military precision, and once a day, at noon, Pépin and his father met in the large salon, — the Comte in his tall satin stock and frock coat, and Pépin fresh from the careful hands of his nurse. They shook hands gravely, and then waited in silence, until the maître d’hôtel announced breakfast, —
“Ces messieurs sont servis!”
What meals they were, to be sure, those déjeuners, solemnly served, and more solemnly eaten, under the rigid observation of three menservants; de Villersexel, with his thin lips, his cold eyes, and his finely pointed gray mustache, barely moving save to raise his fork or break a morsel from his roll, and Pépin, all brown, perched like a mouse on the edge of a great chair, and nibbling at tiny scraps of food with downcast eyes!
At the very end, as the Comte was about to push back his chair, he would invariably raise his glass of champagne and Pépin his, wherein a few drops of red wine turned the Evian to a pale heliotrope, and together they would glance toward the full-length portrait which hung above the mantel.
“Ta mère!” said the Comte.
“Maman!” replied Pépin.
And so they drank the toast of tribute to the dead.
After breakfast, the father would read for an hour to the child, and Pépin, seated on another large chair, would listen, perfectly motionless, striving desperately to understand the long sentences which fell in flawlessly pronounced succession from the Academician’s lips. De Villersexel had a fairly clear recollection of what books had been the companions of his childhood, and these he purchased in the rarest editions, and clothed in the richest bindings, and read to Pépin: only his remembrance did not extend to a very distinct differentiation between seven and fifteen, for it was at the latter age that he read “Télémaque” to himself, and at the former that he read “Télémaque” to his son.
Then would come a second formal hand-shake, and Pépin, pausing an instant at the door to make a slow, stiff bow, would creep off down the long corridor to the nursery, and the Comte turn again to his papers with a consciousness of paternal duty done.
How Pépin contrived to spend the long hours which his daily walk and his short lessons left at his disposal, only Pépin knew. He talked rarely with the servants, — “a thing,” his father told him, “that no gentleman would wish to do;” and other children never entered at the de Villersexel door, “for,” said the Comte, “children sow unfortunate ideas and spread disease.”
But there were compensations. One was the full-length portrait over the chimney-piece in the dining-room. Pépin had no conception of how great was the signature it bore, or of the fabulous sum which it had cost, but he knew it was very beautiful, and, besides, it was his mother, — the sad-eyed, pale dream-mother he had never seen.
The portrait of the Comtesse de Villersexel had been one of the sensations at the Salon of seven years before. The young Brazilian was represented at the moment when the bow left the strings of her violin, and on her lips and in her eyes yet dwelt the spirit of the music she had been playing. A clinging gown of ivory-white silk emphasized rather than hid the lines of her figure, of strangely girlish slenderness, but straight and proud as that of a young empress. In its frailty lay the keynote of the portrait’s charm. It was like a reflection in clear water that a touch might disturb, or a young anemone that a breath might destroy, — not a picture before which people disputed and proffered noisy opinions, but one which imposed silence, like the barely audible note of a distant Angelus. It stood before the memory of its original, as it had been a spirit, finger on lip, at the doorway of a tomb.
This portrait of his mother dominated the life of Pépin like the half-remembered substance of a dream. He had known nothing of her in the life, for the breath of being had passed from her lips to his at the moment of his birth, but with the intuition of childhood, he seemed to know that this was one who would have loved him and whom he would have loved. He spent hours before the picture, silent, spell-bound, gazing into the deep and tender eyes that shone with the same pathetic pleading that lay so eloquently in his own, and the only outbreak of rage which had ever stirred his simple serenity was on one occasion when his nurse had found him thus absorbed, and, receiving no response to her summons, half alarmed and half indignant, reproached him with wasting his time before a stupid picture. Then Pépin had whirled around upon her, his lips compressed, his small brown hands clenched, and a look in his eyes that terrified even the stout and prosaic Cornish-woman out of her accustomed attitude of fat complacency.
“A stupid picture?” he stormed. “But it is my mother, do you hear, my mother! You are a wicked woman, Elizabeth!”
