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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/3922-0.txt b/3922-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..09086c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/3922-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9381 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Red Lily, Complete + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 4, 2006 [EBook #3922] +Last Updated: August 23, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE RED LILY + +By Anatole France + + + +The real name of the subject of this preface is Jacques-Anatole +Thibault. He was born in Paris, April 16, 1844, the son of a bookseller +of the Quai Malaquais, in the shadow of the Institute. He was educated +at the College Stanislas and published in 1868 an essay upon Alfred de +Vigny. This was followed by two volumes of poetry: ‘Les Poemes Dores’ +(1873), and ‘Les Noces Corinthiennes’ (1876). With the last mentioned +book his reputation became established. + +Anatole France belongs to the class of poets known as “Les Parnassiens.” + Yet a book like ‘Les Noces Corinthiennes’ ought to be classified among +a group of earlier lyrics, inasmuch as it shows to a large degree the +influence of Andre Chenier and Alfred de Vigny. France was, and is, also +a diligent contributor to many journals and reviews, among others, ‘Le +Globe, Les Debats, Le Journal Officiel, L’Echo de Paris, La Revue de +Famille, and Le Temps’. On the last mentioned journal he succeeded Jules +Claretie. He is likewise Librarian to the Senate, and has been a member +of the French Academy since 1896. + +The above mentioned two volumes of poetry were followed by many works in +prose, which we shall notice. France’s critical writings are collected +in four volumes, under the title, ‘La Vie Litteraire’ (1888-1892); his +political articles in ‘Opinions Sociales’ (2 vols., 1902). He combines +in his style traces of Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, and Renan, and, +indeed, some of his novels, especially ‘Thais’ (1890), ‘Jerome Coignard’ +(1893), and Lys Rouge (1894), which was crowned by the Academy, are +romances of the first rank. + +Criticism appears to Anatole France the most recent and possibly the +ultimate evolution of literary expression, “admirably suited to a +highly civilized society, rich in souvenirs and old traditions.... It +proceeds,” in his opinion, “from philosophy and history, and demands for +its development an absolute intellectual liberty..... It is the last in +date of all literary forms, and it will end by absorbing them all .... +To be perfectly frank the critic should say: ‘Gentlemen, I propose to +enlarge upon my own thoughts concerning Shakespeare, Racine, Pascal, +Goethe, or any other writer.’” + +It is hardly necessary to say much concerning a critic with such +pronounced ideas as Anatole France. He gives us, indeed, the full flower +of critical Renanism, but so individualized as to become perfection in +grace, the extreme flowering of the Latin genius. It is not too much to +say that the critical writings of Anatole France recall the Causeries du +Lundi, the golden age of Sainte-Beuve! + +As a writer of fiction, Anatole France made his debut in 1879 with +‘Jocaste’, and ‘Le Chat Maigre’. Success in this field was yet decidedly +doubtful when ‘Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard’ appeared in 1881. It at +once established his reputation; ‘Sylvestre Bonnard’, as ‘Le Lys Rouge’ +later, was crowned by the French Academy. These novels are replete with +fine irony, benevolent scepticism and piquant turns, and will survive +the greater part of romances now read in France. The list of Anatole +France’s works in fiction is a large one. The titles of nearly all of +them, arranged in chronological order, are as follows: ‘Les Desirs de +Jean Seyvien (1882); Abeille (1883); Le Livre de mon Ami (1885); Nos +Enfants (1886); Balthazar (1889); Thais (1890); L’Etui de Naire (1892); +Jerome Coignard, and La Rotisserie de la Reine Pedanque (1893); and +Histoire Contemporaine (1897-1900), the latter consisting of four +separate works: ‘L’Orme du Mail, Le Mannequin d’Osier, L’Anneau +d’Amethyste, and Monsieur Bergeret a Paris’. All of his writings show +his delicately critical analysis of passion, at first playfully tender +in its irony, but later, under the influence of his critical antagonism +to Brunetiere, growing keener, stronger, and more bitter. In ‘Thais’ he +has undertaken to show the bond of sympathy that unites the pessimistic +sceptic to the Christian ascetic, since both despise the world. In ‘Lys +Rouge’, his greatest novel, he traces the perilously narrow line that +separates love from hate; in ‘Opinions de M. l’Abbe Jerome Coignard’ he +has given us the most radical breviary of scepticism that has appeared +since Montaigne. ‘Le Livre de mon Ami’ is mostly autobiographical; +‘Clio’ (1900) contains historical sketches. + +To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature +would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the +stature and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive +qualities: delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of +writers who are more read and probably will ever exercise greater +influence than some of greater name. The latter show us life as a whole; +but life as a whole is too vast and too remote to excite in most of +us more than a somewhat languid curiosity. France confines himself to +themes of the keenest personal interest, the life of the world we live +in. It is herein that he excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies +are many-sided, his power of exposition is unsurpassed. No one has +set before us the mind of our time, with its half-lights, its shadowy +vistas, its indefiniteness, its haze on the horizon, so vividly as he. + +In Octave Mirbeau’s notorious novel, a novel which it would be +complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by +her director against the works of Anatole France, “Ne lisez jamais du +Voltaire... C’est un peche mortel... ni de Renan... ni de l’Anatole +France. Voila qui est dangereux.” The names are appropriately united; a +real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession exists between the three +writers. + + JULES LEMAITRE + de l’Academie Francais + + + + +BOOK 1. + + + + +CHAPTER I. “I NEED LOVE” + +She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the +tea-table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of +flowers ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the +flowery branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls +quiver. Then she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention. +She held herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow +with her eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin +gown, around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein +sombre lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face +of that day. The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this +amiable woman whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her, +lived without either acute joy or profound sadness. + +On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures +of the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique +games and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender +columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke of +past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the marble +bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly +out of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night, +powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers. +Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light +rattle of Therese’s pearls could be heard. + +Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw +through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine +spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water +was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the ‘Hirondelle’, +emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble travellers +toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let +the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book +from the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in +gold: ‘Yseult la Blonde’, by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French +verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read +indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry +than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable +friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their +meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her “darling,” + and babbled; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly +exquisite, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated +her as her most beloved poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson, +she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without +even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in +Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French +poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent her ‘Yseult la Blonde’ +to “Darling,” with a letter inviting her to spend a month with her at +Fiesole. She had written: “Come; you will see the most beautiful things +in the world, and you will embellish them.” + +And “darling” was saying to herself that she would not go, that she +must remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not +indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by +chance at this line: + + Love and gentle heart are one. + +And she asked herself, with gentle irony, whether Miss Bell had ever +been in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell. +The poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was +very handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please +an aesthete who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an +Annunciation. + +“Good-evening, Therese. I am positively worn out.” + +The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple in her furs, which almost +seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely, +and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing, said: + +“This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met +him in an alley and made him go with me to the bridge, where he wished +to buy from the guardian a learned magpie which performs the manual of +arms with a gun. Oh! I am so tired!” + +“But why did you drag the General to the bridge?” + +“Because he had gout in his toe.” + +Therese shrugged her shoulders, smiling: + +“You squander your wickedness. You spoil things.” + +“And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a +serious investment?” + +Therese made her drink some Tokay. + +Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere +approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking +stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face. + +“How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?” + +Therese thought he was at the Chamber, and even that he was making a +speech there. + +Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame +Martin why she had not gone to Madame Meillan’s the day before. They had +played a comedy there. + +“A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?” + +“Yes--I don’t know. I was in the little green room, under the portrait +of the Duc d’Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one of +those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur +Garain.” + +The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful +information, pricked up his ears. + +“Garain,” he asked, “the minister who was in the Cabinet when the +princes were exiled?” + +“Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the +yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness. +And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc +d’Orleans. I said to him: ‘Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake. +It is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.’ At this moment +Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet. He paid great +compliments--to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so beautiful +as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed me.” + +The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the +day before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself and +his saddle. + +He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good +horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys. + +“It is the same with fencing,” he added. “Formerly--” + +Princess Seniavine interrupted him: + +“General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always +charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because +she is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we +have been here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead +clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous. Behold a victim!” + +She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General +astonished. + +Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had +said. + +He collected himself and asked: + +“And how are your poets, Madame?” + +It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for +people who lived by writing and were not of his circle. + +“Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits +you wrapped in a red muffler?” + +“My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on +anybody. Men and women--nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal. +Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to me from +Florence and sent her book.” + +“Miss Bell? Isn’t she that young person who looks, with her yellow +waving hair, like a little lapdog?” + +He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least +thirty. + +An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a +little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly--Madame Marmet +and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a square +monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of elegance. +The General hurried out. + +They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often with +the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the book +tiresome. + +“Oh,” sighed Madame Martin, “all books are tiresome. But men are more +tiresome than books, and they are more exacting.” + +Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had +retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was the +widow of a member of the ‘Academie des Inscriptions’, and plumed herself +upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in her black +gown and her beautiful white hair. + +Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult him +particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children. + +“You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion, +Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain such trifles.” + +M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with disdain. +Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room. + +“You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you have +only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty.” + +She did not conceal her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She +regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She +had appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His +ill-health, his dark humor, his assiduous labor, separated him from +society. The little bilious man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted +her. She held in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his +talent ripened in solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an +excellent writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life. + +Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the +large circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told +frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered +scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old +Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries; +Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife +of the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against the +mantelpiece, M. Berthier d’Eyzelles, editor of the ‘Journal des Debats’, +a deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted +at him: + +“Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of +it.” + +Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped +among themselves: + +“What did he do to get the button from the Prince?” + +“He, nothing. His wife, everything.” + +They had their own cynical philosophy. One of them had no faith in +promises of men. + +“They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their +hands and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a club. +They say, ‘I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster +ball--a snowball! They vote. It’s a black ball. Life seems a vile affair +when I think of it.” + +“Then don’t think of it.” + +Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy +stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning +Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added, +negligently: + +“Everybody knows it.” + +Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame +Marmet and Paul Vence remained. + +The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked: + +“When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?” + +It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see +new faces. She replied, unconcernedly: + +“Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions +made by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an +amateur, is he not?” + +“He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He +caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about +him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did not +live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that he +is solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he lacks, what +he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity +of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions. +In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or +philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the +wealth of his mind.” + +Madame Marmet approved. + +She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened +a great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her +affability by not squandering it. Either because she liked Madame +Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in +every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative, +in a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She +lacked only her dog. + +“How is Toby?” asked Madame Martin. “Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby? +He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose.” + +Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink +and blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden +spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to +empty armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked nose +before Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly. + +It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions. He smiled +and turned a madrigal for the Countess Martin with that hereditary +harsh, coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their +creditors, the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea. He +dragged his phrases heavily. This great philologist knew all languages +except French. And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and +rusty like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried +leaves of anthology. M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit. + +Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning +his bow. + +When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre +and pitiful. He complained piteously. He was not decorated enough, not +provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State--he, +Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some +grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. + +Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he +discovered Vivian Bell’s book. + +“Oh, ‘Yseult La Blonde’,” he exclaimed, bitterly. “You are reading that +book, Madame? Well, learn that Mademoiselle Vivian Bell has stolen an +inscription from me, and that she has altered it, moreover, by putting +it into verse. You will find it on page 109 of her book: ‘A shade may +weep over a shade.’ You hear, Madame? ‘A shade may weep over a shade.’ +Well, those words are translated literally from a funeral inscription +which I was the first to publish and to illustrate. Last year, one +day, when I was dining at your house, being placed by the side of +Mademoiselle Bell, I quoted this phrase to her, and it pleased her a +great deal. At her request, the next day I translated into French the +entire inscription and sent it to her. And now I find it changed in this +volume of verses under this title: ‘On the Sacred Way’--the sacred way, +that is I.” + +And he repeated, in his bad humor: + +“I, Madame, am the sacred way.” + +He was annoyed that the poet had not spoken to him about this +inscription. He would have liked to see his name at the top of the poem, +in the verses, in the rhymes. He wished to see his name everywhere, +and always looked for it in the journals with which his pockets were +stuffed. But he had no rancor. He was not really angry with Miss Bell. +He admitted gracefully that she was a distinguished person, and a poet +that did great honor to England. + +When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if +he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such +marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know. + +“I never know anything,” she said. + +“But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at +the death of Marmet. + +“The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling. We were wet and +frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read +under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, +which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An +indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it +possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious +quarrel? + +“The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique +study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else +knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost. +Schmoll said continually to Marmet: ‘You do not know Etruscan, my dear +colleague; that is the reason why you are an honorable savant and +a fair-minded man.’ Piqued by his ironic praise, Marmet thought of +learning a little Etruscan. He read to his colleague a memoir on the +part played by flexions in the idiom of the ancient Tuscans.” + +Madame Martin asked what a flexion was. + +“Oh, Madame, if I explain anything to you, it will mix up everything. Be +content with knowing that in that memoir poor Marmet quoted Latin texts +and quoted them wrong. Schmoll is a Latinist of great learning, and, +after Mommsen, the chief epigraphist of the world. + +“He reproached his young colleague--Marmet was not fifty years old--with +reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time +Marmet had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, +finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without +rancor. It is a virtue of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those +whom he persecutes. One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute +with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him. +Marmet refused to take it, and said ‘I do not know you.’--‘Do you take +me for a Latin inscription?’ Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried +because of that satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his +enemy with horror.” + +“And I have made them dine together, side by side.” + +“Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel.” + +“My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I +should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one.” + +A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed +with brusque suppleness. + +“Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil.” + +They had met before at Madame Martin’s, and saw each other often at the +Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan’s. + +“Madame Meillan’s--there’s a house where one is bored,” said Paul Vence. + +“Yet Academicians go there,” said M. Robert Le Menil. “I do not +exaggerate their value, but they are the elite.” + +Madame Martin smiled. + +“We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan’s you are +preoccupied by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted +Princess Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves.” + +“What wolves?” + +“Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty +a woman your conversation was rather savage!” + +Paul Vence rose. + +“So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has +a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you. There +is life in his mind. He is full of ideas.” + +“Oh, I do not ask for so much,” Madame Martin said. “People that are +natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes +they amuse me.” + +When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps +had vanished; then, coming nearer: + +“To-morrow, at three o’clock? Do you still love me?” + +He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was +late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her +husband would come. + +He entreated. Then she said: + +“I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o’clock.” + +He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other +side of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished +introduced to her. + +“I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me. +He is a sculptor.” + +He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding: + +“A sculptor? They are usually brutal.” + +“Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I +should meet him, I will not do so.” + +“I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give +to me.” + +“My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame +Meillan’s yesterday.” + +“You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a +house for you.” + +He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure +which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored +intrigue. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended +on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, +looked at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown. +Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her +languid body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind. +She kept for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal +attraction the charm of things that art had created. + +He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze +in the ashes, she said: + +“We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd +districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where +misery dwells.” + +He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he +thought it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and +he thought them dangerous. People might see them. + +“And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip--” + +She shook her head. + +“Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know +or do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is +said.” + +She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for +some reason which she would not tell. He bent upon her beautiful, grave +eyes which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured him. + +“I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care? +Nothing matters.” + +He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was +waiting for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy. +Then she began again to read in the ashes. + +She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had +passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where +slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and +the bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still +ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of +her imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears. +When she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is +not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary +thing. She should have known this. She thought: + +“I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed +of a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid +taste of life, and seemed to inhale the future like a salt and pungent +aroma. Why? What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned +enough of the sadness of everything?” + +She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was +a daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank, +founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them +the resources of a brilliant mind, invincible force of character, a rare +alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as +if he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of +Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father. +Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive and powerful +atheist, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable +things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and +precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women +of the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with +the brutality of his temperament and the shrewdness of his mind. + +Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished at Joinville, +delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which +held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter. +There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died +one night of sadness and exhaustion, never having loved anything +on earth except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue +Maubeuge. + +She never had had any intimacy with her daughter, whom she felt +instinctively too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart; +and she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong +Montessuy blood, the ardor which had made her suffer so much, and which +she forgave in her husband, but not in her daughter. + +But Montessuy recognized his daughter and loved her. Like most hearty, +full-blooded men, he had hours of charming gayety. Although he lived out +of his house a great deal, he breakfasted with her almost every day, and +sometimes took her out walking. He understood gowns and furbelows. He +instructed and formed Therese. He amused her. Near her, his instinct for +conquest inspired him still. He desired to win always, and he won his +daughter. He separated her from her mother. Therese admired him, she +adored him. + +In her dream she saw him as the unique joy of her childhood. She was +persuaded that no man in the world was as amiable as her father. + +At her entrance in life, she despaired at once of finding elsewhere +so rich a nature, such a plenitude of active and thinking forces. This +discouragement had followed her in the choice of a husband, and perhaps +later in a secret and freer choice. + +She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had +permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower, +embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and +well. He considered the exterior advantages, estimated the eighty years +of imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came to +him that she might wish to find love in marriage. + +He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of +the luxurious desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a +display of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which +were for him all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject +of the happiness of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter +would remain virtuous. + +While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded +so badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled +with melancholy irony. And she admired her father the more. + +After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as any +other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in the +ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences, +that of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated +traits of it, some absurd images, a fleeting and fastidious impression. +The time had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years had +passed, and she did not even remember how she had regained her liberty, +so prompt and easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold, sickly, +selfish, and polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by business and +politics, laborious, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked women only +through vanity, and he never had loved his wife. The separation had been +frank and complete. And since then, strangers to each other, they felt +a tacit, mutual gratitude for their freedom. She would have had some +affection for him if she had not found him hypocritical and too +subtle in the art of obtaining her signature when he needed money for +enterprises that were more for ostentation than real benefit. The man +with whom she dined and talked every day had no significance for her. + +With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned +a sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so +precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented +to her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and +dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories. +His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three +generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had +loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance, and +his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary +term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin. +The homage of this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with +pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused her. +She let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic +frivolity, to finish worthily his happy life by the subjugation of this +young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who evidently +admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned stratagems. +But she escaped him very easily. + +She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her +ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of +his mind. She said to herself: “I gave myself to him because he loved +me.” It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful +instinct had impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of +her being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened her +nature at last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity of his +sentiment. She had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved. +She had given herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded +easily. He was mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the +irreparable gives, and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly +something to conceal. Everything that had been whispered before +her about other women resounded in her burning ears. But, proud and +delicate, she took care to hide the value of the gift she was making. He +never suspected her moral uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and +was replaced by perfect tranquillity. After three years she defended her +conduct as innocent and natural. + +Having done harm to no one, she had no regrets. She was content. She was +in love, she was loved. Doubtless she had not felt the intoxication she +had expected, but does one ever feel it? She was the friend of the good +and honest fellow, much liked by women who passed for disdainful and +hard to please, and he had a true affection for her. The pleasure she +gave him and