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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3921.txt b/3921.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..097b4e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/3921.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3487 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v3 +#8 in our series The French Immortals Crowned by the French Academy +#6 in our series by Anatole France + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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He had all night meditated, labored over, and recognized his +sadness. He had found reasons for suffering. His thought had brought +together the hand that dropped a letter in the post-box before the bronze +San Marco and the dreadful unknown who had been seen at the station. Now +Jacques Dechartre gave a face and a name to the cause of his suffering. +In the grandmother's armchair where Therese had been seated on the day of +her welcome, and which she had this time offered to him, he was assailed +by painful images; while she, bent over one of his arms, enveloped him +with her warm embrace and her loving heart. She divined too well what he +was suffering to ask it of him simply. + +In order to bring him back to pleasanter ideas, she recalled the secrets +of the room where they were and reminiscences of their walks through the +city. She was gracefully familiar. + +"The little spoon you gave me, the little red lily spoon, I use for my +tea in the morning. And I know by the pleasure I feel at seeing it when +I wake how much I love you." + +Then, as he replied only in sentences sad and evasive, she said: + +"I am near you, but you do not care for me. You are preoccupied by some +idea that I do not fathom. Yet I am alive, and an idea is nothing." + +"An idea is nothing? Do you think so? One may be wretched or happy for +an idea; one may live and one may die for an idea. Well, I am thinking." + +"Of what are you thinking?" + +"Why do you ask? You know very well I am thinking of what I heard last +night, which you had concealed from me. I am thinking of your meeting at +the station, which was not due to chance, but which a letter had caused, +a letter dropped--remember!--in the postbox of San Michele. Oh, I do not +reproach you for it. I have not the right. But why did you give +yourself to me if you were not free?" + +She thought she must tell an untruth. + +"You mean some one whom I met at the station yesterday? I assure you it +was the most ordinary meeting in the world." + +He was painfully impressed with the fact that she did not dare to name +the one she spoke of. He, too, avoided pronouncing that name. + +"Therese, he had not come for you? You did not know he was in Florence? +He is nothing more to you than a man whom you meet socially? He is not +the one who, when absent, made you say to me, 'I can not?' He is nothing +to you?" + +She replied resolutely: + +"He comes to my house at times. He was introduced to me by General +Lariviere. I have nothing more to say to you about him. I assure you he +is of no interest to me, and I can not conceive what may be in your mind +about him." + +She felt a sort of satisfaction at repudiating the man who had insisted +against her; with so much harshness and violence, upon his rights of +ownership. But she was in haste to get out of her tortuous path. She +rose and looked at her lover, with beautiful, tender, and grave eyes. + +"Listen to me: the day when I gave my heart to you, my life was yours +wholly. If a doubt or a suspicion comes to you, question me. The +present is yours, and you know well there is only you, you alone, in it. +As for my past, if you knew what nothingness it was you would be glad. +I do not think another woman made as I was, to love, would have brought +to you a mind newer to love than is mine. That I swear to you. The +years that were spent without you--I did not live! Let us not talk of +them. There is nothing in them of which I should be ashamed. To regret +them is another thing. I regret to have known you so late. Why did you +not come sooner? You could have known me five years ago as easily as to- +day. But, believe me, we should not tire ourselves with speaking of time +that has gone. Remember Lohengrin. If you love me, I am for you like +the swan's knight. I have asked nothing of you. I have wanted to know +nothing. I have not chided you about Mademoiselle Jeanne Tancrede. +I saw you loved me, that you were suffering, and it was enough--because +I loved you." + +"A woman can not be jealous in the same manner as a man, nor feel what +makes us suffer." + +"I do not know that. Why can not she?" + +"Why? Because there is not in the blood, in the flesh of a woman that +absurd and generous fury for ownership, that primitive instinct of which +man has made a right. Man is the god who wants his mate to himself. +Since time immemorial woman is accustomed to sharing men's love. It is +the past, the obscure past, that determines our passions. We are already +so old when we are born! Jealousy, for a woman, is only a wound to her +own self-love. For a man it is a torture as profound as moral suffering, +as continuous as physical suffering. You ask the reason why? Because, +in spite of my submission and of my respect, in spite of the alarm you +cause me, you are matter and I am the idea; you are the thing and I am +the mind; you are the clay and I am the artisan. Do not complain of +this. Near the perfect amphora, surrounded with garlands, what is the +rude and humble potter? The amphora is tranquil and beautiful; he is +wretched; he is tormented; he wills; he suffers; for to will is to +suffer. Yes, I am jealous. I know what there is in my jealousy. When I +examine it, I find in it hereditary prejudices, savage conceit, sickly +susceptibility, a mingling of rudest violence and cruel feebleness, +imbecile and wicked revolt against the laws of life and of society. But +it does not matter that I know it for what it is: it exists and it +torments me. I am the chemist who, studying the properties of an acid +which he has drunk, knows how it was combined and what salts form it. +Nevertheless the acid burns him, and will burn him to the bone." + +"My love, you are absurd." + +"Yes, I am absurd. I feel it better than you feel it yourself. To +desire a woman in all the brilliancy of her beauty and her wit, mistress +of herself, who knows and who dares; more beautiful in that and more +desirable, and whose choice is free, voluntary, deliberate; to desire +her, to love her for what she is, and to suffer because she is not +puerile candor nor pale innocence, which would be shocking in her if it +were possible to find them there; to ask her at the same time that she be +herself and not be herself; to adore her as life has made her, and regret +bitterly that life, which has made her so beautiful, has touched her-- +Oh, this is absurd! I love you! I love you with all that you bring to +me of sensations, of habits, with all that comes of your experiences, +with all that comes from him-perhaps, from them-how do I know? These +things are my delight and they are my torture. There must be a profound +sense in the public idiocy which says that love like ours is guilty. Joy +is guilty when it is immense. That is the reason why I suffer, my +beloved." + +She knelt before him, took his hands, and drew him to her. + +"I do not wish you to suffer; I will not have it. It would be folly. +I love you, and never have loved any one but you. You may believe me; I +do not lie." + +He kissed her forehead. + +"If you deceived me, my dear, I should not reproach you for that; on the +contrary, I should be grateful to you. Nothing is so legitimate, so +human, as to deceive pain. What would become of us if women had not for +us the pity of untruth? Lie, my beloved, lie for the sake of charity. +Give me the dream that colors black sorrow. Lie; have no scruples. You +will only add another illusion to the illusion of love and beauty." + +He sighed: + +"Oh, common-sense, common wisdom!" + +She asked him what he meant, and what common wisdom was. He said it was +a sensible proverb, but brutal, which it was better not to repeat. + +"Repeat it all the same." + +"You wish me to say it to you: 'Kissed lips do not lose their +freshness.'" + +And he added: + +"It is true that love preserves beauty, and that the beauty of women is +fed on caresses as bees are fed on flowers." + +She placed on his lips a pledge in a kiss. + +"I swear to you I never loved any one but you. Oh, no, it is not +caresses that have preserved the few charms which I am happy to have in +order to offer them to you. I love you! I love you!" + +But he still remembered the letter dropped in the post-box, and the +unknown person met at the station. + +"If you loved me truly, you would love only me." + +She rose, indignant: + +"Then you believe I love another? What you are saying is monstrous. Is +that what you think of me? And you say you love me! I pity you, because +you are insane." + +"True, I am insane." + +She, kneeling, with the supple palms of her hands enveloped his temples +and his cheeks. He said again that he was mad to be anxious about a +chance and commonplace meeting. She forced him to believe her, or, +rather, to forget. He no longer saw or knew anything. His vanished +bitterness and anger left him nothing but the harsh desire to forget +everything, to make her forget everything. + +She asked him why he was sad. + +"You were happy a moment ago. Why are you not happy now?" + +And as he shook his head and said nothing: + +"Speak! I like your complaints better than your silence." + +Then he said: + +"You wish to know? Do not be angry. I suffer now more than ever, +because I know now what you are capable of giving." + +She withdrew brusquely from his arms and, with eyes full of pain and +reproach, said: + +"You can believe that I ever was to another what I am to you! You wound +me in my most susceptible sentiment, in my love for you. I do not +forgive you for this. I love you! I never have loved any one except +you. I never have suffered except through you. Be content. You do me a +great deal of harm. How can you be so unkind?" + +"Therese, one is never kind when one is in love." + +She remained for a long time immovable and dreamy. Her face flushed, and +a tear rose to her eyes. + +"Therese, you are weeping!" + +"Forgive me, my heart, it is the first time that I have loved and that I +have been really loved. I am afraid." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +CHOULETTE'S AMBITION + +While the rolling of arriving boxes filled the Bell villa; while Pauline, +loaded with parcels, lightly came down the steps; while good Madame +Marmet, with tranquil vigilance, supervised everything; and while Miss +Bell finished dressing in her room, Therese, dressed in gray, resting on +the terrace, looked once again at the Flower City. + +She had decided to return home. Her husband recalled her in every one of +his letters. If, as he asked her to do, she returned to Paris in the +first days of May, they might give two or three dinners, followed by +receptions. His political group was supported by public opinion. The +tide was pushing him along, and Garain thought the Countess Martin's +drawing-room might exercise an excellent influence on the future of the +country. These reasons moved her not; but she felt a desire to be +agreeable to her husband. She had received the day before a letter from +her father, Monsieur Montessuy, who, without sharing the political views +of his son-in-law and without giving any advice to his daughter, +insinuated that society was beginning to gossip of the Countess Martin's +mysterious sojourn at Florence among poets and artists. The Bell villa +took, from a distance, an air of sentimental fantasy. She felt herself +that she was too closely observed at Resole. Madame Marmet annoyed her. +Prince Albertinelli disquieted her. The meetings in the pavilion of the +Via Alfieri had become difficult and dangerous. Professor Arrighi, whom +the Prince often met, had seen her one night as she was walking through +the deserted streets leaning on Dechartre. Professor Arrighi, author of +a treatise on agriculture, was the most amiable of wise men. He had +turned his beautiful, heroic face, and said, only the next day, to the +young woman "Formerly, I could discern from a long distance the coming of +a beautiful woman. Now that I have gone beyond the age to be viewed +favorably by women, heaven has pity on me. Heaven prevents my seeing +them. My eyes are very bad. The most charming face I can no longer +recognize." She had understood, and heeded the warning. She wished now +to conceal her joy in the vastness of Paris. + +Vivian, to whom she had announced her departure, had asked her to remain +a few days longer. But Therese suspected that her friend was still +shocked by the advice she had received one night in the lemon-decorated +room; that, at least, she did not enjoy herself entirely in the +familiarity of a confidante who disapproved of her choice, and whom the +Prince had represented to her as a coquette, and perhaps worse. The date +of her departure had been fixed for May 5th. + +The day shone brilliant, pure, and charming on the Arno valley. Therese, +dreamy, saw from the terrace the immense morning rose placed in the blue +cup of Florence. She leaned forward to discover, at the foot of the +flowery hills, the imperceptible point where she had known infinite joys. +There the cemetery garden made a small, sombre spot near which she +divined the Via Alfieri. She saw herself again in the room wherein, +doubtless, she never would enter again. The hours there passed had for +her the sadness of a dream. She felt her eyes becoming veiled, her knees +weaken, and her soul shudder. It seemed to her that life was no longer +in her, and that she had left it in that corner where she saw the black +pines raise their immovable summits. She reproached herself for feeling +anxiety without reason, when, on the contrary, she should be reassured +and joyful. She knew she would meet Jacques Dechartre in Paris. They +would have liked to arrive there at the same time, or, rather, to go +there together. They had thought it indispensable that he should remain +three or four days longer in Florence, but their meeting would not be +retarded beyond that. They had appointed a rendezvous, and she rejoiced +in the thought of it. She wore her love mingled with her being and +running in her blood. Still, a part of herself remained in the pavilion +decorated with goats and nymphs a part of herself which never would +return to her. In the full ardor of life, she was dying for things +infinitely delicate and precious. She recalled that Dechartre had said +to her: "Love likes charms. I gathered from the terrace the leaves of a +tree that you had admired." Why had she not thought of taking a stone of +the pavilion wherein she had forgotten the world? + +A shout from Pauline drew her from her thoughts. Choulette, jumping from +a bush, had suddenly kissed the maid, who was carrying overcoats and bags +into the carriage. Now he was running through the alleys, joyful, his +ears standing out like horns. He bowed to the Countess Martin. + +"I have, then, to say farewell to you, Madame." + +He intended to remain in Italy. A lady was calling him, he said: it was +Rome. He wanted to see the cardinals. One of them, whom people praised +as an old man full of sense, would perhaps share the ideas of the +socialist and revolutionary church. Choulette had his aim: to plant on +the ruins of an unjust and cruel civilization the Cross of Calvary, not +dead and bare, but vivid, and with its flowery arms embracing the world. +He was founding with that design an order and a newspaper. Madame Martin +knew the order. The newspaper was to be sold for one cent, and to be +written in rhythmic phrases. It was a newspaper to be sung. Verse, +simple, violent, or joyful, was the only language that suited the people. +Prose pleased only people whose intelligence was very subtle. He had +seen anarchists in the taverns of the Rue Saint Jacques. They spent +their evenings reciting and listening to romances. + +And he added: + +"A newspaper which shall be at the same time a song-book will touch the +soul of the people. People say I have genius. I do not know whether +they are right. But it must be admitted that I have a practical mind." + +Miss Bell came down the steps, putting on her gloves: + +"Oh, darling, the city and the mountains and the sky wish you to lament +your departure. They make themselves beautiful to-day in order to make +you regret quitting them and desire to see them again." + +But Choulette, whom the dryness of the Tuscan climate tired, regretted +green Umbria and its humid sky. He recalled Assisi. He said: + +"There are woods and rocks, a fair sky and white clouds. I have walked +there in the footsteps of good Saint Francis, and I transcribed his +canticle to the sun in old French rhymes, simple and poor." + +Madame Martin said she would like to hear it. Miss Bell was already +listening, and her face wore the fervent expression of an angel +sculptured by Mino. + +Choulette told them it was a rustic and artless work. The verses were +not trying to be beautiful. They were simple, although uneven, for the +sake of lightness. Then, in a slow and monotonous voice, he recited the +canticle. + +"Oh, Monsieur Choulette," said Miss Bell, "this canticle goes up to +heaven, like the hermit in the Campo Santo of Pisa, whom some one saw +going up the mountain that the goats liked. I will tell you. The old +hermit went up, leaning on the staff of faith, and his step was unequal +because the crutch, being on one side, gave one of his feet an advantage +over the other. That is the reason why your verses are unequal. I have +understood it." + +The poet accepted this praise, persuaded that he had unwittingly deserved +it. + +"You have faith, Monsieur Choulette," said Therese. "Of what use is it +to you if not to write beautiful verses?" + +"Faith serves me to commit sin, Madame." + +"Oh, we commit sins without that." + +Madame Marmet appeared, equipped for the journey, in the tranquil joy of +returning to her pretty apartment, her little dog Toby, her old friend +Lagrange, and to see again, after the Etruscans of Fiesole, the skeleton +warrior who, among the bonbon boxes, looked out of the window. + +Miss Bell escorted her friends to the station in her carriage. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +"WE ARE ROBBING LIFE" + +Dechartre came to the carriage to salute the two travellers. Separated +from him, Therese felt what he was to her: he had given to her a new +taste of life, delicious and so vivid, so real, that she felt it on her +lips. She lived under a charm in the dream of seeing him again, and was +surprised when Madame Marmet, along the journey, said: "I think we are +passing the frontier," or "Rose-bushes are in bloom by the seaside." +She was joyful when, after a night at the hotel in Marseilles, she saw +the gray olive-trees in the stony fields, then the mulberry-trees and the +distant profile of Mount Pilate, and the Rhone, and Lyons, and then the +familiar landscapes, the trees raising their summits into bouquets +clothed in tender green, and the lines of poplars beside the rivers. +She enjoyed the plenitude of the hours she lived and the astonishment of +profound joys. And it was with the smile of a sleeper suddenly awakened +that, at the station in Paris, in the light of the station, she greeted +her husband, who was glad to see her. When she kissed Madame Marmet, +she told her that she thanked her with all her heart. And truly she was +grateful to all things, like M. Choulette's St. Francis. + +In the coupe, which followed the quays in the luminous dust of the +setting sun, she listened without impatience to her husband confiding to +her his successes as an orator, the intentions of his parliamentary +groups, his projects, his hopes, and the necessity to give two or three +political dinners. She closed her eyes in order to think better. She +said to herself: "I shall have a letter to-morrow, and shall see him +again within eight days." When the coupe passed on the bridge, she +looked at the water, which seemed to roll flames; at the smoky arches; +at the rows of trees; at the heads of the chestnut-trees in bloom on the +Cours-la-Reine; all these familiar aspects seemed to be clothed for her +in novel magnificence. It seemed to her that her love had given a new +color to the universe. And she asked herself whether the trees and the +stones recognized her. She was thinking; "How is it that my silence, my +eyes, and heaven and earth do not tell my dear secret?" + +M. Martin-Belleme, thinking she was a little tired, advised her to rest. +And at night, closeted in her room, in the silence wherein she heard the +palpitations of her heart, she wrote to the absent one a letter full of +these words, which are similar to flowers in their perpetual novelty: +"I love you. I am waiting for you. I am happy. I feel you are near me. +There is nobody except you and me in the world. I see from my window a +blue star which trembles, and I look at it, thinking that you see it in +Florence. I have put on my table the little red lily spoon. Come! +Come!" And she found thus, fresh in her mind, the eternal sensations and +images. + +For a week she lived an inward life, feeling within her the soft warmth +which remained of the days passed in the Via Alfieri, breathing the +kisses which she had received, and loving herself for being loved. She +took delicate care and displayed attentive taste in new gowns. It was to +herself, too, that she was pleasing. Madly anxious when there was +nothing for her at the postoffice, trembling and joyful when she received +through the small window a letter wherein she recognized the large +handwriting of her beloved, she devoured her reminiscences, her desires, +and her hopes. Thus the hours passed quickly. + +The morning of the day when he was to arrive seemed to her to be odiously +long. She was at the station before the train arrived. A delay had been +signalled. It weighed heavily upon her. Optimist in her projects, and +placing by force, like her father, faith on the side of her will, that +delay which she had not foreseen seemed to her to be treason. The gray +light, which the three-quarters of an hour filtered through the window- +panes of the station, fell on her like the rays of an immense hour-glass +which measured for her the minutes of happiness lost. She was lamenting +her fate, when, in the red light of the sun, she saw the locomotive of +the express stop, monstrous and docile, on the quay, and, in the crowd of +travellers coming out of the carriages, Jacques approached her. He was +looking at her with that sort of sombre and violent joy which she had +often observed in him. He said: + +"At last, here you are. I feared to die before seeing you again. You do +not know, I did not know myself, what torture it is to live a week away +from you. I have returned to the little pavilion of the Via Alfieri. In +the room you know, in front of the old pastel, I have wept for love and +rage." + +She looked at him tenderly. + +"And I, do you not think that I called you, that I wanted you, that when +alone I extended my arms toward you? I had hidden your letters in the +chiffonier where my jewels are. I read them at night: it was delicious, +but it was imprudent. Your letters were yourself--too much and not +enough." + +They traversed the court where fiacres rolled away loaded with boxes. +She asked whether they were to take a carriage. + +He made no answer. He seemed not to hear. She said: + +"I went to see your house; I did not dare go in. I looked through the +grille and saw windows hidden in rose-bushes in the rear of a yard, +behind a tree, and I said: 'It is there !' I never have been so moved." + +He was not listening to her nor looking at her. He walked quickly with +her along the paved street, and through a narrow stairway reached a +deserted street near the station. There, between wood and coal yards, +was a hotel with a restaurant on the first floor and tables on the +sidewalk. Under the painted sign were white curtains at the windows. +Dechartre stopped before the small door and pushed Therese into the +obscure alley. She asked: + +"Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half- +past seven. We are mad." + +When they left the house, she said: + +"Jacques, my darling, we are too happy; we are robbing life." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +IN DECHARTRE'S STUDIO + +A fiacre brought her, the next day, to a populous street, half sad, half +gay, with walls of gardens in the intervals of new houses, and stopped at +the point where the sidewalk passes under the arcade of a mansion of the +Regency, covered now with dust and oblivion, and fantastically placed +across the street. Here and there green branches lent gayety to that +city corner. Therese, while ringing at the door, saw in the limited +perspective of the houses a pulley at a window and a gilt key, the sign +of a locksmith. Her eyes were full of this picture, which was new to +her. Pigeons flew above her head; she heard chickens cackle. A servant +with a military look opened the door. She found herself in a yard +covered with sand, shaded by a tree, where, at the left, was the +janitor's box with bird-cages at the windows. On that side rose, under a +green trellis, the mansard of the neighboring house. A sculptor's studio +backed on it its glass-covered roof, which showed plaster figures asleep +in the dust. At the right, the wall that closed the yard bore debris of +monuments, broken bases of columnettes. In the rear, the house, not very +large, showed the six windows of its facade, half hidden by vines and +rosebushes. + +Philippe Dechartre, infatuated with the architecture of the fifteenth +century in France, had reproduced there very cleverly the characteristics +of a private house of the time of Louis XII. That house, begun in the +middle of the Second Empire, had not been finished. The builder of so +many castles died without being able to finish his own house. It was +better thus. Conceived in a manner which had then its distinction and +its value, but which seems to-day banal and outlandish, having lost +little by little its large frame of gardens, cramped now between the +walls of the tall buildings, Philippe Dechartre's little house, by the +roughness of its stones, by the naive heaviness of its windows, by the +simplicity of the roof, which the architect's widow had caused to be +covered with little expense, by all the lucky accidents of the unfinished +and unpremeditated, corrected the lack of grace of its new and affected +antiquity and archeologic romanticism, and harmonized with the humbleness +of a district made ugly by progress of population. + +In fine, notwithstanding its appearance of ruin and its green drapery, +that little house had its charm. Suddenly and instinctively, Therese +discovered in it other harmonies. In the elegant negligence which +extended from the walls covered with vines to the darkened panes of the +studio, and even in the bent tree, the bark of which studded with its +shells the wild grass of the courtyard, she divined the mind of the +master, nonchalant, not skilful in preserving, living in the long +solitude of passionate men. She had in her joy a sort of grief at +observing this careless state in which her lover left things around him. +She found in it a sort of grace and nobility, but also a spirit of +indifference contrary to her own nature, opposite to the interested and +careful mind of the Montessuys. At once she thought that, without +spoiling the pensive softness of that rough corner, she would bring to it +her well-ordered activity; she would have sand thrown in the alley, and +in the angle wherein a little sunlight came she would put the gayety of +flowers. She looked sympathetically at a statue which had come there +from some park, a Flora, lying on the earth, eaten by black moss, her two +arms lying by her sides. She thought of raising her soon, of making of +her a centrepiece for a fountain. Dechartre, who for an hour had been +watching for her coming, joyful, anxious, trembling in his agitated +happiness, descended the steps. In the fresh shade of the vestibule, +wherein she divined confusedly the severe splendor of bronze and marble +statues, she stopped, troubled by the beatings of her heart, which +throbbed with all its might in her chest. He pressed her in his arms and +kissed her. She heard him, through the tumult of her temples, recalling +to her the short delights of the day before. She saw again the lion of +the Atlas on the carpet, and returned to Jacques his kisses with +delicious slowness. He led her, by a wooden stairway, into the vast hall +which had served formerly as a workshop, where he designed and modelled +his figures, and, above all, read; he liked reading as if it were opium. + +Pale-tinted Gothic tapestries, which let one perceive in a marvellous +forest a lady at the feet of whom a unicorn lay on the grass, extended +above cabinets to the painted beams of the ceiling. He led her to a large +and low divan, loaded with cushions covered with sumptuous fragments of +Spanish and Byzantine cloaks; but she sat in an armchair. "You are here! +You are here! The world may come to an end." + +She replied "Formerly I thought of the end of the world, but I was not +afraid of it. Monsieur Lagrange had promised it to me, and I was waiting +for it. When I did not know you, I felt so lonely." She looked at the +tables loaded with vases and statuettes, the tapestries, the confused and +splendid mass of weapons, the animals, the marbles, the paintings, the +ancient books. "You have beautiful things." + +"Most of them come from my father, who lived in the golden age of +collectors. These histories of the unicorn, the complete series of which +is at Cluny, were found by my father in 1851 in an inn." + +But, curious and disappointed, she said: "I see nothing that you have +done; not a statue, not one of those wax figures which are prized so +highly in England, not a figurine nor a plaque nor a medal." + +"If you think I could find any pleasure in living among my works! I know +my figures too well--they weary me. Whatever is without secret lacks +charm." She looked at him with affected spite. + +"You had not told me that one had lost all charm when one had no more +secrets." + +He put his arm around her waist. + +"Ah! The things that live are only too mysterious; and you remain for +me, my beloved, an enigma, the unknown sense of which contains the light +of life. Do not fear to give yourself to me. I shall desire you always, +but I never shall know you. Does one ever possess what one loves? Are +kisses, caresses, anything else than the effort of a delightful despair? +When I embrace you, I am still searching for you, and I never have you; +since I want you always, since in you I expect the impossible and the +infinite. What you are, the devil knows if I shall ever know! Because I +have modelled a few bad figures I am not a sculptor; I am rather a sort +of poet and philosopher who seeks for subjects of anxiety and torment in +nature. The sentiment of form is not sufficient for me. My colleagues +laugh at me because I have not their simplicity. They are right. And +that brute Choulette is right too, when he says we ought to live without +thinking and without desiring. Our friend the cobbler of Santa Maria +Novella, who knows nothing of what might make him unjust and unfortunate, +is a master of the art of living. I ought to love you naively, without +that sort of metaphysics which is passional and makes me absurd and +wicked. There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget. Come, +come, I have thought of you too cruelly in the tortures of your absence; +come, my beloved! I must forget you with you. It is with you only that +I can forget you and lose myself." + +He took her in his arms and, lifting her veil, kissed her on the lips. + +A little frightened in that vast, unknown hall, embarrassed by the look +of strange things, she drew the black tulle to her chin. + +"Here! You can not think of it." + +He said they were alone. + +"Alone? And the man with terrible moustaches who opened the door?" + +He smiled: + +"That is Fusellier, my father's former servant. He and his wife take +charge of the house. Do not be afraid. They remain in their box. You +shall see Madame Fusellier; she is inclined to familiarity. I warn you." + +"My friend, why has Monsieur Fusellier, a janitor, moustaches like a +Tartar?" + +"My dear, nature gave them to him. I am not sorry that he has the air of +a sergeant-major and gives me the illusion of being a country neighbor." + +Seated on the corner of the divan, he drew her to his knees and gave to +her kisses which she returned. + +She rose quickly. + +"Show me the other rooms. I am curious. I wish to see everything." + +He escorted her to the second story. Aquarelles by Philippe Dechartre +covered the walls of the corridor. He opened the door and made her enter +a room furnished with white mahogany: + +It was his mother's room. He kept it intact in its past. Uninhabited +for nine years, the, room had not the air of being resigned to its +solitude. The mirror waited for the old lady's glance, and on the onyx +clock a pensive Sappho was lonely because she did not hear the noise of +the pendulum. + +There were two portraits on the walls. One by Ricard represented +Philippe Dechartre, very pale, with rumpled hair, and eyes lost in a +romantic dream. The other showed a middle-aged woman, almost beautiful +in her ardent slightness. It was Madame Philippe Dechartre. + +"My poor mother's room is like me," said Jacques; "it remembers." + +"You resemble your mother," said Therese; "you have her eyes. Paul Vence +told me she adored you." + +"Yes," he replied, smilingly. "My mother was excellent, intelligent, +exquisite, marvellously absurd. Her madness was maternal love. She did +not give me a moment of rest. She tormented herself and tormented me." + +Therese looked at a bronze figure by Carpeaux, placed on the chiffonier. + +"You recognize," said Dechartre, "the Prince Imperial by his ears, which +are like the wings of a zephyr, and which enliven his cold visage. This +bronze is a gift of Napoleon III. My parents went to Compiegne. My +father, while the court was at Fontainebleau, made the plan of the +castle, and designed the gallery. In the morning the Emperor would come, +in his frock-coat, and smoking his meerschaum pipe, to sit near him like +a penguin on a rock. At that time I went to day-school. I listened to +his stories at table, and I have not forgotten them. The Emperor stayed +there, peaceful and quiet, interrupting his long silence with few words +smothered under his big moustache; then he roused himself a little and +explained his ideas of machinery. He was an inventor. He would draw a +pencil from his pocket and make drawings on my father's designs. He +spoiled in that way two or three studies a week. He liked my father a +great deal, and promised works and honors to him which never came. The +Emperor was kind, but he had no influence, as mamma said. At that time I +was a little boy. Since then a vague sympathy has remained in me for +that man, who was lacking in genius, but whose mind was affectionate and +beautiful, and who carried through great adventures a simple courage and +a gentle fatalism. Then he is sympathetic to me because he has been +combated and insulted by people who were eager to take his place, and who +had not, as he had, in the depths of their souls, a love for the people. +We have seen them in power since then. Heavens, how ugly they are! +Senator Loyer, for instance, who at your house, in the smoking-room, +filled his pockets with cigars, and invited me to do likewise. That +Loyer is a bad man, harsh to the unfortunate, to the weak, and to the +humble. And Garain, don't you think his mind is disgusting? Do you +remember the first time I dined at your house and we talked of Napoleon? +Your hair, twisted above your neck, and shot through by a diamond arrow, +was adorable. Paul Vence said subtle things. Garain did not understand. +You asked for my opinion." + +"It was to make you shine. I was already conceited for you." + +"Oh, I never could say a single phrase before people who are so serious. +Yet I had a great desire to say that Napoleon III pleased me more than +Napoleon I; that I thought him more touching; but perhaps that idea would +have produced a bad effect. But I am not so destitute of talent as to +care about politics." + +He looked around the room, and at the furniture with familiar tenderness. +He opened a drawer: + +"Here are mamma's eye-glasses. How she searched for these eye-glasses! +Now I will show you my room. If it is not in order you must excuse +Madame Fusellier, who is trained to respect my disorder." + +The curtains at the windows were down. He did not lift them. After an +hour she drew back the red satin draperies; rays of light dazzled her +eyes and fell on her floating hair. She looked for a mirror and found +only a looking-glass of Venice, dull in its wide ebony border. Rising on +the tips of her toes to see herself in it, she said: + +"Is that sombre and far-away spectre I? The women who have looked at +themselves in this glass can not have complimented you on it." + +As she was taking pins from the table she noticed a little bronze figure +which she had not yet seen. It was an old Italian work of Flemish taste: +a nude woman, with short legs and heavy stomach, who apparently ran with +an arm extended. She thought the figure had a droll air. She asked what +she was doing. + +"She is doing what Madame Mundanity does on the portal of the cathedral +at Basle." + +But Therese, who had been at Basle, did not know Madame Mundanity. She +looked at the figure again, did not understand, and asked: + +"Is it something very bad? How can a thing shown on the portal of a +church be so difficult to tell here?" + +Suddenly an anxiety came to her: + +"What will Monsieur and Madame Fusellier think of me?" + +Then, discovering on the wall a medallion wherein Dechartre had modelled +the profile of a girl, amusing and vicious: + +"What is that?" + +"That is Clara, a newspaper girl. She brought the Figaro to me every +morning. She had dimples in her cheeks, nests for kisses. One day I +said to her: 'I will make your portrait.' She came, one summer morning, +with earrings and rings which she had bought at the Neuilly fair. I +never saw her again. I do not know what has become of her. She was too +instinctive to become a fashionable demi-mondaine. Shall I take it out?" + +"No; it looks very well in that corner. I am not jealous of Clara." + +It was time to return home, and she could not decide to go. She put her +arms around her lover's neck. + +"Oh, I love you! And then, you have been to-day good-natured and gay. +Gayety becomes you so well. I should like to make you gay always. I +need joy almost as much as love; and who will give me joy if you do not?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE PRIMROSE PATH + +After her return to Paris, for six weeks Therese lived in the ardent half +sleep of happiness, and prolonged delightfully her thoughtless dream. +She went to see Jacques every day in the little house shaded by a tree; +and when they had at last parted at night, she took away with her adored +reminiscences. They had the same tastes; they yielded to the same +fantasies. The same capricious thoughts carried them away. They found +pleasure in running to the suburbs that border the city, the streets +where the wine-shops are shaded by acacia, the stony roads where the +grass grows at the foot of walls, the little woods and the fields over +which extended the blue sky striped by the smoke of manufactories. She +was happy to feel him near her in this region where she did not know +herself, and where she gave to herself the illusion of being lost with +him. + +One day they had taken the boat that she had seen pass so often under her +windows. She was not afraid of being recognized. Her danger was not +great, and, since she was in love, she had lost prudence. They saw +shores which little by little grew gay, escaping the dusty aridity of the +suburbs; they went by islands with bouquets of trees shading taverns, +and innumerable boats tied under willows. They debarked at Bas-Meudon. +As she said she was warm and thirsty, he made her enter a wine-shop. +It was a building with wooden galleries, which solitude made to appear +larger, and which slept in rustic peace, waiting for Sunday to fill it +with the laughter of girls, the cries of boatmen, the odor of fried fish, +and the smoke of stews. + +They went up the creaking stairway, shaped like a ladder, and in a first- +story room a maid servant brought wine and biscuits to them. On the +mantelpiece, at one of the corners of the room, was an oval mirror in a +flower-covered frame. Through the open window one saw the Seine, its +green shores, and the hills in the distance bathed with warm air. The +trembling peace of a summer evening filled the sky, the earth, and the +water. + +Therese looked at the running river. The boat passed on the water, and +when the wake which it left reached the shore it seemed as if the house +rocked like a vessel. + +"I like the water," said Therese. "How happy I am!" + +Their lips met. + +Lost in the enchanted despair of love, time was not marked for them +except by the cool plash of the water, which at intervals broke under the +half-open window. To the caressing praise of her lover she replied: + +"It is true I was made for love. I love myself because you love me." + +Certainly, he loved her; and it was not possible for him to explain to +himself why he loved her with ardent piety, with a sort of sacred fury. +It was not because of her beauty, although it was rare and infinitely +precious. She had exquisite lines, but lines follow movement, and escape +incessantly; they are lost and found again; they cause aesthetic joys and +despair. A beautiful line is the lightning which deliciously wounds the +eyes. One admires and one is surprised. What makes one love is a soft +and terrible force, more powerful than beauty. One finds one woman among +a thousand whom one wants always. Therese was that woman whom one can +not leave or betray. + +She exclaimed, joyfully: + +"I never shall be forsaken?" + +She asked why he did not make her bust, since he thought her beautiful. + +"Why? Because I am an ordinary sculptor, and I know it; which is not the +faculty of an ordinary mind. But if you wish to think that I am a great +artist, I will give you other reasons. To create a figure that will +live, one must take the model like common material from which one will +extract the beauty, press it, crush it, and obtain its essence. There is +nothing in you that is not precious to me. If I made your bust I should +be servilely attached to these things which are everything to me because +they are something of you. I should stubbornly attach myself to the +details, and should not succeed in composing a finished figure." + +She looked at him astonished. + +He continued: + +"From memory I might. I tried a pencil sketch." As she wished to see +it, he showed it to her. It was on an album leaf, a very simple sketch. +She did not recognize herself in it, and thought he had represented her +with a kind of soul that she did not have. + +"Ah, is that the way in which you see me? Is that the way in which you +love me?" + +He closed the album. + +"No; this is only a note. But I think the note is just. It is probable +you do not see yourself exactly as I see you. Every human creature is a +different being for every one that looks at it." + +He added, with a sort of gayety: + +"In that sense one may say one woman never belonged to two men. That is +one of Paul Vence's ideas." + +"I think it is true," said Therese. + +It was seven o'clock. She said she must go. Every day she returned home +later. Her husband had noticed it. He had said: "We are the last to +arrive at all the dinners; there is a fatality about it!" But, detained +every day in the Chamber of Deputies, where the budget was being +discussed, and absorbed by the work of a subcommittee of which he was the +chairman, state reasons excused Therese's lack of punctuality. She +recalled smilingly a night when she had arrived at Madame Garain's at +half-past eight. She had feared to cause a scandal. But it was a day of +great affairs. Her husband came from the Chamber at nine o'clock only, +with Garain. They dined in morning dress. They had saved the Ministry. + +Then she fell into a dream. + +"When the Chamber shall be adjourned, my friend, I shall not have a +pretext to remain in Paris. My father does not understand my devotion to +my husband which makes me stay in Paris. In a week I shall have to go to +Dinard. What will become of me without you?" + +She clasped her hands and looked at him with a sadness infinitely tender. +But he, more sombre, said: + +"It is I, Therese, it is I who must ask anxiously, What will become of me +without you? When you leave me alone I am assailed by painful thoughts; +black ideas come and sit in a circle around me." + +She asked him what those ideas were. + +He replied: + +"My beloved, I have already told you: I have to forget you with you. +When you are gone, your memory will torment me. I have to pay for the +happiness you give me." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +NEWS OF LE MENIL + +The blue sea, studded with pink shoals, threw its silvery fringe softly +on the fine sand of the beach, along the amphitheatre terminated by two +golden horns. The beauty of the day threw a ray of sunlight on the tomb +of Chateaubriand. In a room where a balcony looked out upon the beach, +the ocean, the islands, and the promontories, Therese was reading the +letters which she had found in the morning at the St. Malo post-office, +and which she had not opened in the boat, loaded with passengers. At +once, after breakfast, she had closeted herself in her room, and there, +her letters unfolded on her knees, she relished hastily her furtive joy. +She was to drive at two o'clock on the mall with her father, her husband, +the Princess Seniavine; Madame Berthier-d'Eyzelles, the wife of the +Deputy, and Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician. She had two +letters that day. The first one she read exhaled a tender aroma of love. +Jacques had never displayed more simplicity, more happiness, and more +charm. + +Since he had been in love with her, he said, he had walked so lightly and +was supported by such joy that his feet did not touch the earth. He had +only one fear, which was that he might be dreaming, and might awake +unknown to her. Doubtless he was only dreaming. And what a dream! He +was like one intoxicated and singing. He had not his reason, happily. +Absent, he saw her continually. "Yes, I see you near me; I see your +lashes shading eyes the gray of which is more delicious than all the blue +of the sky and the flowers; your lips, which have the taste of a +marvellous fruit; your cheeks, where laughter puts two adorable dimples; +I see you beautiful and desired, but fleeing and gliding away; and when I +open my arms, you have gone; and I see you afar on the long, long beach, +not taller than a fairy, in your pink gown, under your parasol. Oh, so +small!--small as you were one day when I saw you from the height of the +Campanile in the square at Florence. And I say to myself, as I said that +day: 'A bit of grass would suffice to hide her from me, yet she is for me +the infinite of joy and of pain.'" + +He complained of the torments of absence. And he mingled with his +complaints the smiles of fortunate love. He threatened jokingly to +surprise her at Dinard. "Do not be afraid. They will not recognize me. +I shall be disguised as a vender of plaster images. It will not be a +lie. Dressed in gray tunic and trousers, my beard and face covered with +white dust, I shall ring the bell of the Montessuy villa. You may +recognize me, Therese, by the statuettes on the plank placed on my head. +They will all be cupids. There will be faithful Love, jealous Love, +tender Love, vivid Love; there will be many vivid Loves. And I shall +shout in the rude and sonorous language of the artisans of Pisa or of +Florence: 'Tutti gli Amori per la Signora Teersinal!" + +The last page of this letter was tender and grave. There were pious +effusions in it which reminded Therese of the prayer-books she read when +a child. "I love you, and I love everything in you: the earth that +carries you, on which you weigh so lightly, and which you embellish; the +light that allows me to see you; the air you breathe. I like the bent +tree of my yard because you have seen it. I have walked tonight on the +avenue where I met you one winter night. I have culled a branch of the +boxwood at which you looked. In this city, where you are not, I see only +you." + +He said at the end of his letter that he was to dine out. In the absence +of Madame Fusellier, who had gone to the country, he should go to a wine- +shop of the Rue Royale where he was known. And there, in the indistinct +crowd, he should be alone with her. + +Therese, made languid by the softness of invisible caresses, closed her +eyes and threw back her head on the armchair. When she heard the noise +of the carriage coming near the house, she opened the second letter. As +soon as she saw the altered handwriting of it, the lines precipitate and +uneven, the distracted look of the address, she was troubled. + +Its obscure beginning indicated sudden anguish and black suspicion: +"Therese, Therese, why did you give yourself to me if you were not giving +yourself to me wholly? How does it serve me that you have deceived me, +now that I know what I did not wish to know?" + +She stopped; a veil came over her eyes. She thought: + +"We were so happy a moment ago. What has happened? And I was so pleased +at his joy, when it had already gone; it would be better not to write, +since letters show only vanished sentiments and effaced ideas." + +She read further. And seeing that he was full of jealousy, she felt +discouraged. + +"If I have not proved to him that I love him with all my strength, that I +love him with all there is in me, how am I ever to persuade him of it?" + +And she was impatient to discover the cause of his folly. Jacques told +it. While taking breakfast in the Rue Royale he had met a former +companion who had just returned from the seaside. They had talked +together; chance made that man speak of the Countess Martin, whom he +knew. And at once, interrupting the narration, Jacques exclaimed: +"Therese, Therese, why did you lie to me, since I was sure to learn some +day that of which I alone was ignorant? But the error is mine more than +yours. The letter which you put into the San Michele post-box, your +meeting at the Florence station, would have enlightened me if I had not +obstinately retained my illusions and disdained evidence. + +"I did not know; I wished to remain ignorant. I did not ask you +anything, from fear that you might not be able to continue to lie; +I was prudent; and it has happened that an idiot suddenly, brutally, at a +restaurant table, has opened my eyes and forced me to know. Oh, now that +I know, now that I can not doubt, it seems to me that to doubt would be +delicious! He gave the name--the name which I heard at Fiesole from Miss +Bell, and he added: 'Everybody knows about that.' + +"So you loved him. You love him still! He is near you, doubtless. +He goes every year to the Dinard races. I have been told so. I see him. +I see everything. If you knew the images that worry me, you would say, +'He is mad,' and you would take pity on me. Oh, how I should like to +forget you and everything! But I can not. You know very well I can not +forget you except with you. I see you incessantly with him. It is +torture. I thought I was unfortunate that night on the banks of the +Arno. But I did not know then what it is to suffer. To-day I know." + +As she finished reading that letter, Therese thought: "A word thrown +haphazard has placed him in that condition, a word has made him +despairing and mad." She tried to think who might be the wretched fellow +who could have talked in that way. She suspected two or three young men +whom Le Menil had introduced to her once, warning her not to trust them. +And with one of the white and cold fits of anger she had inherited from +her father she said to herself: "I must know who he is." In the +meanwhile what was she to do? Her lover in despair, mad, ill, she could +not run to him, embrace him, and throw herself on him with such an +abandonment that he would feel how entirely she was his, and be forced to +believe in her. Should she write? How much better it would be to go to +him, to fall upon his heart and say to him: "Dare to believe I am not +yours only!" But she could only write. She had hardly begun her letter +when she heard voices and laughter in the garden. Therese went down, +tranquil and smiling; her large straw hat threw on her face a transparent +shadow wherein her gray eyes shone. + +"How beautiful she is!" exclaimed Princess Seniavine. "What a pity it +is we never see her! In the morning she is promenading in the alleys of +Saint Malo, in the afternoon she is closeted in her room. She runs away +from us." + +The coach turned around the large circle of the beach at the foot of the +villas and gardens on the hillside. And they saw at the left the +ramparts and the steeple of St. Malo rise from the blue sea. Then the +coach went into a road bordered by hedges, along which walked Dinard +women, erect under their wide headdresses. + +"Unfortunately," said Madame Raymond, seated on the box