It was when Pépin was nearing his seventh birthday that a wonderful thing happened. The Comte was giving a great reception to the Russian Ambassador, and on an impulse which, perhaps, even he himself could hardly have explained, sent for his son. The child was aroused from sleep, and, but half awake and totally uncomprehending, was submitted by the worthy Elizabeth to a veritable cyclone of washing, combing, and brushing, and finally, clad in spotless duck, was led by the maître d’hôtel down the long corridor to the door of the grand salon, which, at his approach, swung open under the touch of one of the under servants. Pépin, dazed by the radiance of many lights and a great clamor of voices, paused on the threshold, and, with a swift intuition of what was demanded of him, made his slow, stiff bow.
“Le Vicomte de Villersexel,” said the maître d’hôtel in a loud voice at his side, and Pépin, seeing his father beckon to him from the group where he stood, slipped close to him through the crowd, and was surprised to find that the Comte took his hand in his, and bent forward to say in a whisper, —
“You are to hear Pazzini play the violin.
That is why I sent for you. He was your mother’s teacher.”
Like all that had gone before, what followed was to Pépin like a dream — a beautiful dream, never to be forgotten. A great hush had settled upon the brilliant assemblage, for even in Paris there are still things which society will check its chatter to hear, and the tall, gray-bearded man, consulting with the pianist over there, was Pazzini, the great Pazzini, whose services had been more than once commanded by royalty in vain. De Villersexel had drawn Pépin nearer to the piano in the brief interval, and as the opening chords of the introduction were struck, he found himself but a few feet from the famous violinist, his hand still linked in that of his father, his eyes fixed in wonder upon this unknown man who had been his mother’s teacher.
The first low note of the violin fell upon the silence like a faint, far voice, heard across a wide reach of calm water, and, as the marvelous melody swelled into the fullness of its motif, something new and strange stirred in Pépin’s heart, mounted and tightened in his throat, ran tingling to his finger-tips. Through his half parted lips the breath tiptoed in and out, and his deep eyes grew every instant, could he have known it, more like those of the picture that he loved. So he stood entranced, seeing, hearing nothing but Pazzini and Pazzini’s violin, till the sonata drew imperceptibly toward its close. Like the child, the great violinist seemed to be unconscious of all that surrounded him. Slowly, tenderly, he led his music through the last phrases, until he paused before the supreme high sweetness of the final note. How it was he could never have told, but, in that infinitesimal fraction of time, the training of years played him false. He knew that his finger-tip slipped an incalculable atom of space, but it was too late. The bow was on the string, and the imperceptibly flatted note swelled, sank, and died away, unrecognized, he thought, with a throb of thankfulness, by any save his master ear. And then —
“Ah-h!” said Pépin.
The long ripple of applause drowned the child’s whisper, and for an instant the terror in his heart grew still, believing his exclamation unheard. Then it leaped to life again, for Pazzini was looking at him, his bow hovering above the instrument like his mother’s in the picture. In the mysterious solitude of the crowded room the eyes of these two met, each reading the other’s as they had been an open book, and in Pépin’s was the pain of a wounded animal, and in Pazzini’s a great wonder and sorrow, as of one who has hurt without intention, and mutely pleads for pardon.
As the applause ceased, the violinist turned to the Comte, and pointed to Pépin with his bow.
“Who is that child?” he asked.
The thaw in the de Villersexel’s “academic manner” had been but momentary. With the renewed hum of conversation he was himself again, pale, proud, and immovable.
“It is my son, Pépin,” he replied, with stiff courtesy. “How shall I thank you for your playing? It was the essence of perfection, as it has ever been, and ever will be.”
But he could not know, as he turned away with Pépin, that in his heart the violinist said, “Her boy! I understand!”
The miracle of his summons to the salon that night was not, as it appeared, the actual climax of existence, for a new marvel awaited Pépin on the morrow. The doors of the dining-room had barely slid together behind them when the Comte turned to him.
“Yesterday was Christmas,” he said.
Pépin made no reply. In fact, the stupor which descended upon him at this infraction of the usual routine of life effectually deprived him, for the moment, of the power of speech.
“It was Christmas,” repeated the Comte, “and because of that you are invited to a — a — soirée to-day. Do you know the English children on the entresol?”
“I have seen them,” faltered Pépin, “but we have never spoken. You told me” —
“I have changed my mind,” broke in his father. “Monsieur ’Ameelton” — stumbling desperately over the English name — “has asked me to let you visit them this afternoon, and I have said yes to him. Elizabeth will dress you. Now you may go.”