the joy of being beautiful for him attached her to this +friend. He made life for her not continually delightful, but easy to +bear, and at times agreeable. + +That which she had not divined in her solitude, notwithstanding vague +yearnings and apparently causeless sadness, he had revealed to her. +She knew herself when she knew him. It was a happy astonishment. Their +sympathies were not in their minds. Her inclination toward him was +simple and frank, and at this moment she found pleasure in the idea of +meeting him the next day in the little apartment where they had met +for three years. With a shake of the head and a shrug of her shoulders, +coarser than one would have expected from this exquisite woman, sitting +alone by the dying fire, she said to herself: “There! I need love!” + + + + +CHAPTER II. “ONE CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE YOUNG!” + +It was no longer daylight when they came out of the little apartment in +the Rue Spontini. Robert Le Menil made a sign to a coachman, and entered +the carriage with Therese. Close together, they rolled among the vague +shadows, cut by sudden lights, through the ghostly city, having in their +minds only sweet and vanishing impressions while everything around them +seemed confused and fleeting. + +The carriage approached the Pont-Neuf. They stepped out. A dry cold +made vivid the sombre January weather. Under her veil Therese joyfully +inhaled the wind which swept on the hardened soil a dust white as salt. +She was glad to wander freely among unknown things. She liked to see the +stony landscape which the clearness of the air made distinct; to walk +quickly and firmly on the quay where the trees displayed the black +tracery of their branches on the horizon reddened by the smoke of the +city; to look at the Seine. In the sky the first stars appeared. + +“One would think that the wind would put them out,” she said. + +He observed, too, that they scintillated a great deal. He did not think +it was a sign of rain, as the peasants believe. He had observed, on +the contrary, that nine times in ten the scintillation of stars was an +augury of fine weather. + +Near the little bridge they found old iron-shops lighted by smoky lamps. +She ran into them. She turned a corner and went into a shop in which +queer stuffs were hanging. Behind the dirty panes a lighted candle +showed pots, porcelain vases, a clarinet, and a bride’s wreath. + +He did not understand what pleasure she found in her search. + +“These shops are full of vermin. What can you find interesting in them?” + +“Everything. I think of the poor bride whose wreath is under that globe. +The dinner occurred at Maillot. There was a policeman in the procession. +There is one in almost all the bridal processions one sees in the +park on Saturdays. Don’t they move you, my friend, all these poor, +ridiculous, miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the +past?” + +Among cups decorated with flowers she discovered a little knife, the +ivory handle of which represented a tall, thin woman with her hair +arranged a la Maintenon. She bought it for a few sous. It pleased her, +because she already had a fork like it. Le Menil confessed that he had +no taste for such things, but said that his aunt knew a great deal about +them. At Caen all the merchants knew her. She had restored and furnished +her house in proper style. This house was noted as early as 1690. In one +of its halls were white cases full of books. His aunt had wished to put +them in order. She had found frivolous books in them, ornamented with +engravings so unconventional that she had burned them. + +“Is she silly, your aunt?” asked Therese. + +For a long time his anecdotes about his aunt had made her impatient. +Her friend had in the country a mother, sisters, aunts, and numerous +relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her. He talked of them +with admiration. It annoyed her that he often visited them. When he came +back, she imagined that he carried with him the odor of things that had +been packed up for years. He was astonished, naively, and he suffered +from her antipathy to them. + +He said nothing. The sight of a public-house, the panes of which were +flaming, recalled to him the poet Choulette, who passed for a drunkard. +He asked her if she still saw that Choulette, who called on her wearing +a mackintosh and a red muffler. + +It annoyed her that he spoke like General Lariviere. She did not say +that she had not seen Choulette since autumn, and that he neglected her +with the capriciousness of a man not in society. + +“He has wit,” she said, “fantasy, and an original temperament. He +pleases me.” + +And as he reproached her for having an odd taste, she replied: + +“I haven’t a taste, I have tastes. You do not disapprove of them all, I +suppose.” + +He replied that he did not criticise her. He was only afraid that she +might do herself harm by receiving a Bohemian who was not welcome in +respectable houses. + +She exclaimed: + +“Not welcome in respectable houses--Choulette? Don’t you know that +he goes every year for a month to the Marquise de Rieu? Yes, to the +Marquise de Rieu, the Catholic, the royalist. But since Choulette +interests you, listen to his latest adventure. Paul Vence related it to +me. I understand it better in this street, where there are shirts and +flowerpots at the windows. + +“This winter, one night when it was raining, Choulette went into a +public-house in a street the name of which I have forgotten, but which +must resemble this one, and met there an unfortunate girl whom the +waiters would not have noticed, and whom he liked for her humility. Her +name was Maria. The name was not hers. She found it nailed on her +door at the top of the stairway where she went to lodge. Choulette was +touched by this perfection of poverty and infamy. He called her his +sister, and kissed her hands. Since then he has not quitted her a +moment. He takes her to the coffee-houses of the Latin Quarter where the +rich students read their reviews. He says sweet things to her. He weeps, +she weeps. They drink; and when they are drunk, they fight. He loves +her. He calls her his chaste one, his cross and his salvation. She was +barefooted; he gave her yarn and knitting-needles that she might make +stockings. And he made shoes for this unfortunate girl himself, with +enormous nails. He teaches her verses that are easy to understand. He is +afraid of altering her moral beauty by taking her out of the shame where +she lives in perfect simplicity and admirable destitution.” + +Le Menil shrugged his shoulders. + +“But that Choulette is crazy, and Paul Vence has no right to tell you +such stories. I am not austere, assuredly; but there are immoralities +that disgust me.” They were walking at random. She fell into a dream. + +“Yes, morality, I know--duty! But duty--it takes the devil to discover +it. I can assure you that I do not know where duty is. It’s like a young +lady’s turtle at Joinville. We spent all the evening looking for it +under the furniture, and when we had found it, we went to bed.” + +He thought there was some truth in what she said. He would think about +it when alone. + +“I regret sometimes that I did not remain in the army. I know what you +are going to say--one becomes a brute in that profession. Doubtless, but +one knows exactly what one has to do, and that is a great deal in life. +I think that my uncle’s life is very beautiful and very agreeable. +But now that everybody is in the army, there are neither officers nor +soldiers. It all looks like a railway station on Sunday. My uncle +knew personally all the officers and all the soldiers of his brigade. +Nowadays, how can you expect an officer to know his men?” + +She had ceased to listen. She was looking at a woman selling fried +potatoes. She realized that she was hungry and wished to eat fried +potatoes. + +He remonstrated: + +“Nobody knows how they are cooked.” + +But he had to buy two sous’ worth of fried potatoes, and to see that the +woman put salt on them. + +While Therese was eating them, he led her into deserted streets far from +the gaslights. Soon they found themselves in front of the cathedral. The +moon silvered the roofs. + +“Notre Dame,” she said. “See, it is as heavy as an elephant yet as +delicate as an insect. The moon climbs over it and looks at it with +a monkey’s maliciousness. She does not look like the country moon at +Joinville. At Joinville I have a path--a flat path--with the moon at +the end of it. She is not there every night; but she returns faithfully, +full, red, familiar. She is a country neighbor. I go seriously to +meet her. But this moon of Paris I should not like to know. She is not +respectable company. Oh, the things that she has seen during the time +she has been roaming around the roofs!” + +He smiled a tender smile. + +“Oh, your little path where you walked alone and that you liked because +the sky was at the end of it! I see it as if I were there.” + +It was at the Joinville castle that he had seen her for the first time, +and had at once loved her. It was there, one night, that he had told her +of his love, to which she had listened, dumb, with a pained expression +on her mouth and a vague look in her eyes. + +The reminiscence of this little path where she walked alone moved him, +troubled him, made him live again the enchanted hours of his first +desires and hopes. He tried to find her hand in her muff and pressed her +slim wrist under the fur. + +A little girl carrying violets saw that they were lovers, and offered +flowers to them. He bought a two-sous’ bouquet and offered it to +Therese. + +She was walking toward the cathedral. She was thinking: “It is like an +enormous beast--a beast of the Apocalypse.” + +At the other end of the bridge a flower-woman, wrinkled, bearded, gray +with years and dust, followed them with her basket full of mimosas and +roses. Therese, who held her violets and was trying to slip them into +her waist, said, joyfully: + +“Thank you, I have some.” + +“One can see that you are young,” the old woman shouted with a wicked +air, as she went away. + +Therese understood at once, and a smile came to her lips and eyes. They +were passing near the porch, before the stone figures that wear sceptres +and crowns. + +“Let us go in,” she said. + +He did not wish to go in. He declared that the door was closed. She +pushed it, and slipped into the immense nave, where the inanimate trees +of the columns ascended in darkness. In the rear, candles were moving +in front of spectre-like priests, under the last reverberations of the +organs. She trembled in the silence, and said: + +“The sadness of churches at night moves me; I feel in them the grandeur +of nothingness.” + +He replied: + +“We must believe in something. If there were no God, if our souls were +not immortal, it would be too sad.” + +She remained for a while immovable under the curtains of shadow hanging +from the arches. Then she said: + +“My poor friend, we do not know what to do with this life, which is so +short, and yet you desire another life which shall never finish.” + +In the carriage that took them back he said gayly that he had passed a +fine afternoon. He kissed her, satisfied with her and with himself. But +his good-humor was not communicated to her. The last moments they passed +together were spoiled for her always by the presentiment that he would +not say at parting the thing that he should say. Ordinarily, he quitted +her brusquely, as if what had happened were not to last. At every one +of their partings she had a confused feeling that they were parting +forever. She suffered from this in advance and became irritable. + +Under the trees he took her hand and kissed her. + +“Is it not rare, Therese, to love as we love each other?” + +“Rare? I don’t know; but I think that you love me.” + +“And you?” + +“I, too, love you.” + +“And you will love me always?” + +“What does one ever know?” + +And seeing the face of her lover darken: + +“Would you be more content with a woman who would swear to love only you +for all time?” + +He remained anxious, with a wretched air. She was kind and she reassured +him: + +“You know very well, my friend, that I am not fickle.” + +Almost at the end of the lane they said good-by. He kept the carriage +to return to the Rue Royale. He was to dine at the club and go to the +theatre, and had no time to lose. + +Therese returned home on foot. Opposite the Trocadero she remembered +what the old flower-woman had said: “One can see that you are young.” + The words came back to her with a significance not immoral but sad. “One +can see that you are young!” Yes, she was young, she was loved, and she +was bored to death. + + + + +CHAPTER III. A DISCUSSION ON THE LITTLE CORPORAL + +In the centre of the table flowers were disposed in a basket of gilded +bronze, decorated with eagles, stars, and bees, and handles formed like +horns of plenty. On its sides winged Victorys supported the branches +of candelabra. This centrepiece of the Empire style had been given +by Napoleon, in 1812, to Count Martin de l’Aisne, grandfather of +the present Count Martin-Belleme. Martin de l’Aisne, a deputy to the +Legislative Corps in 1809, was appointed the following year member of +the Committee on Finance, the assiduous and secret works of which suited +his laborious temperament. Although a Liberal, he pleased the Emperor by +his application and his exact honesty. For two years he was under a +rain of favors. In 1813 he formed part of the moderate majority which +approved the report in which Laine censured power and misfortune, by +giving to the Empire tardy advice. January 1, 1814, he went with his +colleagues to the Tuileries. The Emperor received them in a terrifying +manner. He charged on their ranks. Violent and sombre, in the horror of +his present strength and of his coming fall, he stunned them with his +anger and his contempt. + +He came and went through their lines, and suddenly took Count Martin by +the shoulders, shook him and dragged him, exclaiming: “A throne is four +pieces of wood covered with velvet? No! A throne is a man, and that man +is I. You have tried to throw mud at me. Is this the time to remonstrate +with me when there are two hundred thousand Cossacks at the frontiers? +Your Laine is a wicked man. One should wash one’s dirty linen at home.” + And while in his anger he twisted in his hand the embroidered collar of +the deputy, he said: “The people know me. They do not know you. I am the +elect of the nation. You are the obscure delegates of a department.” + He predicted to them the fate of the Girondins. The noise of his spurs +accompanied the sound of his voice. Count Martin remained trembling the +rest of his life, and tremblingly recalled the Bourbons after the defeat +of the Emperor. The two restorations were in vain; the July government +and the Second Empire covered his oppressed breast with crosses and +cordons. Raised to the highest functions, loaded with honors by three +kings and one emperor, he felt forever on his shoulder the hand of the +Corsican. He died a senator of Napoleon III, and left a son agitated by +the same fear. + +This son had married Mademoiselle Belleme, daughter of the first +president of the court of Bourges, and with her the political glories +of a family which gave three ministers to the moderate monarch. The +Bellemes, advocates in the time of Louis XV, elevated the Jacobin +origins of the Martins. The second Count Martin was a member of all the +Assemblies until his death in 1881. His son took without trouble his +seat in the Chamber of Deputies. Having married Mademoiselle Therese +Montessuy, whose dowry supported his political fortune, he appeared +discreetly among the four or five bourgeois, titled and wealthy, who +rallied to democracy, and were received without much bad grace by the +republicans, whom aristocracy flattered. + +In the dining-room, Count Martin-Belleme was doing the honors of his +table with the good grace, the sad politeness, recently prescribed at +the Elysee to represent isolated France at a great northern court. From +time to time he addressed vapid phrases to Madame Garain at his right; +to the Princess Seniavine at his left, who, loaded with diamonds, felt +bored. Opposite him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin, +having by her side General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the +Academie des Inscriptions, caressed with her fan her smooth white +shoulders. At the two semicircles, whereby the dinner-table was +prolonged, were M. Montessuy, robust, with blue eyes and ruddy +complexion; a young cousin, Madame Belleme de Saint-Nom, embarrassed by +her long, thin arms; the painter Duviquet; M. Daniel Salomon; then Paul +Vence and Garain the deputy; Belleme de Saint-Nom; an unknown senator; +and Dechartre, who was dining at the house for the first time. The +conversation, at first trivial and insignificant, was prolonged into a +confused murmur, above which rose Garain’s voice: + +“Every false idea is dangerous. People think that dreamers do no harm. +They are mistaken: dreamers do a great heal of harm. Even apparently +inoffensive utopian ideas really exercise a noxious influence. They tend +to inspire disgust at reality.” + +“It is, perhaps, because reality is not beautiful,” said Paul Vence. + +M. Garain said that he had always been in favor of all possible +improvements. He had asked for the suppression of permanent armies in +the time of the Empire, for the separation of church and state, and had +remained always faithful to democracy. His device, he said, was “Order +and Progress.” He thought he had discovered that device. + +Montessuy said: + +“Well, Monsieur Garain, be sincere. Confess that there are no reforms +to be made, and that it is as much as one can do to change the color of +postage-stamps. Good or bad, things are as they should be. Yes, things +are as they should be; but they change incessantly. Since 1870 the +industrial and financial situation of the country has gone through four +or five revolutions which political economists had not foreseen +and which they do not yet understand. In society, as in nature, +transformations