by Montessuy's +side, "old costumes are dying out. The fault is with the railways." + +"It is true," said Montessuy, "that if it were not for the railways the +peasants would still wear their picturesque costumes of other times. But +we should not see them." + +"What does it matter?" replied Madame Raymond. "We could imagine them." + +"But," asked the Princess Seniavine, "do you ever see interesting things? +I never do." + +Madame Raymond, who had taken from her husband's books a vague tint of +philosophy, declared that things were nothing, and that the idea was +everything. + +Without looking at Madame Berthier-d'Eyzelles, seated at her right, the +Countess Martin murmured: + +"Oh, yes, people see only their ideas; they follow only their ideas. +They go along, blind and deaf. One can not stop them." + +"But, my dear," said Count Martin, placed in front of her, by the +Princess's side, "without leading ideas one would go haphazard. Have you +read, Montessuy, the speech delivered by Loyer at the unveiling of the +Cadet-Gassicourt statue? The beginning is remarkable. Loyer is not +lacking in political sense." + +The carriage, having traversed the fields bordered with willows, went up +a hill and advanced on a vast, wooded plateau. For a long time it +skirted the walls of the park. + +"Is it the Guerric?" asked the Princess Seniavine. + +Suddenly, between two stone pillars surmounted by lions, appeared the +closed gate. At the end of a long alley stood the gray stones of a +castle. + +"Yes," said Montessuy, "it is the Guerric." + +And, addressing Therese: + +"You knew the Marquis de Re? At sixty-five he had retained his strength +and his youth. He set the fashion and was loved. Young men copied his +frockcoat, his monocle, his gestures, his exquisite insolence, his +amusing fads. Suddenly he abandoned society, closed his house, sold his +stable, ceased to show himself. Do you remember, Therese, his sudden +disappearance? You had been married a short time. He called on you +often. One fine day people learned that he had quitted Paris. This is +the place where he had come in winter. People tried to find a reason for +his sudden retreat; some thought he had run away under the influence of +sorrow or humiliation, or from fear that the world might see him grow +old. He was afraid of old age more than of anything else. For seven +years he has lived in retirement from society; he has not gone out of the +castle once. He receives at the Guerric two or three old men who were +his companions in youth. This gate is opened for them only. Since his +retirement no one has seen him; no one ever will see him. He shows the +same care to conceal himself that he had formerly to show himself. He +has not suffered from his decline. He exists in a sort of living death." + +And Therese, recalling the amiable old man who had wished to finish +gloriously with her his life of gallantry, turned her head and looked at +the Guerric lifting its four towers above the gray summits of oaks. + +On their return she said she had a headache and that she would not take +dinner. She locked herself in her room and drew from her jewel casket +the lamentable letter. She read over the last page. + +"The thought that you belong to another burns me. And then, I did not +wish that man to be the one." + +It was a fixed idea. He had written three times on the same leaf these +words: "I did not wish that man to be the one." + +She, too, had only one idea: not to lose him. Not to lose him, she would +have said anything, she would have done anything. She went to her table +and wrote, under the spur of a tender, and plaintive violence, a letter +wherein she repeated like a groan: "I love you, I love you! I never have +loved any one but you. You are alone, alone--do you hear?--in my mind, +in me. Do not think of what that wretched man said. Listen to me! +I never loved any one, I swear, any one, before you." + +As she was writing, the soft sigh of the sea accompanied her own sigh. +She wished to say, she believed she was saying, real things; and all that +she was saying was true of the truth of her love. She heard the heavy +step of her father on the stairway. She hid her letter and opened the +door. Montessuy asked her whether she felt better. + +"I came," he said, "to say good-night to you, and to ask you something. +It is probable that I shall meet Le Menil at the races. He goes there +every year. If I meet him, darling, would you have any objection to my +inviting him to come here for a few days? Your husband thinks he would +be agreeable company for you. We might give him the blue room." + +"As you wish. But I should prefer that you keep the blue room for Paul +Vence, who wishes to come. It is possible, too, that Choulette may come +without warning. It is his habit. We shall see him some morning ringing +like a beggar at the gate. You know my husband is mistaken when he +thinks Le Menil pleases me. And then I must go to Paris next week for +two or three days." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +JEALOUSY + +Twenty-four hours after writing her letter, Therese went from Dinard to +the little house in the Ternes. It had not been difficult for her to +find a pretext to go to Paris. She had made the trip with her husband, +who wanted to see his electors whom the Socialists were working over. +She surprised Jacques in the morning, at the studio, while he was +sketching a tall figure of Florence weeping on the shore of the Arno. + +The model, seated on a very high stool, kept her pose. She was a long, +dark girl. The harsh light which fell from the skylight gave precision +to the pure lines of her hip and thighs, accentuated her harsh visage, +her dark neck, her marble chest, the lines of her knees and feet, the +toes of which were set one over the other. Therese looked at her +curiously, divining her exquisite form under the miseries of her flesh, +poorly fed and badly cared for. + +Dechartre came toward Therese with an air of painful tenderness which +moved her. Then, placing his clay and the instrument near the easel, and +covering the figure with a wet cloth, he said to the model: + +"That is enough for to-day." + +She rose, picked up awkwardly her clothing, a handful of dark wool and +soiled linen, and went to dress behind the screen. + +Meanwhile the sculptor, having dipped in the water of a green bowl his +hands, which the tenacious clay made white, went out of the studio with +Therese. + +They passed under the tree which studded the sand of the courtyard with +the shells of its flayed bark. She said: + +"You have no more faith, have you?" + +He led her to his room. + +The letter written from Dinard had already softened his painful +impressions. She had come at the moment when, tired of suffering, +he felt the need of calm and of tenderness. A few lines of handwriting +had appeased his mind, fed on images, less susceptible to things than to +the signs of things; but he felt a pain in his heart. + +In the room where everything spoke of her, where the furniture, the +curtains, and the carpets told of their love, she murmured soft words: + +"You could believe--do you not know what you are?--it was folly! How can +a woman who has known you care for another after you?" + +"But before?" + +"Before, I was waiting for you." + +"And he did not attend the races at Dinard?" + +She did not think he had, and it was very certain she did not attend them +herself. Horses and horsey men bored her. + +"Jacques, fear no one, since you are not comparable to any one." + +He knew, on the contrary, how insignificant he was and how insignificant +every one is in this world where beings, agitated like grains in a van, +are mixed and separated by a shake of the rustic or of the god. This +idea of the agricultural or mystical van represented measure and order +too well to be exactly applied to life. It seemed to him that men were +grains in a coffee-mill. He had had a vivid sensation of this the day +before, when he saw Madame Fusellier grinding coffee in her mill. + +Therese said to him: + +"Why are you not conceited?" + +She added few words, but she spoke with her eyes, her arms, the breath +that made her bosom rise. + +In the happy surprise of seeing and hearing her, he permitted himself to +be convinced. + +She asked who had said so odious a thing. + +He had no reason to conceal his name from her. It was Daniel Salomon. + +She was not surprised. Daniel Salomon, who passed for not having been +the lover of any woman, wished at least to be in the confidence of all +and know their secrets. She guessed the reason why he had talked. + +"Jacques, do not be cross at what I say to you. You are not skilful in +concealing your sentiments. He suspected you were in love with me, and +he wished to be sure of it. I am persuaded that now he has no doubt of +our relations. But that is indifferent to me. On the contrary, if you +knew better how to dissimulate, I should be less happy. I should think +you did not love me enough." + +For fear of disquieting him, she turned to other thoughts: + +"I have not told you how much I like your sketch. It is Florence on the +Arno. Then it is we?" + +"Yes, I have placed in that figure the emotion of my love. It is sad, +and I wish it were beautiful. You see, Therese, beauty is painful. That +is why, since life is beautiful, I suffer." + +He took out of his flannel coat his cigarette-holder, but she told him to +dress. She would take him to breakfast with her. They would not quit +each other that day. It would be delightful. + +She looked at him with childish joy. Then she became sad, thinking she +would have to return to Dinard at the end of the week, later go to +Joinville, and that during that time they would be separated. + +At Joinville, at her father's, she would cause him to be invited for a +few days. But they would not be free and alone there, as they were in +Paris. + +"It is true," he said, "that Paris is good to us in its confused +immensity." + +And he added: + +"Even in your absence I can not quit Paris. It would be terrible for me +to live in countries that do not know you. A sky, mountains, trees, +fountains, statues which do not know how to talk of you would have +nothing to say to me." + +While he was dressing she turned the leaves of a book which she had found +on the table. It was The Arabian Nights. Romantic engravings displayed +here and there in the text grand viziers, sultanas, black tunics, +bazaars, and caravans. + +She asked: + +"The Arabian Nights-does that amuse you?" + +"A great deal," he replied, tying his cravat. "I believe as much as I +wish in these Arabian princes whose legs become black marble, and in +these women of the harem who wander at night in cemeteries. These tales +give me pleasant dreams which make me forget life. Last night I went to +bed in sadness and read the history of the Three Calendars." + +She said, with a little bitterness: + +"You are trying to forget. I would not consent for anything in the world +to lose the memory of a pain which came to me from you." + +They went down together to the street. She was to take a carriage a +little farther on and precede him at her house by a few minutes. + +"My husband expects you to breakfast." + +They talked, on the way, of insignificant things, which their love made +great and charming. They arranged their afternoon in advance in order to +put into it the infinity of profound joy and of ingenious pleasure. She +consulted him about her gowns. She could not decide to leave him, happy +to walk with him in the streets, which the sun and the gayety of noon +filled. When they reached the Avenue des Ternes they saw before them, on +the avenue, shops displaying side by side a magnificent abundance of +food. There were chains of chickens at the caterer's, and at the +fruiterer's boxes of apricots and peaches, baskets of grapes, piles of +pears. Wagons filled with fruits and flowers bordered the sidewalk. +Under the awning of a restaurant men and women were taking breakfast. +Therese recognized among them, alone, at a small table against a laurel- +tree in a box, Choulette lighting his pipe. + +Having seen her, he threw superbly a five-franc piece on the table, rose, +and bowed. He was grave; his long frock-coat gave him an air of decency +and austerity. + +He said he should have liked to call on Madame Martin at Dinard, but he +had been detained in the Vendee by the Marquise de Rieu. However, he had +issued a new edition of the Jardin Clos, augmented by the Verger de +Sainte-Claire. He had moved souls which were thought to be insensible, +and had made springs come out of rocks. + +"So," he said, "I was, in a fashion, a Moses." + +He fumbled in his pocket and drew from a book a letter, worn and spotted. + +"This is what Madame Raymond, the Academician's wife, writes me. +I publish what she says, because it is creditable to her." + +And, unfolding the thin leaves, he read: + +"I have made your book known to my husband, who exclaimed: 'It is pure +spiritualism. Here is a closed garden, which on the side of the lilies +and white roses has, I imagine, a small gate opening on the road to the +Academie.'" + +Choulette relished these phrases, mingled in his mouth with the perfume +of whiskey, and replaced carefully the letter in its book. + +Madame Martin congratulated the poet on being Madame Raymond's candidate. + +"You should be mine, Monsieur Choulette, if I were interested in Academic +elections. But does the Institute excite your envy?" + +He kept for a few moments a solemn silence, then: + +"I am going now, Madame, to confer with divers notable persons of the +political and religious worlds who reside at Neuilly. The Marquise de +Rieu wishes me to be a candidate, in her country, for a senatorial seat +which has become vacant by the death of an old man, who was, they say, a +general during his illusory life. I shall consult with priests, women +and children--oh, eternal wisdom!--of the Bineau Boulevard. The +constituency whose suffrages I shall attempt to obtain inhabits an +undulated and wooded land wherein willows frame the fields. And it is +not a rare thing to find in the hollow of one of these old willows the +skeleton of a Chouan pressing his gun against his breast and holding his +beads in his fleshless fingers. I shall have my programme posted on the +bark of oaks. I shall say 'Peace to presbyteries! Let the day come when +bishops, holding in their hands the wooden crook, shall make themselves +similar to the poorest servant of the poorest parish! It was the bishops +who crucified Jesus Christ. Their names were Anne and Caiph. And they +still retain these names before the Son of God. While they were nailing +Him to the cross, I was the good thief hanged by His side.'" + +He lifted his stick and pointed toward Neuilly: + +"Dechartre, my friend, do you not think the Bineau Boulevard is the dusty +one over there, at the right?" + +"Farewell, Monsieur Choulette," said Therese. "Remember me when you are +a senator." + +"Madame, I do not forget you in any of my prayers, morning and evening. +And I say to God: 'Since, in your anger, you gave to her riches and +beauty, regard her, Lord, with kindness, and treat her in accordance with +your sovereign mercy." + +And he went erect, and dragging his leg, along the populous avenue. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +A LETTER FROM ROBERT + +Enveloped in a mantle of pink broad cloth, Therese went down the steps +with Dechartre. He had come in the morning to Joinville. She had made +him join the circle of her intimate friends, before the hunting-party to +which she feared Le Menil had been invited, as was the custom. The light +air of September agitated the curls of her hair, and the sun made golden +darts shine in the profound gray of her eyes. Behind them, the facade of +the palace displayed above the three arcades of the first story, in the +intervals of the windows, on long tables, busts of Roman emperors. The +house was placed between two tall pavilions which their great slate roofs +made higher, over pillars of the Ionic order. This style betrayed the +art of the architect Leveau, who had constructed, in 1650, the castle of +Joinville-sur-Oise for that rich Mareuilles, creature of Mazarin, and +fortunate accomplice of Fouquet. + +Therese and Jacques saw before them the flower-beds designed by Le Notre, +the green carpet, the fountain; then the grotto with its five rustic +arcades crowned by the tall trees on which autumn had already begun to +spread its golden mantle. + +"This green geometry is beautiful," said Dechartre. + +"Yes," said Therese. "But I think of the tree bent in the small +courtyard where grass grows among the stones. We shall build a beautiful +fountain in it, shall we not, and put flowers in it?" + +Leaning against one of the stone lions with almost human faces, that +guarded the steps, she turned her head toward the castle, and, looking at +one of the windows, said: + +"There is your room; I went into it last night. On the same floor, on +the other side, at the other end, is my father's office. A white wooden +table, a mahogany portfolio, a decanter on the mantelpiece: his office +when he was a young man. Our entire fortune came from that place." + +Through the sand-covered paths between the flowerbeds they walked to the +boxwood hedge which bordered the park on the southern side. They passed +before the orange-grove, the monumental door of which was surmounted by +the Lorraine cross of Mareuilles, and then passed under the linden-trees +which formed an alley on the lawn. Statues of nymphs shivered in the +damp shade studded with pale lights. A pigeon, posed on the shoulder of +one of the white women, fled. From time to time a breath of wind +detached a dried leaf which fell, a shell of red gold, where remained a +drop of rain. Therese pointed to the nymph and said: + +"She saw me when I was a girl and wishing to die. I suffered from dreams +and from fright. I was waiting for you. But you were so far away!" + +The linden alley