Barely conscious that Pépin had added a timid “Merci, papa!” to his customary bow, de Villersexel turned to his writing-table, as the door closed behind the little Vicomte, and, unlocking a drawer, took therefrom a letter which had come to him that morning, and, burying himself in his arm-chair, proceeded to its careful reperusal. It was in the fine Italian handwriting of Pazzini, and ran as follows:
My dear Friend, — This is to be at once a confession and a prayer. What would you say if I were to tell you that Pazzini — the flawless Pazzini, as men are pleased to call me! — murdered, yes, murdered last night’s sonata by flatting that wonderful final note? Oh, it was a very little thing, and passed unnoticed, for they are stupid, these wise people who listen to me, and they did not hear. Even you, my poor friend, even you could not detect that tiny flaw that was a monstrous crime. No, of all who listened, there were but two that understood what I had done. I was one of these, and the other was your son — Pépin.
Pazzini.
Prime feature of all the year to the little Hamiltons, on the entresol, was their Christmas tree. It arrived in some unknowable way in the corner of the grand salon on the morning after Christmas, and, from the moment of its advent, the doors were sealed, and only the privileged world of grown-ups went in and out, and could see the splendors within. Inch by inch the hands of the tall clock in the antichambre dragged themselves around successive circles toward the hour of revelation, and, keyed to the snapping point of frenzy, the slender figure of George and the round, squat form of John stood motionless before the inexorable timepiece, awaiting the stroke of four. This suspense was harrowing enough in itself, and only made bearable by recourse to occasional mad caperings up and down the hall, and whoops of mingled ecstasy and exasperation. What was worse was the delay in the arrival of their guests. Later, the latter would be an indispensable part of the festivities: just now they were mere impediments in the path of bliss. Even the grown-ups were more considerate, and came on time. Well they might, since they were granted immediate admission to the enchanted room, and came out with maddening accounts of what was to be seen therein. They sat about the small salon, and talked the stupid things of which they were so fond of talking, — Hamilton, tall, straight, and with an amused twinkle in his eyes, while he watched his wife vainly endeavoring to calm her sons as they foamed and pranced at the sealed doors; Miss Kedgwick, who wrote books, and invited boys to tea; Monsieur de Bercy, who was odd because he spoke no English, but who cut heads out of nuts and apples, and drew droll pictures on scraps of paper; Miss Lys, who played the piano for “Going to Jerusalem;” and Mr. Sedgely, who talked very low in her ear, and said the great trouble with “Going to Jerusalem” was that the players couldn’t go there in good earnest — whatever that might mean.
But would the doors never open?
The children arrived by twos and threes, shook hands limply with their elders, greeted their small hosts with embarrassed ceremony, and then, as if suddenly inoculated with the latter’s madness, commenced to foam and prance in their turn before the unyielding portals. Last of all came Pépin, all brown, who bowed at the door, and then in turn to each of those who spoke to him.
Suddenly, with a shout, the children burst through the opened doorway, and gathered in voluble groups about the glistening miracle which shone like a hundred stars in the gathering twilight, For a half hour all was chaos, and Pépin, standing a little apart, marveled and was still. Dancing figures whirled about him, bearing boxes of soldiers, toy villages, dolls, trumpets, drums. The air was full of the wailing of whistles, the cries of mechanical animals, and the clamor of childish comment.
But to Pépin even the dazzling novelty of his surroundings was as nothing, compared to one object which drew and fixed his attention from the first instant, as the needle is held rigid by the magnetic pole. High up upon the tree, clearly outlined against its background of deep green, and gleaming gorgeously with fresh varnish in the light of the surrounding candles, hung a violin — not one like Monsieur Pazzini’s, large and of a dull brown, but small — a violin for Pépin himself to hold, and new, and bright, and beyond all things beautiful and to be desired!
Then his attention was distracted for a moment. From the time of his entrance the eyes of Miss Lys had followed the dignified and silent little Frenchman, and where Miss Lys went Mr. Sedgely followed, so that now the two were so close that they brushed his elbow, and Pépin, turning with an instinctive “Pardon,” saw that they were watching him curiously. When, with a feeling of restlessness under their scrutiny, he looked once more towards the tree, the violin was gone! An instant later, he saw it in the madly sawing hands of George Hamilton, dancing like a faun down the room, and he was conscious of a great faintness, such as he had known but once before, when he had cut his hand, and the doctor had sewed it, as Elizabeth sewed rips in cloth.