are accomplished from within.” + +As to matters of government his ideas were terse and decided. He was +strongly attached to the present, heedless of the future, and the +socialists troubled him little. Without caring whether the sun and +capital should be extinguished some day, he enjoyed them. According +to him, one should let himself be carried. None but fools resisted the +current or tried to go in front of it. + +But Count Martin, naturally sad, had, dark presentiments. In veiled +words he announced catastrophes. His timorous phrases came through the +flowers, and irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy. +He explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by +themselves, of throwing off barbarism, and that without the Jews and the +Arabs Europe would be to-day, as in the time of the Crusades, sunk in +ignorance, misery, and cruelty. + +“The Middle Ages,” he said, “are closed only in the historical manuals +that are given to pupils to spoil their minds. In reality, barbarians +are always barbarians. Israel’s mission is to instruct nations. It was +Israel which, in the Middle Ages, brought to Europe the wisdom of ages. +Socialism frightens you. It is a Christian evil, like priesthood. And +anarchy? Do you not recognize in it the plague of the Albigeois and of +the Vaudois? The Jews, who instructed and polished Europe, are the only +ones who can save it to-day from the evangelical evil by which it +is devoured. But they have not fulfilled their duty. They have made +Christians of themselves among the Christians. And God punishes them. He +permits them to be exiled and to be despoiled. Anti-Semitism is making +fearful progress everywhere. From Russia my co-religionists are expelled +like savage beasts. In France, civil and military employments are +closing against Jews. They have no longer access to aristocratic +circles. My nephew, young Isaac Coblentz, has had to renounce a +diplomatic career, after passing brilliantly his admission examination. +The wives of several of my colleagues, when Madame Schmoll calls on +them, display with intention, under her eyes, anti-Semitic newspapers. +And would you believe that the Minister of Public Instruction has +refused to give me the cross of the Legion of Honor for which I have +applied? There’s ingratitude! Anti-Semitism is death--it is death, do +you hear? to European civilization.” + +The little man had a natural manner which surpassed all the art in the +world. Grotesque and terrible, he threw the table into consternation by +his sincerity. Madame Martin, whom he amused, complimented him on this: + +“At least,” she said, “you defend your co-religionists. You are not, +Monsieur Schmoll, like a beautiful Jewish lady of my acquaintance who, +having read in a journal that she received the elite of Jewish society, +went everywhere shouting that she had been insulted.” + +“I am sure, Madame, that you do not know how beautiful and superior to +all other moralities is Jewish morality. Do you know the parable of the +three rings?” + +This question was lost in the murmur of the dialogues wherein were +mingled foreign politics, exhibitions of paintings, fashionable +scandals, and Academy speeches. They talked of the new novel and of the +coming play. This was a comedy. Napoleon was an incidental character in +it. + +The conversation settled upon Napoleon I, often placed on the stage +and newly studied in books--an object of curiosity, a personage in the +fashion, no longer a popular hero, a demi-god, wearing boots for his +country, as in the days when Norvins and Beranger, Charlet and Raffet +were composing his legend; but a curious personage, an amusing type in +his living infinity, a figure whose style is pleasant to artists, whose +movements attract thoughtless idlers. + +Garain, who had founded his political fortune on hatred of the Empire, +judged sincerely that this return of national taste was only an absurd +infatuation. He saw no danger in it and felt no fear about it. In him +fear was sudden and ferocious. For the moment he was very quiet; he +talked neither of prohibiting performances nor of seizing books, of +imprisoning authors, or of suppressing anything. Calm and severe, he saw +in Napoleon only Taine’s ‘condottiere’ who kicked Volney in the stomach. +Everybody wished to define the true Napoleon. Count Martin, in the face +of the imperial centrepiece and of the winged Victorys, talked suitably +of Napoleon as an organizer and administrator, and placed him in a high +position as president of the state council, where his words threw light +upon obscure questions. Garain affirmed that in his sessions, only too +famous, Napoleon, under pretext of taking snuff, asked the councillors +to pass to him their gold boxes ornamented with miniatures and decked +with diamonds, which they never saw again. The anecdote was told to him +by the son of Mounier himself. + +Montessuy esteemed in Napoleon the genius of order. “He liked,” he said, +“work well done. That is a taste most persons have lost.” + +The painter Duviquet, whose ideas were those of an artist, was +embarrassed. He did not find on the funeral mask brought from St. Helena +the characteristics of that face, beautiful and powerful, which medals +and busts have consecrated. One must be convinced of this now that the +bronze of that mask was hanging in all the old shops, among eagles and +sphinxes made of gilded wood. And, according to him, since the true face +of Napoleon was not that of the ideal Napoleon, his real soul may not +have been as idealists fancied it. Perhaps it was the soul of a good +bourgeois. Somebody had said this, and he was inclined to think that it +was true. Anyway, Duviquet, who flattered himself with having made the +best portraits of the century, knew that celebrated men seldom resemble +the ideas one forms of them. + +M. Daniel Salomon observed that the fine mask about which Duviquet +talked, the plaster cast taken from the inanimate face of the Emperor, +and brought to Europe by Dr. Antommarchi, had been moulded in bronze and +sold by subscription for the first time in 1833, under Louis Philippe, +and had then inspired surprise and mistrust. People suspected the +Italian chemist, who was a sort of buffoon, always talkative and +famished, of having tried to make fun of people. Disciples of Dr. Gall, +whose system was then in favor, regarded the mask as suspicious. They +did not find in it the bumps of genius; and the forehead, examined in +accordance with the master’s theories, presented nothing remarkable in +its formation. + +“Precisely,” said Princess Seniavine. “Napoleon was remarkable only for +having kicked Volney in the stomach and stealing a snuffbox ornamented +with diamonds. Monsieur Garain has just taught us.” + +“And yet,” said Madame Martin, “nobody is sure that he kicked Volney.” + +“Everything becomes known in the end,” replied the Princess, gayly. +“Napoleon did nothing at all. He did not even kick Volney, and his head +was that of an idiot.” + +General Lariviere felt that he should say something. He hurled this +phrase: + +“Napoleon--his campaign of 1813 is much discussed.” + +The General wished to please Garain, and he had no other idea. However, +he succeeded, after an effort, in formulating a judgment: + +“Napoleon committed faults; in his situation he should not have +committed any.” And he stopped abruptly, very red. + +Madame Martin asked: + +“And you, Monsieur Vence, what do you think of Napoleon?” + +“Madame, I have not much love for sword-bearers, and conquerors seem to +me to be dangerous fools. But in spite of everything, that figure of the +Emperor interests me as it interests the public. I find character and +life in it. There is no poem or novel that is worth the Memoirs of Saint +Helena, although it is written in ridiculous fashion. What I think +of Napoleon, if you wish to know, is that, made for glory, he had the +brilliant simplicity of the hero of an epic poem. A hero must be human. +Napoleon was human.” + +“Oh, oh!” every one exclaimed. + +But Paul Vence continued: + +“He was violent and frivolous; therefore profoundly human. I mean, +similar to everybody. He desired, with singular force, all that most men +esteem and desire. He had illusions, which he gave to the people. This +was his power and his weakness; it was his beauty. He believed in glory. +He had of life and of the world the same opinion as any one of his +grenadiers. He retained always the infantile gravity which finds +pleasure in playing with swords and drums, and the sort of innocence +which makes good military men. He esteemed force sincerely. He was a man +among men, the flesh of human flesh. He had not a thought that was not +in action, and all his actions were grand yet common. It is this vulgar +grandeur which makes heroes. And Napoleon is the perfect hero. His brain +never surpassed his hand--that hand, small and beautiful, which grasped +the world. He never had, for a moment, the least care for what he could +not reach.” + +“Then,” said Garain, “according to you, he was not an intellectual +genius. I am of your opinion.” + +“Surely,” continued Paul Vence, “he had enough genius to be brilliant +in the civil and military arena of the world. But he had not speculative +genius. That genius is another pair of sleeves, as Buffon says. We have +a collection of his writings and speeches. His style has movement and +imagination. And in this mass of thoughts one can not find a philosophic +curiosity, not one expression of anxiety about the unknowable, not an +expression of fear of the mystery which surrounds destiny. At Saint +Helena, when he talks of God and of the soul, he seems to be a little +fourteen-year-old school-boy. Thrown upon the world, his mind found +itself fit for the world, and embraced it all. Nothing of that mind was +lost in the infinite. Himself a poet, he knew only the poetry of action. +He limited to the earth his powerful dream of life. In his terrible and +touching naivete he believed that a man could be great, and neither time +nor misfortune made him lose that idea. His youth, or rather his sublime +adolescence, lasted as long as he lived, because life never brought him +a real maturity. Such is the abnormal state of men of action. They live +entirely in the present, and their genius concentrates on one point. +The hours of their existence are not connected by a chain of grave and +disinterested meditations. They succeed themselves in a series of +acts. They lack interior life. This defect is particularly visible +in Napoleon, who never lived within himself. From this is derived the +frivolity of temperament which made him support easily the enormous load +of his evils and of his faults. His mind was born anew every day. He +had, more than any other person, a capacity for diversion. The first day +that he saw the sun rise on his funereal rock at Saint Helena, he jumped +from his bed, whistling a romantic air. It was the peace of a +mind superior to fortune; it was the frivolity of a mind prompt in +resurrection. He lived from the outside.” + +Garain, who did not like Paul Vence’s ingenious turn of wit and +language, tried to hasten the conclusion: + +“In a word,” he said, “there was something of the monster in the man.” + +“There are no monsters,” replied Paul Vence; “and men who pass for +monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had +the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for +him.” + +Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he +excused himself with a sort of fright. + +“Do you know,” said Schmoll again, “the parable of the three rings, +sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew.” + +Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox, +regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and +justice. + +“One great principle,” he said, “is that men should be judged by their +acts.” + +“And women?” asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; “do you judge them by +their acts? And how do you know what they do?” + +The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of +silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on +the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain. + +General Lariviere fell into dreams. + +“When public clamor has split my ears,” he said to his neighbor, “I +shall go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers.” + +He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given +to a rose. This pleased him highly. + +Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings. + +The Princess rallied the Deputy. + +“Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things +for very different reasons?” + +Montessuy said she was right. + +“It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This +thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was +known neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an +English legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell +Lowell of London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his +time with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her +husband; the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows; +the third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become +ugly, and was a servant in a den. After what she had done, after what +she had seen, love signified nothing to her. These three women behaved +alike for very different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the +mass of actions, their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of +the human being.” + +“Some of our actions,” said Madame Martin, “have our look, our face: +they are our daughters. Others do not resemble us at all.” + +She rose and took the General’s arm. + +On the way to the drawing-room the Princess said: + +“Therese is right. Some actions do not express our real selves at all. +They are like the things we do in nightmares.” + +The nymphs of the tapestries smiled vainly in their faded beauty at the +guests, who did not see them. + +Madame Martin served the coffee with her young cousin, Madame Belleme de +Saint-Nom. She complimented Paul Vence on what he had said at the table. + +“You talked of Napoleon with a freedom of mind that is rare in the +conversations I hear. I have noticed that children, when they are +handsome, look, when they pout, like Napoleon at Waterloo. You have made +me feel the profound reasons for this similarity.” + +Then, turning toward Dechartre: + +“Do you like Napoleon?” + +“Madame, I do not like the Revolution. And Napoleon is the Revolution in +boots.” + +“Monsieur Dechartre, why did you not say this at dinner? But I see you +prefer to be witty only in tete-a-tetes.” + +Count Martin-Belleme escorted the men to the smoking-room. Paul Vence +alone remained with the women. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had +finished his novel, and what was the subject of it. It was a study +in which he tried to reach the truth through a series of plausible +conditions. + +“Thus,” he said, “the novel acquires a moral force which history, in its +heavy frivolity, never had.” + +She inquired whether the book was written for women. He said it was not. + +“You are wrong, Monsieur Vence, not to write for women. A superior man +can do nothing else for them.” + +He wished to know what gave her that idea. + +“Because I see that all the intelligent women love fools.” + +“Who bore them.” + +“Certainly! But superior men would weary them more. They would have +more resources to employ in boring them. But tell me the subject of your +novel.” + +“Do you insist?” + +“Oh, I insist upon nothing.” + +“Well, I will tell you. It is a study of popular manners; the history of +a young workman, sober and chaste, as handsome as a girl, with the mind +of a virgin, a sensitive soul. He is a carver, and works well. At night, +near his mother, whom he loves, he studies, he reads books. In his mind, +simple and receptive, ideas lodge themselves like bullets in a wall. He +has no desires. He has neither the passions nor the vices that attach +us to life. He is solitary and pure. Endowed with strong virtues, he +becomes conceited. He lives among miserable people. He sees suffering. +He has devotion without humanity. He has that sort of cold charity which +is called altruism. He is not human because he is not sensual.” + +“Oh! One must be sensual to be human?” + +“Certainly, Madame. True pity, like tenderness, comes from the heart. He +is not intelligent enough to doubt. He believes what he has read. And +he has read that to establish universal happiness society must be +destroyed. Thirst for martyrdom devours him. One morning, having kissed +his mother, he goes out; he watches for the socialist deputy of his +district, sees him, throws himself on him, and buries a poniard in +his breast. Long live anarchy! He is arrested, measured, photographed, +questioned, judged, condemned to death, and guillotined. That is my +novel.” + +“It is not very amusing,” said the Princess; “but that is not your +fault. Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other Frenchmen. The +Russians have more audacity and more imagination.” + +Countess Martin asked Paul Vence whether he knew a silent, timid-looking +man among the guests. Her husband had invited him. She knew nothing of +him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was a senator. +He had seen him one day by chance in the Luxembourg, in the gallery that +served as a library. + +“I went there to look at the cupola, where Delacroix has painted, in a +wood of bluish myrtles, heroes and sages of antiquity. That gentleman +was there, with the same wretched and pitiful air. His coat was damp and +he was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying, +while rubbing his hands: ‘The proof that the Republic is the best of +governments is that in 1871 it could kill in a week sixty thousand +insurgents without becoming unpopular. After such a repression any other +regime would have been impossible.’” + +“He is a very wicked man,” said Madame Martin. “And to think that I was +pitying him!” + +Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace +of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the +banks of the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her. + +Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The +General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin. + +“I met this morning, in the park, Baronne Warburg, mounted on a +magnificent horse. She said, ‘General, how do you manage to have such +fine horses?’ I replied: Madame, to have fine horses, you must be either +very wealthy or very clever.’” + +He was so well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice. + +Paul Vence came near Countess Martin: + +“I know that senator’s name: it is Lyer. He is the vice-president of a +political society, and author of a book entitled, The Crime of December +Second.” + +The General continued: + +“The weather was horrible. I went into a hut and found Le Menil there. +I was in a bad humor. He was making fun of me, I saw, because I sought +shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like wind +and snow. He said that he liked bad weather, and that he was to go +foxhunting with friends next week.” + +There was a pause; the General continued: + +“I wish him much joy, but I don’t envy him. Foxhunting is not +agreeable.” + +“But it is useful,” said Montessuy. + +The General shrugged his shoulders. + +“Foxes are dangerous for chicken-coops in the spring when the fowls have +to feed their families.” + +“Foxes are sly poachers, who do less harm to farmers than to hunters. I +know something of this.” + +Therese was not listening to the Princess, who was talking to her. She +was thinking: + +“He did not tell me that he was going away!” + +“Of what are you thinking, dear?” inquired the Princess. + +“Of nothing interesting,” Therese replied. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE END OF A DREAM + +In the little shadowy room, where sound was deadened by curtains, +portieres, cushions, bearskins, and carpets from the Orient, the +firelight shone on glittering swords hanging among the faded favors of +the cotillons of three winters. The rosewood chiffonier was surmounted +by a silver cup, a prize from some sporting club. On a porcelain plaque, +in the centre of the table, stood a crystal vase which held branches +of white lilacs; and lights palpitated in the warm shadows. Therese and +Robert, their eyes accustomed to obscurity, moved easily among these +familiar objects. He lighted a cigarette while she arranged her hair, +standing before the mirror, in a corner so dim she could hardly see +herself. She took pins from the little Bohemian glass cup standing on +the table, where she had kept it for three years. He looked at her, +passing her light fingers quickly through the gold ripples of her hair, +while her face, hardened and bronzed by the shadow, took on a mysterious +expression. She did not speak. + +He said to her: + +“You are not cross now, my dear?” + +And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said: + +“What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said +at first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from +General Lariviere.” + +He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained +cold and reserved toward him. But he affected to think that she only +pouted. + +“My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I +met Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my +promise to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I +meant to tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere +told you first, but there was no significance in that.” + +Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a +glance from her tranquil eyes, which he did not understand. + +“Then you are going?” + +“Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at +most.” + +She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented with a branch of holly. + +“Is it something that you can not postpone?” + +“Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover, +Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence.” + +Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned. + +“Is fox-hunting interesting?” + +“Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems that one must fathom. The +intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at +night a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure you +it is not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. I do +not care for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you half +a dozen skins.” + +“What do you wish me to do with them?” + +“Oh, you can make rugs of them.” + +“And you will be hunting eight days?” + +“Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at +this time there was a delightful reunion at her house. She had with her +her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five +women are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable. I shall probably +find them at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt’s +birthday, and I shall remain there two days.” + +“My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable +if you shortened on my account a sojourn which is so agreeable.” + +“But you, Therese?” + +“I, my friend? I can take care of myself.” + +The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She +said, in a dreamy tone: + +“It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone.” + +He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her +hand. + +“You love me?” he said. + +“Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but--” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Nothing. I am thinking--I am thinking that we are separated all through +the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends +half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is +better not to see each other at all.” + +He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He +looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common +to all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her +through force of education and simplicity of intelligence. + +“Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me? +Sometimes you are painfully harsh.” + +She shook her little head brusquely. + +“What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate. It is in the blood. I +take it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the +castle, the ceilings, the tapestries, the gardens, the park, the +hunting-grounds, you have said that none better were in France; but you +have not seen my father’s workshop--a white wooden table and a mahogany +bureau. Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my +father made figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in +the apartment where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a +parvenu’s daughter, or a conqueror’s daughter, it’s all the same. We are +people of material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess +what he could buy--that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep--what? +I do not know--the happiness that I have--or that I have not. I have my +own way of being exacting. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I know +very well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes in +giving herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something, +because my trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or +think what I like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what +is due to me. And then--” + +She lowered her voice: + +“And then, I have--impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you +have? You shouldn’t have loved me.” + +This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his +pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she +did, but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to +a woman’s words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often +words are the same as actions. + +Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength +and confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims, which he +judged absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her; +and, naively, he always ended by playing it. + +“You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be +agreeable to you. Don’t be capricious with me.” + +“And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not +because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I +was capricious.” + +He looked at her, astonished and saddened. + +“The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was +love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you +loved me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the +satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my +desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone. +You are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your +foxhunt, isn’t that capricious?” + +He replied, very sincerely: + +“If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice +that small pleasure with great joy.” + +She felt that he spoke the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling +the most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he +would not go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would +seek hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to +take his reason seriously, and said: + +“Ah, you have promised!” + +And she affected to yield. + +Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her +listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn. +He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids +as a reward. He said: + +“We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. I +will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here +to-morrow?” + +She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the +next day nor any other day. + +Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her. + +The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity +fair, exhibitions. As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to +increase. The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the +exhibitions would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see +him again before his departure. + +As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to +observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed +by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained +silent and unhappy. + +With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on +the key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the +sapphire and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she +turned her head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little +mockingly, yet with a touch of tragic emotion: + +“Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little +visits are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!” + +She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a +point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely +forced him to do so. + +In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world, +without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was +her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But +the avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights, +enveloped her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so +agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold +of winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains +of the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and +there. These small shops, these monotonous windows, were nothing to her. +Yet she felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship +of inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of +houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly upon her. She +was alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between +the two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had +taken so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that day +brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day had +left a subtle, strange, persistent sting, which would never leave her. +What had happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced everything. She +had a sort of obscure certainty that she would never return to that room +which had so recently enclosed the most secret and dearest phases of her +life. She had loved Robert with the seriousness of a necessary joy. Made +to be loved, and very reasonable, she had not lost in the abandonment of +herself that instinct of reflection, that necessity for security, which +was so strong in her. She had not chosen: one seldom chooses. She had +not allowed herself to be taken at random and by surprise. She had done +what she had wished to do, as much as one ever does what one wishes to +do in such cases. She had nothing to regret. He had been to her what it +was his duty to be. She felt, in spite of everything, that all was at +an end. She thought, with dry sadness, that three years of her life had +been given to an honest man who had loved her and whom she had loved. +“For I loved him. I must have loved him in order to give myself to him.” + But she could not feel again the sentiments of early days, the movements +of her mind when she had yielded. She recalled small and insignificant +circumstances: the flowers on the wall-paper and the pictures in the +room. She recalled the words, a little ridiculous and almost touching, +that he had said to her. But it seemed to her that the adventure had +occurred to another woman, to a stranger whom she did not like and whom +she hardly understood. And what had happened only a moment ago seemed +far distant now. The room, the lilacs in the crystal vase, the little +cup of Bohemian glass where she found her pins--she saw all these things +as if through a window that one passes in the street. She was without +bitterness, and even without sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas! +This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against +her; it was nothing, yet it was everything. It was the end. She knew it. +She wished to cease. It was the consent of all the forces of her being. +She said to herself: “I have no reason to love him less. Do I love him +no more? Did I ever love him?” She did not know and she did not care to +know. Three years, during which there had been months when they had seen +each other every day--was all this nothing? Life is not a great thing. +And what one puts in it, how little that is! + +In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end +it all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was not +a resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a state +of the body and of the mind. + +When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain, +and on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its +bell in an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that +he had given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame. They had +loved each other that day--perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened +at that reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor +little flower skeleton, in her memory. + +While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her +dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and +the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a +crisis. She thought: “How do other women manage such things? And I, who +promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?” + +Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil +disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made +of a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the +other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized +her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her; +she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few +steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this +place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal +a glimpse of the sky. + +He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of +her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively. + +“Graceful movements,” he added, “are like music for the eyes.” + +She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause +of her good health. + +He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The +mystery of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages +had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm. +He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the +Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother +country of his mind. + +“I shall go there next week,” he said. “I long to see again Ravenna +asleep among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen +Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms +appear. The magic of death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale, +with their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one +feel the monstrous delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its +silver lamels, the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful under its +crypt, luminous yet gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the +sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius, +seated on her golden chair, erect in her gown studded with stones and +embroidered with scenes from the Old Testament; her beautiful, cruel +face preserved hard and black with aromatic plants, and her ebony +hands immovable on her knees. For thirteen centuries she retained this +funereal majesty, until one day a child passed a candle through the +opening of the grave and burned the body.” + +Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her +conceit, had done during her life. + +“Twice a slave,” said Dechartre, “she became twice an empress.” + +“She must have been beautiful,” said Madame Martin. “You have made +me see her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to +Venice, Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals +bordered by palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I +still like Venice, after being there three times.” + +He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice. + +Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made +studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere. + +“Elsewhere,” he said, “even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice +it is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops +lovingly the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the +iridescent atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice +is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women +are! Their forms are so slender and supple under their black shawls. If +nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that +bone the charm of their exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they +form laughing groups, agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant +necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming glances. And all bend, with the +suppleness of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head +resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice, preceded by +two choir-boys.” + +He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas, +sometimes quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost +outstripped him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and +supple carriage. He observed the little shake which at moments her +obstinate head gave to the holly on her toque. + +Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate, +with a young woman almost unknown. + +They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows +of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of +boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay. +One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in +misty days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights +of the city were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three +golden nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued: + +“Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at +her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with +small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in +the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as +a flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most +beautiful light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a +butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head.” + +At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two +lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly. + +“It is true that at Venice,” she said, “all women are pretty.” + +“They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls--the +cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are +commonplace enough.” + +“By others you mean society women; and you don’t like these?” + +“Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them, +that’s a different affair.” + +“Do you think so?” + +She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner. + + + + +CHAPTER V. A DINNER ‘EN FAMILLE’ + +She dined that night alone with her husband. The narrow table had not +the basket with golden eagles and winged Victorys. The candelabra did +not light Oudry’s paintings. While he talked of the events of the day, +she fell into a sad reverie. It seemed to her that she floated in a +mist. It was a peaceful and almost sweet suffering. She saw vaguely +through the clouds the little room of the Rue Spontini transported by +angels to one of the summits of the Himalaya Mountains, and Robert Le +Menil--in the quaking of a sort of world’s end--had disappeared while +putting on his gloves. She felt her pulse to see whether she were +feverish. A rattle of silverware on the table awoke her. She heard her +husband saying: + +“My dear friend Gavaut delivered to-day, in the Chamber, an excellent +speech on the question of the reserve funds. It’s extraordinary how his +ideas have become healthy and just. Oh, he has improved a great deal.” + +She could not refrain from smiling. + +“But Gavaut, my friend, is a poor devil who never thought of anything +except escaping from the crowd of those who are dying of hunger. +Gavaut never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him +seriously in the political world? You may be sure that he never gave an +illusion to any woman, not even his wife. And yet to produce that sort +of illusion a man does not need much.” She added, brusquely: + +“You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. +I have accepted; I am going.” + +Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going. + +At once she answered: + +“With Madame Marmet.” + +There was no objection to make. Madame Marmet was a proper companion, +and it was appropriate for her to visit Italy, where her husband had +made some excavations. He asked only: + +“Have you invited her? When are you going?” + +“Next week.” + +He had the wisdom not to make any objection, judging that opposition +would only make her capriciousness firmer, and fearing to give impetus +to that foolish idea. He said: + +“Surely, to travel is an agreeable pastime. I thought that we might in +the spring visit the Caucasus and Turkestan. There is an interesting +country. General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains, +and everything else on his railway. He is a friend of mine; he is quite +charmed with you. He will provide us with an escort of Cossacks.” + +He persisted in trying to flatter her vanity, unable to realize that +her mind was not worldly. She replied, negligently, that it might be a +pleasant trip. Then he praised the mountains, the ancient cities, the +bazaars, the costumes, the armor. + +He added: + +“We shall take some friends with us--Princess Seniavine, General +Lariviere, perhaps Vence or Le Menil.” + +She replied, with a little dry laugh, that they had time to select their +guests. + +He became attentive to her wants. + +“You are not eating. You will injure your health.” + +Without yet believing in this prompt departure, he felt some anxiety +about it. Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone. He +felt that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he had +decided to give two or three political dinners during the session. He +saw his party growing. This was the moment to assert himself, to make a +dazzling show. He said, mysteriously: + +“Something might happen requiring the aid of all our friends. You have +not followed the march of events, Therese?” + +“No, my dear.” + +“I am sorry. You have judgment, liberality of mind. If you had followed +the march of events you would have been struck by the current that is +leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of +exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical politics and +religious persecution. Some day or other it will be necessary to make +over a Casimir-Perier ministry with other men, and that day--” + +He stopped: really she listened too inattentively. + +She was thinking, sad and disenchanted. It seemed to her that the pretty +woman, who, among the warm shadows of a closed room, placed her bare +feet in the fur of the brown bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses +while she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was +not even a woman that she knew well, or that she desired to know, but a +person whose affairs were of no interest to her. A pin badly set in her +hair, one of the pins from the Bohemian glass cup, fell on her neck. She +shivered. + +“Yet we really must give three or four dinners to our good political +friends,” said M. Martin-Belleme. “We shall invite some of the ancient +radicals to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some +pretty women. We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been +no gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?” + +“But, my dear, since I am to go next week--” + +This filled him with consternation. + +They went, both silent and moody, into the drawing-room, where Paul +Vence was waiting. He often came in the evening. + +She extended her hand to him. + +“I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town. Paris is cold and +bleak. This weather tires and saddens me. I am going to Florence, for +six weeks, to visit Miss Bell.” + +M. Martin-Belleme then lifted his eyes to heaven. + +Vence asked whether she had been in Italy often. + +“Three times; but I saw nothing. This time I wish to see, to throw +myself into things. From Florence I shall take walks into Tuscany, into +Umbria. And, finally, I shall go to Venice.” + +“You will do well. Venice suggests the peace of the Sabbath-day in the +grand week of creative and divine Italy.” + +“Your friend Dechartre talked very prettily to me of Venice, of the +atmosphere of Venice, which sows pearls.” + +“Yes, at Venice the sky is a colorist. Florence inspires the mind. An +old author has said: ‘The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and feeds +the beautiful ideas of men.’ I have lived delicious days in Tuscany. I +wish I could live them again.” + +“Come and see me there.” + +He sighed. + +The newspaper, books, and his daily work prevented him. + +M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that +one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M. +Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work. + +“Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is +impossible to express one’s self. I know how to talk with my pen as well +as any other person; but, after all, to talk or to write, what futile +occupations! How wretchedly inadequate are the little signs which form +syllables, words, and phrases. What becomes of the idea, the beautiful +idea, which these miserable hieroglyphics hide? What does the reader +make of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and +of nonsense. To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful +translations, perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should +I care for the admiration which they give to my books, since it is what +they themselves see in them that they admire? Every reader substitutes +his visions in the place of ours. We furnish him with the means to +quicken his imagination. It is a horrible thing to be a cause of such +exercises. It is an infamous profession.” + +“You are jesting,” said M. Martin-Belleme. + +“I do not think so,” said Therese. “He recognizes that one mind is +impenetrable to another mind, and he suffers from this. He feels that he +is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may +do, one is always alone in the world. That is what he wishes to say. He +is right. You may always explain: you never are understood.” + +“There are signs--” said Paul Vence. + +“Don’t you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of +hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any +more.” + +Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of +Saint Francis. + +“The idea, Madame, came to him in a marvellous fashion one day when he +had gone to call on his Maria in the street where she lives, behind +the public hospital--a street always damp, the houses on which are +tottering. You must know that he considers Maria the saint and martyr +who is responsible for the sins of the people. + +“He pulled the bell-rope, made greasy by two centuries of visitors. +Either because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly +known, or because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door. +Choulette rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope +remained in his hand. Skilful at understanding symbols and the hidden +meaning of things, he understood at once that this rope had not been +detached without the permission of spiritual powers. He made of it +a belt, and realized that he had been chosen to lead back into its +primitive purity the Third Order of Saint Francis. He renounced the +beauty of women, the delights of poetry, the brightness of glory, and +studied the life and the doctrine of Saint Francis. However, he has sold +to his editor a book entitled ‘Les Blandices’, which contains, he says, +the description of all sorts of loves. He flatters himself that in it +he has shown himself a criminal with some elegance. But far from harming +his mystic undertakings, this book favors them in this sense, that, +corrected by his later work, he will become honest and exemplary; and +the gold that he has received in payment, which would not have been paid +to him for a more chaste volume, will serve for a pilgrimage to Assisi.” + +Madame Martin asked how much of this story was really true. Vence +replied that she must not try to learn. + +He confessed that he was the idealist historian of the poet, and that +the adventures which he related of him were not to be taken in the +literal and Judaic sense. + +He affirmed that at least Choulette was publishing Les Blandices, and +desired to visit the cell and the grave of St. Francis. + +“Then,” exclaimed Madame Martin, “I will take him to Italy with me. Find +him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week.” + +M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had +to finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day. + +Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette. Paul +Vence said that he was a singular specimen of humanity. + +“He is not very different from the saints of whose extraordinary lives +we read. He is as sincere as they. He has an exquisite delicacy of +sentiment and a terrible violence of mind. If he shocks one by many of +his acts, the reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps +less closely observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just as there +are bad angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems +are true poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops of the +seventeenth century.” + +She interrupted him: + +“While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend +Dechartre. He has a charming mind.” + +She added: + +“Perhaps he is a little too timid.” + +Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre +interesting. + +“I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood.” + +“You knew his parents?” + +“Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre.” + +“The architect?” + +“The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and +churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge. +Solitary and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack +Viollet-le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to +reestablish buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or +as they might have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the +contrary, wished that everything which the lapse of centuries had added +to a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish +anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to +him to be a scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He +said: ‘It is a crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone +by the hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false +witnesses.’ He wished to limit the task of the archaeologic architect to +that of supporting and consolidating walls. He was right. Everybody said +that he was wrong. He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival +triumphed. He bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son. +Jacques Dechartre was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do +not think that maternal tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a +charming fellow; but he is a spoiled child.” + +“Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from +everything.” + +“Do not rely on this. He has a tormented and tormenting imagination.” + +“Does he like women?” + +“Why do you ask?” + +“Oh, it isn’t with any idea of match-making.” + +“Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men +really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison +with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede.” + +Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful +with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles. + +“They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil,” Paul Vence +continued. “I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams, +forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with +himself, pursuing his idea, absolutely incapable of listening to +anybody; she, studying her roles, her complexion burned by rouge, her +eyes tender, pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She +complained to me that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable. She +loved him and deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived +him, it was done on the spur of the moment. Afterward she never thought +of it. A typical woman! But she was imprudent; she smiled upon Joseph +Springer in the hope that he would make her a member of the Comedie +Francaise. Dechartre left her. Now she finds it more practical to live +with her managers, and Jacques finds it more agreeable to travel.” + +“Does he regret her?” + +“How can one know the things that agitate a mind anxious and mobile, +selfish and passionate, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in +disengaging itself, liking itself most of all among the beautiful things +that it finds in the world?” + +Brusquely she changed the subject. + +“And your novel, Monsieur Vence?” + +“I have reached the last chapter, Madame. My little workingman has been +guillotined. He died with that indifference of virgins without desire, +who never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The +journals and the public approve the act of justice which has just been +accomplished. But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and +a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory murder.” + +He rose and said good-night. + +She called him back. + +“Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me.” + +When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his +red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge’s cap framing his pale and +hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of +his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue, +a collection of the annual budgets. Before she could reach her room