stopped near the large basin, in the centre of which was +a group of tritons blowing in their shells to form, when the waters +played, a liquid diadem with flowers of foam. + +"It is the Joinville crown," she said. + +She pointed to a pathway which, starting from the basin, lost itself in +the fields, in the direction of the rising sun. + +"This is my pathway. How often I walked in it sadly! I was sad when I +did not know you." + +They found the alley which, with other lindens and other nymphs, went +beyond. And they followed it to the grottoes. There was, in the rear of +the park, a semicircle of five large niches of rocks surmounted by +balustrades and separated by gigantic Terminus gods. One of these gods, +at a corner of the monument, dominated all the others by his monstrous +nudity, and lowered on them his stony look. + +"When my father bought Joinville," she said, "the grottoes were only +ruins, full of grass and vipers. A thousand rabbits had made holes in +them. He restored the Terminus gods and the arcades in accordance with +prints by Perrelle, which are preserved at the Bibliotheque Nationale. +He was his own architect." + +A desire for shade and mystery led them toward the arbor near the +grottoes. But the noise of footsteps which they heard, coming from the +covered alley, made them stop for a moment, and they saw, through the +leaves, Montessuy, with his arm around the Princess Seniavine's waist. +Quietly they were walking toward the palace. Jacques and Therese, hiding +behind the enormous Terminus god, waited until they had passed. + +Then she said to Dechartre, who was looking at her silently: + +"That is amazing! I understand now why the Princess Seniavine, this +winter, asked my father to advise her about buying horses." + +Yet Therese admired her father for having conquered that beautiful woman, +who passed for being hard to please, and who was known to be wealthy, +in spite of the embarrassments which her mad disorder had caused her. +She asked Jacques whether he did not think the Princess was beautiful. +He said she had elegance. She was beautiful, doubtless. + +Therese led Jacques to the moss-covered steps which, ascending behind the +grottoes, led to the Gerbe-de-l'Oise, formed of leaden reeds in the midst +of a great pink marble vase. Tall trees closed the park's perspective +and stood at the beginning of the forest. They walked under them. They +were silent under the faint moan of the leaves. + +He pressed her in his arms and placed kisses on her eyelids. Night was +descending, the first stars were trembling among the branches. In the +damp grass sighed the frog's flutes. They went no farther. + +When she took with him, in darkness, the road to the palace, the taste of +kisses and of mint remained on her lips, and in her eyes was the image of +her lover. She smiled under the lindens at the nymphs who had seen the +tears of her childhood. The Swan lifted in the sky its cross of stars, +and the moon mirrored its slender horn in the basin of the crown. +Insects in the grass uttered appeals to love. At the last turn of the +boxwood hedge, Therese and Jacques saw the triple black mass of the +castle, and through the wide bay-windows of the first story distinguished +moving forms in the red light. The bell rang. + +Therese exclaimed: + +"I have hardly time to dress for dinner." + +And she passed swiftly between the stone lions, leaving her lover under +the impression of a fairy-tale vision. + +In the drawing-room, after dinner, M. Berthier d'Eyzelles read the +newspaper, and the Princess Seniavine played solitaire. Therese sat, her +eyes half closed over a book. + +The Princess asked whether she found what she was reading amusing. + +"I do not know. I was reading and thinking. Paul Vence is right: +'We find only ourselves in books.'" + +Through the hangings came from the billiard-room the voices of the +players and the click of the balls. + +"I have it!" exclaimed the Princess, throwing down the cards. + +She had wagered a big sum on a horse which was running that day at the +Chantilly races. + +Therese said she had received a letter from Fiesole. Miss Bell announced +her forthcoming marriage with Prince Eusebia Albertinelli della Spina. + +The Princess laughed: + +"There's a man who will render a service to her." + +"What service?" asked Therese. + +"He will disgust her with men, of course." + +Montessuy came into the parlor joyfully. He had won the game. + +He sat beside Berthier-d'Eyzelles, and, taking a newspaper from the sofa, +said: + +"The Minister of Finance announces that he will propose, when the Chamber +reassembles, his savings-bank bill." + +This bill was to give to savings-banks the authority to lend money to +communes, a proceeding which would take from Montessuy's business houses +their best customers. + +"Berthier," asked the financier, "are you resolutely hostile to that +bill?" + +Berthier nodded. + +Montessuy rose, placed his hand on the Deputy's shoulder, and said: + +"My dear Berthier, I have an idea that the Cabinet will fall at the +beginning of the session." + +He approached his daughter. + +"I have received an odd letter from Le Menil." + +Therese rose and closed the door that separated the parlor from the +billiard-room. + +She was afraid of draughts, she said. + +"A singular letter," continued Montessuy. "Le Menil will not come to +Joinville. He has bought the yacht Rosebud. He is on the Mediterranean, +and can not live except on the water. It is a pity. He is the only one +who knows how to manage a hunt." + +At this instant Dechartre came into the room with Count Martin, who, +after beating him at billiards, had acquired a great affection for him +and was explaining to him the dangers of a personal tax based on the +number of servants one kept. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +AN UNWELCOME APPARITION + +A pale winter sun piercing the mists of the Seine, illuminated the dogs +painted by Oudry on the doors of the dining room. + +Madame Martin had at her right Garain the Deputy, formerly Chancellor, +also President of the Council, and at her left Senator Loyer. At Count +Martin-Belleme's right was Monsieur Berthier-d'Eyzelles. It was an +intimate and serious business gathering. In conformity with Montessuy's +prediction, the Cabinet had fallen four days before. Called to the +Elysee the same morning, Garain had accepted the task of forming a +cabinet. He was preparing, while taking breakfast, the combination which +was to be submitted in the evening to the President. And, while they +were discussing names, Therese was reviewing within herself the images of +her intimate life. + +She had returned to Paris with Count Martin at the opening of the +parliamentary session, and since that moment had led an enchanted life. + +Jacques loved her; he loved her with a delicious mingling of passion and +tenderness, of learned experience and curious ingenuity. He was nervous, +irritable, anxious. But the uncertainty of his humor made his gayety +more charming. That artistic gayety, bursting out suddenly like a flame, +caressed love without offending it. And the playful wit of her lover +made Therese marvel. She never could have imagined the infallible taste +which he exercised naturally in joyful caprice and in familiar fantasy. +At first he had displayed only the monotony of passionate ardor. That +alone had captured her. But since then she had discovered in him a gay +mind, well stored and diverse, as well as the gift of agreeable flattery. + +"To assemble a homogeneous ministry," exclaimed Garain, "is easily said. +Yet one must be guided by the tendencies of the various factions of the +Chamber." + +He was uneasy. He saw himself surrounded by as many snares as those +which he had laid. Even his collaborators became hostile to him. + +Count Martin wished the new ministry to satisfy the aspirations of the +new men. + +"Your list is formed of personalities essentially different in origin and +in tendency," he said. "Yet the most important fact in the political +history of recent years is the possibility, I should say the necessity, +to introduce unity of views in the government of the republic. These are +ideas which you, my dear Garin, have expressed with rare eloquence." + +M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles kept silence. + +Senator Loyer rolled crumbs with his fingers. He had been formerly a +frequenter of beer-halls, and while moulding crumbs or cutting corks he +found ideas. He raised his red face. And, looking at Garain with +wrinkled eyes wherein red fire sparkled, he said: + +"I said it, and nobody would believe it. The annihilation of the +monarchical Right was for the chiefs of the Republican party an +irreparable misfortune. We governed formerly against it. The real +support of a government is the Opposition. The Empire governed against +the Orleanists and against us; MacMahon governed against the Republicans. +More fortunate, we governed against the Right. The Right--what a +magnificent Opposition it was! It threatened, was candid, powerless, +great, honest, unpopular! We should have nursed it. We did not know how +to do that. And then, of course, everything wears out. Yet it is always +necessary to govern against something. There are to-day only Socialists +to give us the support which the Right lent us fifteen years ago with so +constant a generosity. But they are too weak. We should reenforce them, +make of them a political party. To do this at the present hour is the +first duty of a State minister." + +Garain, who was not cynical, made no answer. + +"Garain, do you not yet know," asked Count Martin, "whether with the +Premiership you are to take the Seals or the Interior?" + +Garain replied that his decision would depend on the choice which some +one else would make. The presence of that personage in the Cabinet was +necessary, and he hesitated between two portfolios. Garain sacrificed +his personal convenience to superior interests. + +Senator Loyer made a wry face. He wanted the Seals. It was a long- +cherished desire. A teacher of law under the Empire, he gave, in cafes, +lessons that were appreciated. He had the sense of chicanery. Having +begun his political fortune with articles skilfully written in order to +attract to himself prosecution, suits, and several weeks of imprisonment, +he had considered the press as a weapon of opposition which every good +government should break. Since September 4, 1870, he had had the +ambition to become Keeper of the Seals, so that everybody might see how +the old Bohemian who formerly explained the code while dining on +sauerkraut, would appear as supreme chief of the magistracy. + +Idiots by the dozen had climbed over his back. Now having become aged in +the ordinary honors of the Senate, unpolished, married to a brewery girl, +poor, lazy, disillusioned, his old Jacobin spirit and his sincere +contempt for the people surviving his ambition, made of him a good man +for the Government. This time, as a part of the Garain combination, he +imagined he held the Department of Justice. And his protector, who would +not give it to him, was an unfortunate rival. He laughed, while moulding +a dog from a piece of bread. + +M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles, calm and grave, caressed his handsome white +beard. + +"Do you not think, Monsieur Garain, that it would be well to give a place +in the Cabinet to the men who have followed from the beginning the +political principles toward which we are directing ourselves to-day?" + +"They lost themselves in doing it," replied Garam, impatiently. "The +politician never should be in advance of circumstances. It is an error +to be in the right too soon. Thinkers are not men of business. And +then--let us talk frankly--if you want a Ministry of the Left Centre +variety, say so: I will retire. But I warn you that neither the Chamber +nor the country will sustain you." + +"It is evident," said Count Martin, "that we must be sure of a majority." + +"With my list, we have a majority," said Garain. "It is the minority +which sustained the Ministry against us. Gentlemen, I appeal to your +devotion." + +And the laborious distribution of the portfolios began again. Count +Martin received, in the first place, the Public Works, which he refused, +for lack of competency, and afterward the Foreign Affairs, which he +accepted without objection. + +But M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles, to whom Garain offered Commerce and +Agriculture, reserved his decision. + +Loyer got the Colonies. He seemed very busy trying to make his bread dog +stand on the cloth. Yet he was looking out of the corners of his little +wrinkled eyelids at the Countess Martin and thinking that she was +desirable. He vaguely thought of the pleasure of meeting her again. + +Leaving Garain to his combination, he was preoccupied by his fair +hostess, trying to divine her tastes and her habits, asking her whether +she went to the theatre, and if she ever went at night to the coffee- +house with her husband. And Therese was beginning to think he was more +interesting than the others, with his apparent ignorance of her world and +his superb cynicism. + +Gamin arose. He had to see several persons before submitting his list to +the President of the Republic. Count Martin offered his carriage, but +Garain had one. + +"Do you not think," asked Count Martin, "that the President might object +to some names?" + +"The President," replied Garain, "will be inspired by the necessities of +the situation." + +He had already gone out of the door when he struck his forehead with his +hand. + +"We have forgotten the Ministry of War." + +"We shall easily find somebody for it among the generals," said Count +Martin. + +"Ah," exclaimed Garain, "you believe the choice of a minister of war is +easy. It is clear you have not, like me, been a member of three cabinets +and President of the Council. In my cabinets, and during my presidency +the greatest difficulties came from the Ministry of War. Generals are +all alike. You know the one I chose for the cabinet that I formed. When +we took him, he knew nothing of affairs. He hardly knew there were two +Chambers. We had to explain to him all the wheels of parliamentary +machinery; we had to teach him that there were an army committee, finance +committee, subcommittees, presidents of committees, a budget. He asked +that all this information be written for him on a piece of paper. His +ignorance of men and of things amazed and alarmed us. In a fortnight he +knew the most subtle tricks of the trade; he knew personally all the +senators and all the deputies, and was intriguing with them against us. +If it had not been for President Grevy's help, he would have overthrown +us. And he was a very ordinary general, a general like any other. Oh, +no; do not think that the portfolio of war may be given hastily, without +reflection." + +And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague. + +Therese rose. Senator Loyer offered his arm to her, with the graceful +attitude that he had learned forty years before at Bullier's dancing- +hall. She left the politicians in the drawing-room, and hastened to meet +Dechartre. + +A rosy mist covered the Seine, the stone quays, and the gilded trees. +The red sun threw into the cloudy sky the last glories of the year. +Therese, as she went out, relished the sharpness of the air and the dying +splendor of the day. Since her return to Paris, happy, she found +pleasure every morning in the changes of the weather. It seemed to her, +in her generous selfishness, that it was for her the wind blew in the +trees, or the fine, gray rain wet the horizon of the avenues; for her, so +that she might say, as she entered the little house of the Ternes, "It is +windy; it is raining; the weather is pleasant;" mingling thus the ocean +of things in the intimacy of her love. And every day was beautiful for +her, since each one brought her to the arms of her beloved. + +While on her way that day to the little house of the Ternes she thought +of her unexpected happiness, so full and so secure. She walked in the +last glory of the sun already touched by winter, and said to herself: + +"He loves me; I believe he loves me entirely. To love is easier and more +natural for him than for other men. They have in life ideas they think +superior to love--faith, habits, interests. They believe in God, or in +duties, or in themselves. He believes in me only. I am his God, his +duty, and his life." + +Then she thought: + +"It is true, too, that he needs nobody, not even me. His thoughts alone +are a magnificent world in which he could easily live by himself. But I +can not live without him. What would become of me if I did not have +him?" + +She was not alarmed by the violent passion that he had for her. She +recalled that she had said to him one day: "Your love for me is only +sensual. I do not complain of it; it is perhaps the only true love." +And he had replied: "It is also the only grand and strong love. It has +its measure and its weapons. It is full of meaning and of images. It is +violent and mysterious. It attaches itself to the flesh and to the soul +of the flesh. The rest is only illusion and untruth." She was almost +tranquil in her joy. Suspicions and anxieties had fled like the mists of +a summer storm. The worst weather of their love had come when they had +been separated from each other. One should never leave the one whom one +loves. + +At the corner of the Avenue Marceau and of the Rue Galilee, she divined +rather than recognized a shadow that had passed by her, a forgotten form. +She thought, she wished to think, she was mistaken. The one whom she +thought she had seen existed no longer, never had existed. It was a +spectre seen in the limbo of another world, in the darkness of a half +light. And she continued to walk, retaining of this ill-defined meeting +an impression of coldness, of vague embarrassment, and of pain in the +heart. + +As she proceeded along the