“He is adorable,” said Ethel Lys, “but I have never seen a sadder face. What eyes! — two brown poems.”
“He makes my heart ache,” answered Sedgely, slowly, “and yet I could hardly say why. Ask him what he wants off the tree.”
The girl was on her knees by Pépin before the phrase was fairly finished.
“What didst thou have for Christmas?” she asked, falling unconsciously into that tender second singular which slips so naturally from the lips at sight of a French child.
“I? — but nothing,” replied the little Vicomte, pleased out of his anguish by the sound of his own tongue amid the babel of English phrases.
The girl at his side looked at him with so frank an astonishment that he felt it necessary to explain.
“I have my gifts on the day of the year. Christmas is an English fête, and I am French. So I have nothing.”
“Nothing!” replied Miss Lys blankly, and then, of a sudden, slipped her arm around him, and drew his head close to her own.
“What dost thou see on the tree that thou wouldst like to have?” she asked, eagerly. “What is there, dearest?”
And, at the unwonted tenderness of her question, the floodgates of Pépin’s reserve suddenly gave way. Placing his hands upon the girl’s shoulders, he searched her face with his eyes.
“If there were another violin” — he began, and, faltering, stopped, and turned away to hide the tears that would come, strive as he might to hold them back.
“Did you hear him — and see him?” queried Miss Lys, a minute after, furiously backing Sedgely into a corner by the lapels of his frock coat. “You did — you know you did! And you are still here? Lord! What a man!”
Sedgely shrugged his shoulders with a pretense of utter bewilderment.
“What must I do?” he inquired, blankly.
“Do?” stormed Miss Lys. “Do? Why, scour Paris till you find a violin precisely like that one George is doing his best to saw in half. Here! Clément is at the door with the trois-quarts. Tell him to drive you like mad to the Printemps — to the big place opposite the Grand Hotel — to the Louvre — to the Bon Marché — anywhere — everywhere! But inside of one hour I must have that violin!”
When Sedgely returned, thirty minutes later, violin in hand, Ethel met him at the door.
“They are all at tea,” she said. “We’ll call Pépin out.”
She placed the violin in the hands of the Vicomte without a word, and without a word Pépin took it from her. The instrument slid to his cheek as if impelled by its own desire.
“Canst thou play?” she asked him.
“No,” said Pépin, “and, besides, it is but a toy. I do not want to hear it. But I like to feel it — here.” And he moved his cheek caressingly against the cheap varnish.
“Don’t you think you might” — began Sedgely, and then found himself on the other side of the door, and Miss Lys facing him with an air of hopeless resignation.
“I — act-u-ally — be-lieve,” she said, with an effort at calm, “that you were going to ask him to thank me for it!”
“Why not?” said Sedgely.
“Lord! What a man!” said Miss Lys.
In the dining-room of the de Villersexel apartment the Comte paced slowly to and fro, with bent head, and fingers that locked and unlocked behind his back. In the heavy chair before the fire, Pazzini seemed shrunk to but half his normal size, a mere rack of clothes, two lean white hands, that gripped the dragons’ heads upon the arms of the fauteuil, and a pale stern face that looked into the smouldering embers, and beyond — immeasurably beyond.
“How did it happen?” he asked, after a time.
“Shall I ever know?” broke out de Villersexel irritably. “Pépin had been to a children’s party below there on the entresol, at the English lawyer’s. He and his imbecile of a bonne were entering the ascenseur. She goes from spasm to spasm, so there is no telling. But it seems they had given Pépin a toy — the English and she wished to carry it and he refused. So between them — God knows how! — it slipped from their hands as the ascenseur cleared the gate — and Pépin stooped to catch it — and fell. He died at midnight.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the snapping of the logs in the fireplace and the almost inaudible footfalls of the Comte on the thick carpet. Then —
“He was his mother’s son,” said Pazzini.
“And mine,” replied the other. “The last of the de Villersexel.”
He paused abruptly by a little table, and took up a handful of splintered wood and tangled catgut.
“The toy that killed him,” he added in a low voice, and hurled the fragments over Pazzini’s shoulder into the embers. A thin tongue of flame caught at them as they fell, and broke into a brilliant blaze. Pazzini leaned forward suddenly and peered at the little conflagration.
“A violin,” he said.
“A violin,” echoed the Comte. “Think of dying for a violin!”
Pazzini made no reply. His eyes had met those of the portrait over the chimney — and he was smiling.