he +motioned that he wished to speak to her. + +“My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It +does you a great deal of harm. You intend to leave your home without any +reason, without even a pretext. And you wish to run through Europe with +whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard--that man Choulette.” + +She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there +could be nothing objectionable. + +“But you announce your going to everybody, yet you do not even know +whether Madame Marmet can accompany you.” + +“Oh, Madame Marmet will soon pack her boxes. Nothing keeps her in Paris +except her dog. She will leave it to you; you may take care of it.” + +“Does your father know of your project?” + +It was his last resource to invoke the authority of Montessuy. He knew +that his wife feared to displease her father. He insisted: + +“Your father is full of sense and tact. I have been happy to find him +agreeing with me several times in the advices which I have permitted +myself to give you. He thinks as I do, that Madame Meillan’s house is +not a fit place for you to visit. The company that meets there is mixed, +and the mistress of the house favors intrigue. You are wrong, I must +say, not to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your +father does not think it singular that you should go away with so much +frivolity, and the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since +circumstances have made me eminent in the course of this legislature. My +merit has nothing to do with the case, surely. But if you had consented +to listen to me at dinner I should have demonstrated to you that the +group of politicians to which I belong has almost reached power. In such +a moment you should not renounce your duties as mistress of the house. +You must understand this yourself.” + +She replied “You annoy me.” And, turning her back to him, she shut the +door of her room between them. That night in her bed she opened a book, +as she always did before going to sleep. It was a novel. She was turning +the leaves with indifference, when her eyes fell on these lines: + +“Love is like devotion: it comes late. A woman is hardly in love or +devout at twenty, unless she has a special disposition to be either, a +sort of native sanctity. Women who are predestined to love, themselves +struggle a long time against that grace of love which is more terrible +than the thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest +yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude does not +frighten her. Passion is an arid and burning desert. Passion is profane +asceticism, as harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as +rare as great penitent women. Those who know life well know that women +do not easily bind themselves in the chains of real love. They know that +nothing is less common than sacrifice among them. And consider how much +a worldly woman must sacrifice when she is in love--liberty, quietness, +the charming play of a free mind, coquetry, amusement, pleasure--she +loses everything. + +“Coquetry is permissible. One may conciliate that with all the +exigencies of fashionable life. Not so love. Love is the least mundane +of passions, the most anti-social, the most savage, the most barbarous. +So the world judges it more severely than mere gallantry or looseness +of manners. In one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays +her nature and fails in her function, which is to be admired by all men, +like a work of art. A woman is a work of art, the most marvellous that +man’s industry ever has produced. A woman is a wonderful artifice, due +to the concourse of all the arts mechanical and of all the arts liberal. +She is the work of everybody, she belongs to the world.” + +Therese closed the book and thought that these ideas were only the +dreams of novelists who did not know life. She knew very well that there +was in reality neither a Carmel of passion nor a chain of love, nor +a beautiful and terrible vocation against which the predestined +one resisted in vain; she knew very well that love was only a brief +intoxication from which one recovered a little sadder. And yet, perhaps, +she did not know everything; perhaps there were loves in which one was +deliciously lost. She put out her lamp. The dreams of her first youth +came back to her. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. A DISTINGUISHED RELICT + +It was raining. Madame Martin-Belleme saw confusedly through the glass +of her coupe the multitude of passing umbrellas, like black turtles +under the watery skies. She was thinking. Her thoughts were gray and +indistinct, like the aspect of the streets and the squares. + +She no longer knew why the idea had come to her to spend a month with +Miss Bell. Truly, she never had known. The idea had been like a spring, +at first hidden by leaves, and now forming the current of a deep and +rapid stream. She remembered that Tuesday night at dinner she had said +suddenly that she wished to go, but she could not remember the first +flush of that desire. It was not the wish to act toward Robert Le Menil +as he was acting toward her. Doubtless she thought it excellent to go +travelling in Italy while he went fox-hunting. This seemed to her a +fair arrangement. Robert, who was always pleased to see her when he came +back, would not find her on his return. She thought this would be right. +She had not thought of it at first. And since then she had thought +little of it, and really she was not going for the pleasure of making +him grieve. She had against him a thought less piquant, and more +harsh. She did not wish to see him soon. He had become to her almost +a stranger. He seemed to her a man like others--better than most +others--good-looking, estimable, and who did not displease her; but he +did not preoccupy her. Suddenly he had gone out of her life. She could +not remember how he had become mingled with it. The idea of belonging +to him shocked her. The thought that they might meet again in the small +apartment of the Rue Spontini was so painful to her that she discarded +it at once. She preferred to think that an unforeseen event would +prevent their meeting again--the end of the world, for example. M. +Lagrange, member of the Academie des Sciences, had told her the day +before of a comet which some day might meet the earth, envelop it with +its flaming hair, imbue animals and plants with unknown poisons, and +make all men die in a frenzy of laughter. She expected that this, or +something else, would happen next month. It was not inexplicable that +she wished to go. But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy, +that she should feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable +to her. + +Her carriage left her at the corner of a street. + +There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small, +neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband. + +Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite M. +Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had +remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet’s +funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech +delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet thought +that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They dined together +often with rich friends. + +Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a +flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes +the good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told +her the day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her +whether she had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth +devoured by flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her +with affected gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were +not many books in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor. +It amazed one to see in this good lady’s house that Etruscan warrior +wearing a green bronze helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of +bonbons, vases of gilded porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin, +picked up at Lucerne and on the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood, +had sold the books which her husband had left. Of all the ancient +objects collected by the archaeologist, she had retained nothing except +the Etruscan. Many persons had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had +obtained from the administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but +the good widow would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost +that warrior with his green bronze helmet she would lose the name that +she wore worthily, and would cease to be the widow of Louis Marmet of +the Academie des Inscriptions. + +“Do not be afraid, Madame; a comet will not soon strike the earth. Such +a phenomenon is very improbable.” + +Madame Martin replied that she knew no serious reason why the earth and +humanity should not be annihilated at once. + +Old Lagrange exclaimed with profound sincerity that he hoped the +cataclysm would come as late as possible. + +She looked at him. His bald head could boast only a few hairs dyed +black. His eyelids fell like rags over eyes still smiling; his cheeks +hung in loose folds, and one divined that his body was equally withered. +She thought, “And even he likes life!” + +Madame Marmet hoped, too, that the end of the world was not near at +hand. + +“Monsieur Lagrange,” said Madame Martin, “you live, do you not, in +a pretty little house, the windows of which overlook the Botanical +Gardens? It seems to me it must be a joy to live in that garden, which +makes me think of the Noah’s Ark of my infancy, and of the terrestrial +paradises in the old Bibles.” + +But he was not at all charmed with his house. It was small, unimproved, +infested with rats. + +She acknowledged that one seldom felt at home anywhere, and that rats +were found everywhere, either real or symbolical, legions of pests that +torment us. Yet she liked the Botanical Gardens; she had always wished +to go there, yet never had gone. There was also the museum, which she +was curious to visit. + +Smiling, happy, he offered to escort her there. He considered it his +house. He would show her rare specimens, some of which were superb. + +She did not know what a bolide was. She recalled that some one had +said to her that at the museum were bones carved by primitive men, and +plaques of ivory on which were engraved pictures of animals, which were +long ago extinct. She asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to +smile. He replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his +colleagues. + +“Ah!” said Madame Martin, “then they are not in your showcase.” + +She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is +indiscreet to question them on things that are not in their own +showcases. It is true that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in +studying meteors. This had led him to study comets. But he was wise. For +twenty years he had been preoccupied by nothing except dining out. + +When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected +of her. + +“I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming +with me.” + +The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent +for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. MADAME HAS HER WAY + +The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran, +and the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell +from the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came +and went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a +small rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one’s hand. Countess +Martin and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under +the rack loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions. +Choulette had not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer. +Yet he had promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements +to go, and had received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices. +Paul Vence had brought him one evening to Madame Martin’s house. He +had been sweet, polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had +promised herself much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius, +original, picturesquely ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child +prematurely old and abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree +of innocence. The doors closed. She expected him no longer. She should +not have counted on his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment +when the engine began to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was +looking out of the window, said, quietly: + +“I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming.” + +He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his +head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost +repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so +clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been +retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express +the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist. When she saw him, +Therese regretted having invited so strange a companion. He walked +along, throwing a hasty glance into every carriage--a glance which, +little by little, became sullen and distrustful. But when he recognized +Madame Martin, he smiled so sweetly and said good-morning to her in so +caressing a voice that nothing was left of the ferocious old vagabond +walking on the quay, nothing except the old carpet-bag, the handles of +which were half broken. + +He placed it in the rack with great care, among the elegant bags +enveloped with gray cloth, beside which it looked conspicuously sordid. +It was studded with yellow flowers on a blood-colored background. + +He was soon perfectly at ease, and complimented Madame Martin on the +elegance of her travelling attire. + +“Excuse me, ladies,” he added, “I was afraid I should be late. I went +to six o’clock mass at Saint Severin, my parish, in the Virgin Chapel, +under those pretty, but absurd columns that point toward heaven though +frail as reeds-like us, poor sinners that we are.” + +“Ah,” said Madame Martin, “you are pious to-day.” + +And she asked him whether he wore the cordon of the order which he was +founding. He assumed a grave and penitent air. + +“I am afraid, Madame, that Monsieur Paul Vence has told you many absurd +stories about me. I have heard that he goes about circulating rumors +that my ribbon is a bell-rope--and of what a bell! I should be pained if +anybody believed so wretched a story. My ribbon, Madame, is a symbolical +ribbon. It is represented by a simple thread, which one wears under +one’s clothes after a pauper has touched it, as a sign that poverty is +holy, and that it will save the world. There is nothing good except in +poverty; and since I have received the price of Les Blandices, I feel +that I am unjust and harsh. It is a good thing that I have placed in my +bag several of these mystic ribbons.” + +And, pointing to the horrible carpet-bag: + +“I have also placed in it a host which a bad priest gave to me, the +works of Monsieur de Maistre, shirts, and several other things:” + +Madame Martin lifted her eyebrows, a little ill at ease. But the good +Madame Marmet retained her habitual placidity. + +As the train rolled through the homely scenes of the outskirts, that +black fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city, Choulette took +from his pocket an old book which he began to fumble. The writer, hidden +under the vagabond, revealed himself. Choulette, without wishing to +appear to be careful of his papers, was very orderly about them. He +assured himself that he had not lost the pieces of paper on which +he noted at the coffeehouse his ideas for poems, nor the dozen of +flattering letters which, soiled and spotted, he carried with him +continually, to read them to his newly-made companions at night. After +assuring himself that nothing was missing, he took from the book a +letter folded in an open envelope. He waved it for a while, with an air +of mysterious impudence, then handed it to the Countess Martin. It was +a letter of introduction from the Marquise de Rieu to a princess of the +House of France, a near relative of the Comte de Chambord, who, old and +a widow, lived in retirement near the gates of Florence. Having enjoyed +the effect which he expected to produce, he said that he should perhaps +visit the Princess; that she was a good person, and pious. + +“A truly great lady,” he added, “who does not show her magnificence +in gowns and hats. She wears her chemises for six weeks, and sometimes +longer. The gentlemen of her train have seen her wear very dirty white +stockings, which fell around her heels. The virtues of the great queens +of Spain are revived in her. Oh, those soiled stockings, what real glory +there is in them!” + +He took the letter and put it back in his book. Then, arming himself +with a horn-handled knife, he began, with its point, to finish a figure +sketched in the handle of his stick. He complimented himself on it: + +“I am skilful in all the arts of beggars and vagabonds. I know how to +open locks with a nail, and how to carve wood with a bad knife.” + +The head began to appear. It was the head of a thin woman, weeping. + +Choulette wished to express in it human misery, not simple and touching, +such as men of other times may have felt it in a world of mingled +harshness and kindness; but hideous, and reflecting the state of +ugliness created by the free-thinking bourgeois and the military +patriots of the French Revolution. According to him the present regime +embodied only hypocrisy and brutality. + +“Their barracks are a hideous invention of modern times. They date from +the seventeenth century. Before that time there were only guard-houses +where the soldiers played cards and told tales. Louis XIV was a +precursor of Bonaparte. But the evil has attained its plenitude since +the monstrous institution of the obligatory enlistment. The shame of +emperors and of republics is to have made it