avenue she saw coming toward her newspaper +carriers holding the evening sheets announcing the new Cabinet. She +traversed the square; her steps followed the happy impatience of her +desire. She had visions of Jacques waiting for her at the foot of the +stairway, among the marble figures; taking her in his arms and carrying +her, trembling from kisses, to that room full of shadows and of delights, +where the sweetness of life made her forget life. + +But in the solitude of the Avenue MacMahon, the shadow which she had seen +at the corner of the Rue Galilee came near her with a directness that was +unmistakable. + +She recognized Robert Le Menil, who, having followed her from the quay, +was stopping her at the most quiet and secure place. + +His air, his attitude, expressed the simplicity of motive which had +formerly pleased Therese. His face, naturally harsh, darkened by +sunburn, somewhat hollowed, but calm, expressed profound suffering. + +"I must speak to you." + +She slackened her pace. He walked by her side. + +"I have tried to forget you. After what had happened it was natural, was +it not? I have done all I could. It was better to forget you, surely; +but I could not. So I bought a boat, and I have been travelling for six +months. You know, perhaps?" + +She made a sign that she knew. + +He continued: + +"The Rosebud, a beautiful yacht. There were six men in the crew. +I manoeuvred with them. It was a pastime." + +He paused. She was walking slowly, saddened, and, above all, annoyed. +It seemed to her an absurd and painful thing, beyond all expression, to +have to listen to such words from a stranger. + +He continued: + +"What I suffered on that boat I should be ashamed to tell you." + +She felt he spoke the truth. + +"Oh, I forgive you--I have reflected alone a great deal. I passed many +nights and days on the divan of the deckhouse, turning always the same +ideas in my mind. For six months I have thought more than I ever did in +my life. Do not laugh. There is nothing like suffering to enlarge the +mind. I understand that if I have lost you the fault is mine. I should +have known how to keep you. And I said to myself: 'I did not know. Oh; +if I could only begin again!' By dint of thinking and of suffering, I +understand. I know now that I did not sufficiently share your tastes and +your ideas. You are a superior woman. I did not notice it before, +because it was not for that that I loved you. Without suspecting it, I +irritated you." + +She shook her head. He insisted. + +"Yes, yes, I often wounded your feelings. I did not consider your +delicacy. There were misunderstandings between us. The reason was, we +have not the same temperament. And then, I did not know how to amuse +you. I did not know how to give you the amusement you need. I did not +procure for you the pleasures that a woman as intelligent as you +requires." + +So simple and so true was he in his regrets and in his pain, she found +him worthy of sympathy. She said to him, softly: + +"My friend, I never had reason to complain of you." + +He continued: + +"All I have said to you is true. I understood this when I was alone in +my boat. I have spent hours on it to which I would not condemn my worst +enemy. Often I felt like throwing myself into the water. I did not do +it. Was it because I have religious principles or family sentiments, or +because I have no courage? I do not know. The reason is, perhaps, that +from a distance you held me to life. I was attracted by you, since I am +here. For two days I have been watching you. I did not wish to reappear +at your house. I should not have found you alone; I should not have been +able to talk to you. And then you would have been forced to receive me. +I thought it better to speak to you in the street. The idea came to me +on the boat. I said to myself: 'In the street she will listen to me only +if she wishes, as she wished four years ago in the park of Joinville, you +know, under the statues, near the crown.'" + +He continued, with a sigh: + +"Yes, as at Joinville, since all is to be begun again. For two days I +have been watching you. Yesterday it was raining; you went out in a +carriage. I might have followed you and learned where you were going if +I wished to do it. I did not do it. I do not wish to do what would +displease you." + +She extended her hand to him. + +"I thank you. I knew I should not regret the trust I have placed in +you." + +Alarmed, impatient, fearing what more he might say, she tried to escape +him. + +"Farewell! You have all life before you. You should be happy. +Appreciate it, and do not torment yourself about things that are not +worth the trouble." + +He stopped her with a look. His face had changed to the violent and +resolute expression which she knew. + +"I have told you I must speak to you. Listen to me for a minute." + +She was thinking of Jacques, who was waiting for her. An occasional +passer-by looked at her and went on his way. She stopped under the black +branches of a tree, and waited with pity and fright in her soul. + +He said: + +"I forgive you and forget everything. Take me back. I will promise +never to say a word of the past." + +She shuddered, and made a movement of surprise and distaste so natural +that he stopped. Then, after a moment of reflection: + +"My proposition to you is not an ordinary one, I know it well. But I +have reflected. I have thought of everything. It is the only possible +thing. Think of it, Therese, and do not reply at once." + +"It would be wrong to deceive you. I can not, I will not do what you +say; and you know the reason why." + +A cab was passing slowly near them. She made a sign to the coachman to +stop. Le Menil kept her a moment longer. + +"I knew you would say this to me, and that is the reason why I say to +you, do not reply at once." + +Her fingers on the handle of the door, she turned on him the glance of +her gray eyes. + +It was a painful moment for him. He recalled the time when he saw those +charming gray eyes gleam under half-closed lids. He smothered a sob, and +murmured: + +"Listen; I can not live without you. I love you. It is now that I love +you. Formerly I did not know." + +And while she gave to the coachman, haphazard, the address of a tailor, +Le Menil went away. + +The meeting gave her much uneasiness and anxiety. Since she was forced +to meet him again, she would have preferred to see him violent and +brutal, as he had been at Florence. At the corner of the avenue she said +to the coachman: + +"To the Ternes." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +THE RED LILY + +It was Friday, at the opera. The curtain had fallen on Faust's +laboratory. From the orchestra, opera-glasses were raised in a surveying +of the gold and purple theatre. The sombre drapery of the boxes framed +the dazzling heads and bare shoulders of women. The amphitheatre bent +above the parquette its garland of diamonds, hair, gauze, and satin. +In the proscenium boxes were the wife of the Austrian Ambassador and the +Duchess Gladwin; in the amphitheatre Berthe d'Osigny and Jane Tulle, the +latter made famous the day before by the suicide of one of her lovers; +in the boxes, Madame Berard de La Malle, her eyes lowered, her long +eyelashes shading her pure cheeks; Princess Seniavine, who, looking +superb, concealed under her fan panther--like yawnings; Madame de +Morlaine, between two young women whom she was training in the elegances +of the mind; Madame Meillan, resting assured on thirty years of sovereign +beauty; Madame Berthierd'Eyzelles, erect under iron-gray hair sparkling +with diamonds. The bloom of her cheeks heightened the austere dignity of +her attitude. She was attracting much notice. It had been learned in +the morning that, after the failure of Garain's latest combination, +M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles had, undertaken the task of forming a Ministry. +The papers published lists with the name of Martin-Belleme for the +treasury, and the opera-glasses were turned toward the still empty box of +the Countess Martin. + +A murmur of voices filled the hall. In the third rank of the parquette, +General Lariviere, standing at his place, was talking with General de La +Briche. + +"I will do as you do, my old comrade, I will go and plant cabbages in +Touraine." + +He was in one of his moments of melancholy, when nothingness appeared to +him to be the end of life. He had flattered Garain, and Garain, thinking +him too clever, had preferred for Minister of War a shortsighted and +national artillery general. At least, the General relished the pleasure +of seeing Garain abandoned, betrayed by his friends Berthier-d'Eyzelles +and Martin-Belleme. It made him laugh even to the wrinkles of his small +eyes. He laughed in profile. Weary of a long life of dissimulation, he +gave to himself suddenly the joy of expressing his thoughts. + +"You see, my good La Briche, they make fools of us with their civil army, +which costs a great deal, and is worth nothing. Small armies are the +only good ones. This was the opinion of Napoleon I, who knew." + +"It is true, it is very true," sighed General de La Briche, with tears in +his eyes. + +Montessuy passed before them; Lariviere extended his hand to him. + +"They say, Montessuy, that you are the one who checked Garain. Accept my +compliments." + +Montessuy denied that he had exercised any political influence. He was +not a senator nor a deputy, nor a councillor-general. And, looking +through his glasses at the hall: + +"See, Lariviere, in that box at the right, a very beautiful woman, a +brunette." + +And he took his seat quietly, relishing the sweets of power. + +However, in the hall, in the corridors, the names of the new Ministers +went from mouth to mouth in the midst of profound indifference: President +of the Council and Minister of the Interior, Berthier-d'Eyzelles; justice +and Religions, Loyer; Treasury, Martin-Belleme. All the ministers were +known except those of Commerce, War, and the Navy, who were not yet +designated. + +The curtain was raised on the wine-shop of Bacchus. The students were +singing their second chorus when Madame Martin appeared in her box. Her +white gown had sleeves like wings, and on the drapery of her corsage, at +the left breast, shone a large ruby lily. + +Miss Bell sat near her, in a green velvet Queen Anne gown. Betrothed to +Prince Eusebio Albertinelli della Spina, she had come to Paris to order +her trousseau. + +In the movement and the noise of the kermess she said: + +"Darling, you have left at Florence a friend who retains the charm of +your memory. It is Professor Arrighi. He reserves for you the praise- +which he says is the most beautiful. He says you are a musical creature. +But how could Professor Arrighi forget you, darling, since the trees in +the garden have not forgotten you? Their unleaved branches lament your +absence. Even they regret you, darling." + +"Tell them," said Therese, "that I have of Fiesole a delightful +reminiscence, which I shall always keep." + +In the rear of the opera-box M. Martin-Belleme was explaining in a low +voice his ideas to Joseph Springer and to Duviquet. He was saying: +"France's signature is the best in the world." He was inclined to +prudence in financial matters. + +And Miss Bell said: + +"Darling, I will tell the trees of Fiesole that you regret them and that +you will soon come to visit them on their hills. But I ask you, do you +see Monsieur Dechartre in Paris? I should like to see him very much. +I like him because his mind is graceful. Darling, the mind of Monsieur +Dechartre is full of grace and elegance." + +Therese replied M. Jacques Dechartre was doubtless in the theatre, and +that he would not fail to come and salute Miss Bell. + +The curtain fell on the gayety of the waltz scene. Visitors crowded the +foyers. Financiers, artists, deputies met in the anteroom adjoining the +box. They surrounded M. Martin-Belleme, murmured polite congratulations, +made graceful gestures to him, and crowded one another in order to shake +his hand. Joseph Schmoll, coughing, complaining, blind and deaf, made +his way through the throng and reached Madame Martin. He took her hand +and said: + +"They say your husband is appointed Minister. Is it true?" + +She knew they were talking of it, but she did not think he had been +appointed yet. Her husband was there, why not ask him? + +Sensitive to literal truths only, Schmoll said: + +"Your husband is not yet a Minister? When he is appointed, I will ask +you for an interview. It is an affair of the highest importance." + +He paused, throwing from his gold spectacles the glances of a blind man +and of a visionary, which kept him, despite the brutal exactitude of his +temperament, in a sort of mystical state of mind. He asked, brusquely: + +"Were you in Italy this year, Madame?" + +And, without giving her time to answer: + +"I know, I know. You went to Rome. You have looked at the arch of the +infamous Titus, that execrable monument, where one may see the seven- +branched candlestick among the spoils of the Jews. Well, Madame, it is a +shame to the world that that monument remains standing in the city of +Rome, where the Popes have subsisted only through the art of the Jews, +financiers and money-changers. The Jews brought to Italy the science of +Greece and of the Orient. The Renaissance, Madame, is the work of +Israel. That is the truth, certain but misunderstood." + +And he went through the crowd of visitors, crushing hats as he passed. + +Princess Seniavine looked at her friend from her box with the curiosity +that the beauty of women at times excited in her. She made a sign to +Paul Vence who was near her: + +"Do you not think Madame Martin is extraordinarily beautiful this year?" + +In the lobby, full of light and gold, General de La Briche asked +Lariviere: + +"Did you see my nephew?" + +"Your nephew, Le Menil?" + +"Yes--Robert. He was in the theatre a moment ago." + +La Briche remained pensive for a moment. Then he said: + +"He came this summer to Semanville. I thought him odd. A charming +fellow, frank and intelligent. But he ought to have some occupation, +some aim in life." + +The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had +hushed. In the foyer the two old men were walking alone. + +"An aim in life," repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his +companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a +scene. + +Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had +finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin: + +"Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful letter. +He has told me that he is very celebrated. And I am glad to know it. +He said also: 'The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and aromatic +plants. Mine bleeds and moans under a rain of stones and of oyster- +shells.' Do the French, my love, really throw stones at Monsieur +Choulette?" + +While Therese reassured Miss Bell, Loyer, imperious and somewhat noisy, +caused the door of the box to be opened. He appeared wet and spattered +with mud. + +"I come from the Elysee," he said. + +He had the gallantry to announce to Madame Martin, first, the good news +he was bringing: + +"The decrees are signed. Your husband has the Finances. It is a good +portfolio." + +"The President of the Republic," inquired M. Martin--Belleme, "made no +objection when my name was pronounced?" + +"No; Berthier praised the hereditary property of the Martins, your +caution, and the links with which you are attached to certain +personalities in the financial world whose concurrence may be useful to +the government. And the President, in accordance with Garain's happy +expression, was inspired by the necessities of the situation. He has +signed." + +On Count Martin's yellowed face two or three wrinkles appeared. He was +smiling. + +"The decree," continued Loyer, "will be published tomorrow. +I accompanied myself the clerk who took it to the printer. It was surer. +In Grevy's time, and Grevy was not an idiot, decrees were intercepted in +the journey from the Elysee to the Quai Voltaire." + +And Loyer threw himself on a chair. There, enjoying the view of Madame +Martin, he continued: + +"People will not say, as they did in the time of my poor friend Gambetta, +that the republic is lacking in women. You will give us fine festivals, +Madame, in the salons of the Ministry." + +Marguerite, looking at herself in the mirror, with her necklace and +earrings, was singing the jewel song. + +"We shall have to compose the declaration," said Count Martin. "I have +thought of it. For my department I have found, I think, a fine formula." + +Loyer shrugged his shoulders. + +"My dear Martin, we have nothing essential to change in the declaration +of the preceding Cabinet; the situation is unchanged." + +He struck his forehead with his hand. + +"Oh, I had forgotten. We have made your friend, old Lariviere, Minister +of War, without consulting him. I have to warn him." + +He thought he could find him in the boulevard cafe, where military men +go. But Count Martin knew the General was in the theatre. + +"I must find him," said Loyer. + +Bowing to Therese, he said: + +"You permit me, Countess, to take your husband?" + +They had just gone out when Jacques Dechartre and Paul Vence came into +the box. + +"I congratulate you, Madame," said Paul Vence. + +But she turned toward Dechartre: + +"I hope you have not come to congratulate me, too." + +Paul Vence asked her if she would move into the apartments of the +Ministry. + +"Oh, no," she replied. + +"At least, Madame," said Paul Vence, "you will go to the balls at the +Elysees, and we shall admire the art with which you retain your +mysterious charm." + +"Changes in cabinets," said Madame Martin, "inspire you, Monsieur Vence, +with very frivolous reflections." + +"Madame," continued Paul Vence, "I shall not say like Renan, my beloved +master: 'What does Sirius care?' because somebody would reply with reason +'What does little Earth care for big Sirius?' But I am always surprised +when people who are adult, and even old, let themselves be deluded by the +illusion of power, as if hunger, love, and death, all the ignoble or +sublime necessities of life, did not exercise on men an empire too +sovereign to leave them anything other than power written on paper and an +empire of words. And, what is still more marvellous, people imagine they +have other chiefs of state and other ministers than their miseries, their +desires, and their imbecility. He was a wise man who said: 'Let us give +to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges.'" + +"But, Monsieur Vence," said Madame Martin, laughingly, "you are the man +who wrote that. I read it." + +The two Ministers looked vainly in the theatre and in the corridors for +the General. On the advice of the ushers, they went behind the scenes. + +Two ballet-dancers were standing sadly, with a foot on the bar placed +against the wall. Here and there men in evening dress and women in gauze +formed groups almost silent. + +Loyer and Martin-Belleme, when they entered, took off their hats. They +saw, in the rear of the hall, Lariviere with a pretty girl whose pink +tunic, held by a gold belt, was open at the hips. + +She held in her hand a gilt pasteboard cup. When they were near her, +they heard her say to the General: + +"You are old, to be sure, but I think you do as much as he does." + +And she was pointing disdainfully to a grinning young man, with a +gardenia in his button-hole, who stood near them. + +Loyer motioned to the General that he wished to speak to him, and, +pushing him against the bar, said: + +"I have the pleasure to announce to you that you have been appointed +Minister of War." + +Lariviere, distrustful, said nothing. That badly dressed man with long +hair, who, under his dusty coat, resembled a clown, inspired so little +confidence in him that he suspected a snare, perhaps a bad joke. + +"Monsieur Loyer is Keeper of the Seals," said Count Martin. + +"General, you cannot refuse," Loyer said. "I have said you will accept. +If you hesitate, it will be favoring the offensive return of Garain. He +is a traitor." + +"My dear colleague, you exaggerate," said Count Martin; "but Garain, +perhaps, is lacking a little in frankness. And the General's support is +urgent." + +"The Fatherland before everything," replied Lariviere with emotion. + +"You know, General," continued Loyer, "the existing laws are to be +applied with moderation." + +He looked at the two dancers who were extending their short and muscular +legs on the bar. + +Lariviere murmured: + +"The army's patriotism is excellent; the good-will of the chiefs is at +the height of the most critical circumstances." + +Loyer tapped his shoulder. + +"My dear colleague, there is some use in having big armies." + +"I believe as you do," replied Lariviere; "the present army fills the +superior necessities of national defence." + +"The use of big armies," continued Loyer, "is to make war impossible. +One would be crazy to engage in a war these immeasurable forces, the +management of which surpasses all human faculty. Is not this your +opinion, General?" + +General Lariviere winked. + +"The situation," he said, "exacts circumspection. We are facing a +perilous unknown." + +Then Loyer, looking at his war colleague with cynical contempt, said: + +"In the very improbable case of a war, don't you think, my dear +colleague, that the real generals would be the station-masters?" + +The three Ministers went out by the private stairway. The President of +the Council was waiting for them. + +The last act had begun; Madame Martin had in her box only Dechartre and +Miss Bell. Miss Bell was saying: + +"I rejoice, darling, I am exalted, at the thought that you wear on your +heart the red lily of Florence. Monsieur Dechartre, whose soul is +artistic, must be very glad, too, to see at your corsage that charming +jewel. + +"I should like to know the jeweller that made it, darling. This lily is +lithe and supple like an iris. Oh, it is elegant, magnificent, and +cruel. Have you noticed, my love, that beautiful jewels have an air of +magnificent cruelty?" + +"My jeweller," said Therese, "is here, and you have named him; it is +Monsieur Dechartre who designed this jewel." + +The door of the box was opened. Therese half turned her head and saw in +the shadow Le Menil, who was bowing to her with his brusque suppleness. + +"Transmit, I pray you, Madame, my congratulations to your husband." + +He complimented her on her fine appearance. He spoke to Miss Bell a few +courteous and precise words. + +Therese listened anxiously, her mouth half open in the painful effort to +say insignificant things in reply. He asked her whether she had had a +good season at Joinville. He would have liked to go in the hunting time, +but could not. He had gone to the Mediterranean, then he had hunted at +Semanville. + +"Oh, Monsieur Le Menil," said Miss Bell, "you have wandered on the blue +sea. Have you seen sirens?" + +No, he had not seen sirens, but for three days a dolphin had swum in the +yacht's wake. + +Miss Bell asked him if that dolphin liked music. + +He thought not. + +"Dolphins," he said, "are very ordinary fish that sailors call sea-geese, +because they have goose-shaped heads." + +But Miss Bell would not believe that the monster which had earned the +poet Arion had a goose-shaped head. + +"Monsieur Le Menil, if next year a dolphin comes to swim near your boat, +I pray you play to him on the flute the Delphic Hymn to Apollo. Do you +like the sea, Monsieur Le Menil?" + +"I prefer the woods." + +Self-contained, simple, he talked quietly. + +"Oh, Monsieur Le Menil, I know you like woods where the hares dance in +the moonlight." + +Dechartre, pale, rose and went out. + +The church scene was on. Marguerite, kneeling, was wringing her hands, +and her head drooped with the weight of her long tresses. The voices of +the organ and the chorus sang the death-song. + +"Oh, darling, do you know that that death-song, which is sung only in the +Catholic churches, comes from a Franciscan hermitage? It sounds like the +wind which blows in winter in the trees on the summit of the Alverno." + +Therese did not hear. Her soul had followed Dechartre through the door +of her box. + +In the anteroom was a noise of overthrown chairs. It was Schmoll coming +back. He had learned that M. Martin-Belleme had recently been appointed +Minister. At once he claimed the cross of Commander of the Legion of +Honor and a larger apartment at the Institute. His apartment was small, +narrow, insufficient for his wife and his five daughters. He had been +forced to put his workshop under the roof. He made long complaints, and +consented to go only after Madame Martin had promised that she would +speak to her husband. + +"Monsieur Le Menil," asked Miss Bell, "shall you go yachting next year?" + +Le Menil thought not. He did not intend to keep the Rosebud. The water +was tiresome. + +And calm, energetic, determined, he looked at Therese. + +On the stage, in Marguerite's prison, Mephistopheles sang, and the +orchestra imitated the gallop of horses. Therese murmured: + +"I have a headache. It is too warm here." + +Le Menil opened the door. + +The clear phrase of Marguerite calling the angels ascended to heaven in +white sparks. + +"Darling, I will tell you that poor Marguerite does not wish to be saved +according to the flesh, and for that reason she is saved in spirit and in +truth. I believe one thing, darling, I believe firmly we shall all be +saved. Oh, yes, I believe in the final purification of sinners." + +Therese rose, tall and white, with the red flower at her breast. Miss +Bell, immovable, listened to the music. Le Menil, in the anteroom, took +Madame Martin's cloak, and, while he held it unfolded, she traversed the +box, the anteroom, and stopped before the mirror of the half-open door. +He placed on her bare shoulders the cape of red velvet embroidered with +gold and lined with ermine, and said, in a low tone, but distinctly: + +"Therese, I love you. Remember what I asked you the day before +yesterday. I shall be every day, at three o'clock, at our home, in the +Rue Spontini." + +At this moment, as she made a motion with her head to receive the cloak, +she saw Dechartre with his hand on the knob of the door. He had heard. +He looked at her with all the reproach and suffering that human eyes can +contain. Then he went into the dim corridor. She felt hammers of fire +beating in her chest and remained immovable on the threshold. + +"You were waiting for me?" said Montessuy. "You are left alone to-day. +I will escort you and Miss Bell." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +A WHITE NIGHT + +In the carriage, and in her room, she saw again the look of her lover, +that cruel and dolorous look. She knew with what facility he fell into +despair, the promptness of his will not to will. She had seen him run +away thus on the shore of the Arno. Happy then in her sadness and in her +anguish, she could run after him and say, "Come." Now, again surrounded, +watched, she should have found something to say, and not have let him go +from her dumb and desolate. She had remained surprised, stunned. The +accident had been so absurd and so rapid! She had against Le Menil the +sentiment of simple anger which malicious things cause. She reproached +herself bitterly for having permitted her lover to go without a word, +without a glance, wherein she could have placed her soul. + +While Pauline waited to undress her, Therese walked to and fro +impatiently. Then she stopped suddenly. In the obscure mirrors, wherein +the reflections of the candles were drowned, she saw the corridor of the +playhouse, and her beloved flying from her through it. + +Where was he now? What was he saying to himself alone? It was torture +for her not to be able to rejoin him and see him again at once. + +She pressed her heart with her hands; she was smothering. + +Pauline uttered a cry. She saw drops of blood on the white corsage of +her mistress. + +Therese, without knowing it, had pricked her hand with the red lily. + +She detached the emblematic jewel which she had worn before all as the +dazzling secret of her heart, and, holding it in her fingers, +contemplated it for a long time. Then she saw again the days of +Florence--the cell of San Marco, where her lover's kiss weighed +delicately on her mouth, while, through her lowered lashes, she vaguely +perceived again the angels and the sky painted on the wall, and the +dazzling fountain of the ice-vender against the bright cloth; the +pavilion of the Via Alfieri, its nymphs, its goats, and the room where +the shepherds and the masks on the screens listened to her sighs and +noted her long silences. + +No, all these things were not shadows of the past, spectres of ancient +hours. They were the present reality of her love. And a word stupidly +cast by a stranger would destroy these beautiful things! Happily, it was +not possible. Her love, her lover, did not depend on such insignificant +matters. If only she could run to his house! She would find him before +the fire, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, sad. Then she +would run her fingers through his hair, force him to lift his head, to +see that she loved him, that she was his treasure, palpitating with joy +and love. + +She had dismissed her maid. In her bed she thought of only one thing. + +It was an accident, an absurd accident. He would understand it; he would +know that their love had nothing to do with anything so stupid. What +folly for him to care about another! As if there were other men in the +world! + +M. Martin-Belleme half opened the bedroom door. Seeing a light he went +in. + +"You are not asleep, Therese?" + +He had been at a conference with his colleagues. He wanted advice from +his wife on certain points. He needed to hear sincere words. + +"It is done," he said. "You will help me, I am sure, in my situation, +which is much envied, but very difficult and even perilous. I owe it to +you somewhat, since it came to me through the powerful influence of your +father." + +He consulted her on the choice of a Chief of Cabinet. + +She advised him as best she could. She thought he was sensible, calm, +and not sillier than many others. + +He lost himself in reflections. + +"I have to defend before the Senate the budget voted by the Chamber of +Deputies. The budget contains innovations which I did not approve. When +I was a deputy I fought against them. Now that I am a minister I must +support them. I saw things from the outside formerly. I see them from +the inside now, and their aspect is changed. And, then, I am free no +longer." + +He sighed: + +"Ah, if the people only knew the little that we can do when we are +powerful!" + +He told her his impressions. Berthier was reserved. The others were +impenetrable. Loyer alone was excessively authoritative. + +She listened to him without attention and without impatience. His pale +face and voice marked for her like a clock the minutes that passed with +intolerable slowness. + +Loyer had odd sallies of wit. Immediately after he had declared his +strict adhesion to the Concordat, he said: "Bishops are spiritual +prefects. I will protect them since they belong to me. And through them +I shall hold the guardians of souls, curates." + +He recalled to her that she would have to meet people who were not of her +class and who would shock her by their vulgarity. But his situation +demanded that he should not disdain anybody. At all events, he counted +on her tact and on her devotion. + +She looked at him, a little astonished. + +"There is no hurry, my dear. We shall see later." + +He was tired. He said good-night and advised her to sleep. She was +ruining her health by reading all night. He left her. + +She heard the noise of his footsteps, heavier than usual, while he +traversed the library, encumbered with blue books and journals, to reach +his room, where he would perhaps sleep. Then she felt the weight on her +of the night's silence. She looked at her watch. It was half-past one. + +She said to herself: "He, too, is suffering. He looked at me with so +much despair and anger." + +She was courageous and ardent. She was impatient at being a prisoner. +When daylight came, she would go, she would see him, she would explain +everything to him. It was so clear! In the painful monotony of her +thought, she listened to the rolling of wagons which at long intervals +passed on the quay. That noise preoccupied, almost interested her. She +listened to the rumble, at first faint and distant, then louder, in which +she could distinguish the rolling of the wheels, the creaking of the +axles, the shock of horses' shoes, which, decreasing little by little, +ended in an imperceptible murmur. + +And when silence returned, she fell again into her reverie. + +He would understand that she loved him, that she had never loved any one +except him. It was unfortunate that the night was so long. She did not +dare to look at her watch for fear of seeing in it the immobility of +time. + +She rose, went to the window, and drew the curtains. There was a pale +light in the clouded sky. She thought it might be the beginning of dawn. +She looked at her watch. It was half-past three. + +She returned to the window. The sombre infinity outdoors attracted her. +She looked. The sidewalks shone under the gas-jets. A gentle rain was +falling. Suddenly a voice ascended in the silence; acute, and then +grave, it seemed to be made of several voices replying to one another. +It--was a drunkard disputing with the beings of his dream, to whom he +generously gave utterance, and whom he confounded afterward with great +gestures and in furious sentences. Therese could see the poor man walk +along the parapet in his white blouse, and she could hear words recurring +incessantly: "That is what I say to the government." + +Chilled, she returned to her bed. She thought, "He is jealous, he is +madly jealous. It is a question of nerves and of blood. But his love, +too, is an affair of blood and of nerves. His love and his jealousy are +one and the same thing. Another would understand. It would be +sufficient to please his self-love." But he was jealous from the depth +of his soul. She knew this; she knew that in him jealousy was a physical +torture, a wound enlarged by imagination. She knew how profound the evil +was. She had seen him grow pale before the bronze St. Mark when she had +thrown the letter in the box on the wall of the old Florentine house at a +time when she was his only in dreams. + +She recalled his smothered complaints, his sudden fits of sadness, and +the painful mystery of the words which he repeated frequently: "I can +forget you only when I am with you." She saw again the Dinard letter and +his furious despair at a word overheard at a wine-shop table. She felt +that the blow had been struck accidentally at the most sensitive point, +at the bleeding wound. But she did not lose courage. She would tell +everything, she would confess everything, and all her avowals would say +to him: "I love you. I have never loved any one except you!" She had +not betrayed him. She would tell him nothing that he had not guessed. +She had lied so little, as little as possible, and then only not to give +him pain. How could he not understand? It was better he should know +everything, since everything meant nothing. She represented to herself +incessantly the same ideas, repeated to herself the same words. + +Her lamp gave only a smoky light. She lighted candles. It was six +o'clock. She realized that she had slept. She ran to the window. The +sky was black, and mingled with the earth in a chaos of thick darkness. +Then she was curious to know exactly at what hour the sun would rise. +She had had no idea of this. She thought only that nights were long in +December. She did not think of looking at the calendar. The heavy step +of workmen walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and +marketmen, came to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at +this first awakening of the city. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +"I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU ALWAYS!" + +At nine o'clock, in the yard of the little house, she observed M. +Fusellier sweeping, in the rain, while smoking his pipe. Madame +Fusellier came out of her box. Both looked embarrassed. Madame +Fusellier was the first to speak: + +"Monsieur Jacques is not at home." And, as Therese remained silent, +immovable, Fusellier came near her with his broom, hiding with his left +hand his pipe behind his back + +"Monsieur Jacques has not yet come home." + +"I will wait for him," said Therese. + +Madame Fusellier led her to the parlor, where she lighted the fire. As +the wood smoked and would not flame, she remained bent, with her hands on +her knees. + +"It is the rain," she said, "which causes the smoke." + +Madame Martin said it was not worth while to make a fire, that she did +not feel cold. + +She saw herself in the glass. + +She was livid, with glowing spots on her cheeks. Then only she felt that +her feet were frozen. She approached the fire. Madame Fusellier, seeing +her anxious, spoke softly to her: + +"Monsieur Jacques will come soon. Let Madame warm herself while waiting +for him." + +A dim light fell with the rain on the glass ceiling. + +Upon the wall, the lady with the unicorn was not beautiful among the +cavaliers in a forest full of flowers and birds. Therese was repeating +to herself the words: "He has not yet come home." And by dint of saying +this she lost the meaning of it. With burning eyes she looked at the +door. + +She remained thus without a movement, without a thought, for a time the +duration of which she did not know; perhaps half an hour. The noise of a +footstep came to her, the door was opened. He came in. She saw that he +was wet with rain and mud, and burning with fever. + +She fixed on him a look so sincere and so frank that it struck him. +But almost at once he recalled within himself all his sufferings. + +He said to her: + +"What do you want of me? You have done me all the harm you could do me." + +Fatigue gave him an air of gentleness. It frightened her. + +"Jacques, listen to me!" + +He motioned to her that he wished to hear nothing from her. + +"Jacques, listen to me. I have not deceived you. Oh, no, I have not +deceived you. Was it possible? Was it--" + +He interrupted her: + +"Have some pity for me. Do not make me suffer again. Leave me, I pray +you. If you knew the night I have passed, you would not have the courage +to torment me again." + +He let himself fall on the divan. He had walked all night. Not to suffer +too much, he had tried to find diversions. On the Bercy Quay he had +looked at the moon floating in the clouds. For an hour he had seen it +veil itself and reappear. Then he had counted the windows of houses with +minute care. The rain began to fall. He had gone to the market and had +drunk whiskey in a wine-room. A big girl who squinted had said to him, +"You don't look happy." He had fallen half asleep on the leather bench. +It had been a moment of oblivion. The images of that painful night +passed before his eyes. He said: "I recalled the night of the Arno. You +have spoiled for me all the joy and beauty in the world." He asked her to +leave him alone. In his lassitude he had a great pity for himself. He +would have liked to sleep--not to die; he held death in horror--but to +sleep and never to wake again. Yet, before him, as desirable as +formerly, despite the painful fixity of her dry eyes, and more mysterious +than ever, he saw her. His hatred was vivified by suffering. + +She extended her arms to him. "Listen to me, Jacques." He motioned to her +that it was useless for her to speak. Yet he wished to listen to her, +and already he was listening with avidity. He detested and rejected in +advance what she would say, but nothing else in the world interested him. + +She said: + +"You may have believed I was betraying you, that I was not living for you +alone. But can you not understand anything? You do not see that if that +man were my lover it would not have been necessary for him to talk to me +at the play-house in that box; he would have a thousand other ways of +meeting me. Oh, no, my friend, I assure you that since the day when I +had the happiness to meet you, I have been yours entirely. Could I have +been another's? What you imagine is monstrous. But I love you, I love +you! I love only you. I never have loved any one except you." + +He replied slowly, with cruel heaviness: + +"'I shall be every day, at three o'clock, at our home, in the Rue +Spontini.' It was not a lover, your lover, who said these things? No! +it was a stranger, an unknown person." + +She straightened herself, and with painful gravity said: + +"Yes, I had been his. You knew it. I have denied it, I have told an +untruth, not to irritate or grieve you. I saw you so anxious. But I +lied so little and so badly. You knew. Do not reproach me for it. You +knew; you often spoke to me of the past, and then one day somebody told +you at the restaurant--and you imagined much more than ever happened. +While telling an untruth, I was not deceiving you. If you knew the +little that he was in my life! There! I did not know you. I did not +know you were to come. I was lonely." + +She fell on her knees. + +"I was wrong. I should have waited for you. But if you knew how slight +a matter that was in my life!" + +And with her voice modulated to a soft and singing complaint she said: + +"Why did you not come sooner, why?" + +She dragged herself to him, tried to take his hands. He repelled her. + +"I was stupid. I did not think. I did not know. I did not wish to +know." + +He rose and exclaimed, in an explosion of hatred: + +"I did not wish him to be that man." + +She sat in the place which he had left, and there, plaintively, in a low +voice, she explained the past. In that time she lived in a world +horribly commonplace. She had yielded, but she had regretted at once. +If he but knew the sadness of her life he would not be jealous. He would +pity her. She shook her head and said, looking at him through the +falling locks of her hair: + +"I am talking to you of another woman. There is nothing in common +between that woman and me. I exist only since I have known you, since I +have belonged to you." + +He walked about the room madly. He laughed painfully. + +"Yes; but while you loved me, the other woman--the one who was not you?" + +She looked at him indignantly: + +"Can you believe--" + +"Did you not see him again at Florence? Did you not accompany him to the +station?" + +She told him that he had come to Italy to find her; that she had seen +him; that she had broken with him; that he had gone, irritated, and that +since then he was trying to win her back; but that she had not even paid +any attention to him. + +"My beloved, I see, I know, only you in the world." He shook his head. + +"I do not believe you." + +She revolted. + +"I have told you everything. Accuse me, condemn me, but do not offend me +in my love for you." + +He shook his head. + +"Leave me. You have harmed me too much. I have loved you so much that +all the pain which you could have given me I would have taken, kept, +loved; but this is too hideous. I hate it. Leave me. I am suffering +too much. Farewell!" + +She stood erect. + +"I have come. It is my happiness, it is my life, I am fighting for. I +will not go." + +And she said again all that she had already said. Violent and sincere, +sure of herself, she explained how she had broken the tie which was +already loose and irritated her; how since the day when she had loved him +she had been his only, without regret, without a wandering look or +thought. But in speaking to him of another she irritated him. And he +shouted at her: + +"I do not believe you." + +She only repeated her declarations. + +And suddenly, instinctively, she looked at her watch: + +"Oh, it is noon!" + +She had often given that cry of alarm when the farewell hour had +surprised them. And Jacques shuddered at the phrase which was so +familiar, so painful, and was this time so desperate. For a few minutes +more she said ardent words and shed tears. Then she left him; she had +gained nothing. + +At her house she found in the waiting-room the marketwoman, who had come +to present a bouquet to her. She remembered that her husband was a State +minister. There were telegrams, visiting-cards and letters, +congratulations and solicitations. Madame Marmet wrote to recommend her +nephew to General Lariviere. + +She went into the dining-room and fell in a chair. M. Martin-Belleme was +just finishing his breakfast. He was expected at the Cabinet Council and +at the former Finance Minister's, to whom he owed a call. + +"Do not forget, my dear friend, to call on Madame Berthier d'Eyzelles. +You know how sensitive she is." + +She made no answer. While he was dipping his fingers in the glass bowl, +he saw she was so tired that he dared not say any more. He found himself +in the presence of a secret which he did not wish to know; in presence of +an intimate suffering which one word would reveal. He felt anxiety, +fear, and a certain respect. + +He threw down his napkin. + +"Excuse me, dear." + +He went out. + +She tried to eat, but could swallow nothing. + +At two o'clock she returned to the little house of the Ternes. She found +Jacques in his room. He was smoking a wooden pipe. A cup of coffee +almost empty was on the table. He looked at her with a harshness that +chilled her. She dared not talk, feeling that everything that she could +say would offend and irritate him, and yet she knew that in remaining +discreet and dumb she intensified his anger. He knew that she would +return; he had waited for her with impatience. A sudden light came to +her, and she saw that she had done wrong to come; that if she had been +absent he would have desired, wanted, called for her, perhaps. But it +was too late; and, at all events, she was not trying to be crafty. + +She said to him: + +"You see I have returned. I could not do otherwise. And then it was +natural, since I love you. And you know it." + +She knew very well that all she could say would only irritate him. He +asked her whether that was the way she spoke in the Rue Spontini. + +She looked at him with sadness. + +"Jacques, you have often told me that there were hatred and anger in your +heart against me. You like to make me suffer. I can see it." + +With ardent patience, at length, she told him her entire life, the little +that she had put into it; the sadness of the past; and how, since he had +known her, she had lived only through him and in him. + +The words fell as limpid as her look. She sat near him. He listened to +her with bitter avidity. Cruel with himself, he wished to know +everything about her last meetings with the other. She reported +faithfully the events of the Great Britain Hotel; but she changed the +scene to the outside, in an alley of the Casino, from fear that the image +of their sad interview in a closed room should irritate her lover. Then +she explained the meeting at the station. She had not wished to cause +despair to a suffering man who was so violent. But since then she had +had no news from him until the day when he spoke to her on the street. +She repeated what she had replied to him. Two days later she had seen +him at the opera, in her box. Certainly, she had not encouraged him to +come. It was the truth. + +It was the truth. But the old poison, slowly accumulating in his mind, +burned him. She made the past, the irreparable past, present to him, by +her avowals. He saw images of it which tortured him. He said: + +"I do not believe you." + +And he added: + +"And if I believed you, I could not see you again, because of the idea +that you have loved that man. I have told you, I have written to you, +you remember, that I did not wish him to be that man. And since--" + +He stopped. + +She said: + +"You know very well that since then nothing has happened." + +He replied, with violence: + +"Since then I have seen him." + +They remained silent for a long time. Then she said, surprised and +plaintive: + +"But, my friend, you should have thought that a woman such as I, married +as I was--every day one sees women bring to their lovers a past darker +than mine and yet they inspire love. Ah, my past--if you knew how +insignificant it was!" + +"I know what you can give. One can not forgive to you what one may +forgive to another." + +"But, my friend, I am like others." + +"No, you are not like others. To you one can not forgive anything." + +He talked with set teeth. His eyes, which she had seen so large, glowing +with tenderness, were now dry, harsh, narrowed between wrinkled lids and +cast a new glance at her. He frightened her. She went to the rear of +the room, sat on a chair, and there she remained, trembling, for a long +time, smothered by her sobs. Then she broke into tears. + +He sighed: + +"Why did I ever know you?" + +She replied, weeping: + +"I do not regret having known you. I am dying of it, and I do not regret +it. I have loved." + +He stubbornly continued to make her suffer. He felt that he was playing +an odious part, but he could not stop. + +"It is possible, after all, that you have loved me too." + +She answered, with soft bitterness: + +"But I have loved only you. I have loved you too much. And it is for +that you are punishing me. Oh, can you think that I was to another what +I have been to you?" + +"Why not?" + +She looked at him without force and without courage. + +"It is true that you do not believe me." + +She added softly: + +"If I killed myself would you believe me?" + +"No, I would not believe you." + +She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief; then, lifting her eyes, +shining through her tears, she said: + +"Then, all is at an end!" + +She rose, saw again in the room the thousand things with which she had +lived in laughing intimacy, which she had regarded as hers, now suddenly +become nothing to her, and confronting her as a stranger and an enemy. +She saw again the nude woman who made, while running, the gesture which +had not been explained to her; the Florentine models which recalled to +her Fiesole and the enchanted hours of Italy; the profile sketch by +Dechartre of the girl who laughed in her pretty pathetic thinness. She +stopped a moment sympathetically in front of that little newspaper girl +who had come there too, and had disappeared, carried away in the +irresistible current of life and of events. + +She repeated: + +"Then all is at an end?" + +He remained silent. + +The twilight made the room dim. + +"What will become of me?" she asked. + +"And what will become of me?" he replied. + +They looked at each other with sympathy, because each was moved with +self-pity. + +Therese said again: + +"And I, who feared to grow old in your eyes, for fear our beautiful love +should end! It would have been better if it had never come. Yes, it +would be better if I had not been born. What a presentiment was that +which came to me, when a child, under the lindens of Joinville, before +the marble nymphs! I wished to die then." + +Her arms fell, and clasping her hands she lifted her eyes; her wet glance +threw a light in the shadows. + +"Is there not a way of my making you feel that what I am saying to you +is true? That never since I have been yours, never-- But how could I? +The very idea of it seems horrible, absurd. Do you know me so little?" + +He shook his head sadly. "I do not know you." + +She questioned once more with her eyes all the objects in the room. + +"But then, what we have been to each other was vain, useless. Men and +women break themselves against one another; they do not mingle." + +She revolted. It was not possible that he should not feel what he was to +her. And, in the ardor of her love, she threw herself on him and +smothered him with kisses and tears. He forgot everything, and took her +in his arms--sobbing, weak, yet happy--and clasped her close with the +fierceness of desire. With her head leaning back against the pillow, she +smiled through her tears. Then, brusquely he disengaged himself. + +"I do not see you alone. I see the other with you always." She looked at +him, dumb, indignant, desperate. Then, feeling that all was indeed at an +end, she cast around her a surprised glance of her unseeing eyes, and +went slowly away. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Does one ever possess what one loves? +Each was moved with self-pity +Everybody knows about that +(Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder +I can forget you only when I am with you +I have to pay for the happiness you give me +I love myself because you love me +Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests +Immobility of time +It is an error to be in the right too soon +It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him +Kissses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair +Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges +Little that we can do when we are powerful +Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty +Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain +One is never kind when one is in love +One should never leave the one whom one loves +Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill +Since she was in love, she had lost prudence +That absurd and generous fury for ownership +The politician never should be in advance of circumstances +The real support of a government is the Opposition +There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget +We are too happy; we are robbing life + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Red Lily, v3 +by Anatole France + diff --git a/3921.zip b/3921.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..34380ad --- /dev/null +++ b/3921.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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