an obligation for men to +kill. In the ages called barbarous, cities and princes entrusted their +defence to mercenaries, who fought prudently. In a great battle only +five or six men were killed. And when knights went to the wars, at least +they were not forced to do it; they died for their pleasure. They were +good for nothing else. Nobody in the time of Saint Louis would have +thought of sending to battle a man of learning. And the laborer was +not torn from the soil to be killed. Nowadays it is a duty for a poor +peasant to be a soldier. He is exiled from his house, the roof of which +smokes in the silence of night; from the fat prairies where the oxen +graze; from the fields and the paternal woods. He is taught how to kill +men; he is threatened, insulted, put in prison and told that it is +an honor; and, if he does not care for that sort of honor, he is +fusilladed. He obeys because he is terrorized, and is of all domestic +animals the gentlest and most docile. We are warlike in France, and we +are citizens. Another reason to be proud, this being a citizen! For the +poor it consists in sustaining and preserving the wealthy in their power +and their laziness. The poor must work for this, in presence of the +majestic quality of the law which prohibits the wealthy as well as the +poor from sleeping under the bridges, from begging in the streets, and +from stealing bread. That is one of the good effects of the Revolution. +As this Revolution was made by fools and idiots for the benefit of those +who acquired national lands, and resulted in nothing but making the +fortune of crafty peasants and financiering bourgeois, the Revolution +only made stronger, under the pretence of making all men equal, the +empire of wealth. It has betrayed France into the hands of the men of +wealth. They are masters and lords. The apparent government, composed of +poor devils, is in the pay of the financiers. For one hundred years, in +this poisoned country, whoever has loved the poor has been considered +a traitor to society. A man is called dangerous when he says that there +are wretched people. There are laws against indignation and pity, and +what I say here could not go into print.” + +Choulette became excited and waved his knife, while under the wintry +sunlight passed fields of brown earth, trees despoiled by winter, and +curtains of poplars beside silvery rivers. + +He looked with tenderness at the figure carved on his stick. + +“Here you are,” he said, “poor humanity, thin and weeping, stupid with +shame and misery, as you were made by your masters--soldiers and men of +wealth.” + +The good Madame Marmet, whose nephew was a captain in the artillery, was +shocked at the violence with which Choulette attacked the army. Madame +Martin saw in this only an amusing fantasy. Choulette’s ideas did not +frighten her. She was afraid of nothing. But she thought they were a +little absurd. She did not think that the past had ever been better than +the present. + +“I believe, Monsieur Choulette, that men were always as they are to-day, +selfish, avaricious, and pitiless. I believe that laws and manners were +always harsh and cruel to the unfortunate.” + +Between La Roche and Dijon they took breakfast in the dining-car, and +left Choulette in it, alone with his pipe, his glass of benedictine, and +his irritation. + +In the carriage, Madame Marmet talked with peaceful tenderness of +the husband she had lost. He had married her for love; he had written +admirable verses to her, which she had kept, and never shown to any one. +He was lively and very gay. One would not have thought it who had seen +him later, tired by work and weakened by illness. He studied until the +last moment. Two hours before he died he was trying to read again. +He was affectionate and kind. Even in suffering he retained all his +sweetness. Madame Martin said to her: + +“You have had long years of happiness; you have kept the reminiscence of +them; that is a share of happiness in this world.” + +But good Madame Marmet sighed; a cloud passed over her quiet brow. + +“Yes,” she said, “Louis was the best of men and the best of husbands. +Yet he made me very miserable. He had only one fault, but I suffered +from it cruelly. He was jealous. Good, kind, tender, and generous as he +was, this horrible passion made him unjust, ironical, and violent. I can +assure you that my behavior gave not the least cause for suspicion. I +was not a coquette. But I was young, fresh; I passed for beautiful. +That was enough. He would not let me go out alone, and would not let +me receive calls in his absence. Whenever we went to a reception, I +trembled in advance with the fear of the scene which he would make later +in the carriage.” + +And the good Madame Marmet added, with a sigh: + +“It is true that I liked to dance. But I had to renounce going to balls; +it made him suffer too much.” + +Countess Martin expressed astonishment. She had always imagined Marmet +as an old man, timid, and absorbed by his thoughts; a little ridiculous, +between his wife, plump, white, and amiable, and the skeleton wearing a +helmet of bronze and gold. But the excellent widow confided to her that, +at fifty-five years of age, when she was fifty-three, Louis was just as +jealous as on the first day of their marriage. + +And Therese thought that Robert had never tormented her with jealousy. +Was it on his part a proof of tact and good taste, a mark of confidence, +or was it that he did not love her enough to make her suffer? She did +not know, and she did not have the heart to try to know. She would have +to look through recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open. + +She murmured carelessly: + +“We long to be loved, and when we are loved we are tormented or +worried.” + +The day was finished in reading and thinking. Choulette did not +reappear. Night covered little by little with its gray clouds the +mulberry-trees of the Dauphine. Madame Marmet went to sleep peacefully, +resting on herself as on a mass of pillows. Therese looked at her and +thought: + +“She is happy, since she likes to remember.” + +The sadness of night penetrated her heart. And when the moon rose on +the fields of olive-trees, seeing the soft lines of plains and of hills +pass, Therese, in this landscape wherein everything spoke of peace and +oblivion, and nothing spoke of her, regretted the Seine, the Arc de +Triomphe with its radiating avenues, and the alleys of the park where, +at least, the trees and the stones knew her. + +Suddenly Choulette threw himself into the carriage. Armed with his +knotty stick, his face and head enveloped in red wool and a fur cap, +he almost frightened her. It was what he wished to do. His violent +attitudes and his savage dress were studied. Always seeking to produce +effects, it pleased him to seem frightful. + +He was a coward himself, and was glad to inspire the fears he often +felt. A moment before, as he was smoking his pipe, he had felt, while +seeing the moon swallowed up by the clouds, one of those childish +frights that tormented his light mind. He had come near the Countess to +be reassured. + +“Arles,” he said. “Do you know Arles? It is a place of pure beauty. I +have seen, in the cloister, doves resting on the shoulders of statues, +and I have seen the little gray lizards warming themselves in the sun on +the tombs. The tombs are now in two rows on the road that leads to the +church. They are formed like cisterns, and serve as beds for the poor at +night. One night, when I was walking among them, I met a good old woman +who was placing dried herbs in the tomb of an old maid who had died +on her wedding-day. We said goodnight to her. She replied: ‘May God +hear-you! but fate wills that this tomb should open on the side of the +northwest wind. If only it were open on the other side, I should be +lying as comfortably as Queen Jeanne.’” + +Therese made no answer. She was dozing. And Choulette shivered in the +cold of the night, in the fear of death. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE LADY OF THE BELLS + +In her English cart, which she drove herself, Miss Bell had brought +over the hills, from the railway station at Florence, the Countess +Martin-Belleme and Madame Marmet to her pink-tinted house at Fiesole, +which, crowned with a long balustrade, overlooked the incomparable city. +The maid followed with the luggage. Choulette, lodged, by Miss Bell’s +attention, in the house of a sacristan’s widow, in the shadow of the +cathedral of Fiesole, was not expected until dinner. Plain and gentle, +wearing short hair, a waistcoat, a man’s shirt on a chest like a boy’s, +almost graceful, with small hips, the poetess was doing for her French +friends the honors of the house, which reflected the ardent delicacy of +her taste. On the walls of the drawing-room were pale Virgins, with +long hands, reigning peacefully among angels, patriarchs, and saints in +beautiful gilded frames. On a pedestal stood a Magdalena, clothed only +with her hair, frightful with thinness and old age, some beggar of the +road to Pistoia, burned by the suns and the snows, whom some unknown +precursor of Donatello had moulded. And everywhere were Miss Bell’s +chosen arms-bells and cymbals. The largest lifted their bronze clappers +at the angles of the room; others formed a chain at the foot of the +walls. Smaller ones ran along the cornices. There were bells over the +hearth, on the cabinets, and on the chairs. The shelves were full of +silver and golden bells. There were big bronze bells marked with the +Florentine lily; bells of the Renaissance, representing a lady wearing +a white gown; bells of the dead, decorated with tears and bones; bells +covered with symbolical animals and leaves, which had rung in the +churches in the time of St. Louis; table-bells of the seventeenth +century, having a statuette for a handle; the flat, clear cow-bells of +the Ruth Valley; Hindu bells; Chinese bells formed like cylinders--they +had come from all countries and all times, at the magic call of little +Miss Bell. + +“You look at my speaking arms,” she said to Madame Martin. “I think +that all these Misses Bell are pleased to be here, and I should not be +astonished if some day they all began to sing together. But you must not +admire them all equally. Reserve your purest and most fervent praise for +this one.” + +And striking with her finger a dark, bare bell which gave a faint sound: + +“This one,” she said, “is a holy village-bell of the fifth century. She +is a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to +make the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show to +you a gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I bore +you, darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet. +It is wrong.” + +She escorted them to their rooms. + +An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and +lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her. The +humid air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring. +Therese, resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light. At her +feet, the cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees +looked like sheep on the hills. In the valley, Florence extended its +domes, its towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which +the Arno showed its undulating line. Beyond were the soft blue hills. + +She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her +first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace. Then +the charming infinity of the sky attracted her. She looked at the forms +in the clouds. + +After a long silence, Vivian Bell extended her hand toward the horizon. + +“Darling, I do not know how to say what I wish. But look, darling, look +again. What you see there is unique in the world. Nature is nowhere else +so subtle, elegant, and fine. The god who made the hills of Florence +was an artist. Oh, he was a jeweller, an engraver, a sculptor, a +bronze-founder, and a painter; he was a Florentine. He did nothing else +in the world, darling. The rest was made by a hand less delicate, whose +work was less perfect. How can you think that that violet hill of San +Miniato, so firm and so pure in relief, was made by the author of Mont +Blanc? It is not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an antique +medal and of a precious painting. It is a perfect and measured work of +art. And here is another thing that I do not know how to say, that I +can not even understand, but which is a real thing. In this country I +feel--and you will feel as I do, darling--half alive and half dead; in +a condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look again; you +will realize the melancholy of those hills that surround Florence, and +see a delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead.” + +The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the +mountain-peaks faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky. +Madame Marmet sneezed. + +Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the +evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous. + +Then suddenly she said: + +“Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that +he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre +is to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and +to the museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful +things, because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a +sculptor. His figures in medallions are admired more in England than in +France. Oh, I am so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet +at Florence, darling!” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND + +She next day, as they were traversing the square where are planted, in +imitation of antique amphitheatres, two marble pillars, Madame Marmet +said to the Countess Martin: + +“I think I see Monsieur Choulette.” + +Seated in a shoemaker’s shop, his pipe in his hand, Choulette was making +rhythmic gestures, and appeared to be reciting verses. The Florentine +cobbler listened with a kind smile. He was a little, bald man, and +represented one of the types familiar to Flemish painters. On a table, +among wooden lasts, nails, leather, and wax, a basilic plant displayed +its round green head. A sparrow, lacking a leg, which had been replaced +by a match, hopped on the old man’s shoulder and head. + +Madame Martin, amused by this spectacle, called Choulette from the +threshold. He was softly humming a tune, and she asked him why he had +not gone with her to visit the Spanish chapel. + +He arose and replied: + +“Madame, you are preoccupied by vain images; but I live in life and in +truth.” + +He shook the cobbler’s hand and followed the two ladies. + +“While going to church,” he said, “I saw this old man, who, bending over +his work, and pressing a last between his knees as in a vise, was sewing +coarse shoes. I felt that he was simple and kind. I said to him, in +Italian: ‘My father, will you drink with me a glass of Chianti?’ He +consented. He went for a flagon and some glasses, and I kept the shop.” + +And Choulette pointed to two glasses and a flagon placed on a stove. + +“When he came back we drank together; I said vague but kind things to +him, and I charmed him by the sweetness of sounds. I will go again +to his shop; I will learn from him how to make shoes, and how to live +without desire. After which, I shall not be sad again. For desire and +idleness alone make us sad.” + +The Countess Martin smiled. + +“Monsieur Choulette, I desire nothing, and, nevertheless, I am not +joyful. Must I make shoes, too?” + +Choulette replied, gravely: + +“It is not yet time for that.” + +When they reached the gardens of the Oricellari, Madame Marmet sank on +a bench. She had examined at Santa Maria-Novella the frescoes of +Ghirlandajo, the stalls of the choir, the Virgin of Cimabue, the +paintings in the cloister. She had done this carefully, in memory of her +husband, who had greatly liked Italian art. She was tired. Choulette sat +by her and said: + +“Madame, could you tell me whether it is true that the Pope’s gowns are +made by Worth?” + +Madame Marmet thought not. Nevertheless, Choulette had heard people say +this in cafes. Madame Marmet was astonished that Choulette, a Catholic +and a socialist, should speak so disrespectfully of a pope friendly to +the republic. But he did not like Leo XIII. + +“The wisdom of princes is shortsighted,” he said; “the salvation of the +Church must come from the Italian republic, as Leo XIII believes and +wishes; but the Church will not be saved in the manner which this pious +Machiavelli thinks. The revolution will make the Pope lose his last +sou, with the rest of his patrimony. And it will be salvation. The +Pope, destitute and poor, will then become powerful. He will agitate the +world. We shall see again Peter, Lin, Clet, Anaclet, and Clement; the +humble, the ignorant; men like the early saints will change the face +of the earth. If to-morrow, in the chair of Peter, came to sit a real +bishop, a real Christian, I would go to him, and say: ‘Do not be an +old man buried alive in a golden tomb; quit your noble guards and your +cardinals; quit your court and its similacrums of power. Take my arm and +come with me to beg for your bread among the nations. Covered with rags, +poor, ill, dying, go on the highways, showing in yourself the image of +Jesus. Say, “I am begging my bread for the condemnation of the wealthy.” + Go into the cities, and shout from door to door, with a sublime +stupidity, “Be humble, be gentle, be poor!” Announce peace and charity +to the cities, to the dens, and to the barracks. You will be disdained; +the mob will throw stones at you. Policemen will drag you into prison. +You shall be for the humble as for the powerful, for the poor as for +the rich, a subject of laughter, an object of disgust and of pity. Your +priests will dethrone you, and elevate against you an anti-pope, or will +say that you are crazy. And it is necessary that they should tell the +truth; it is necessary that you should be crazy; the lunatics have +saved the world. Men will give to you the crown of thorns and the reed +sceptre, and they will spit in your face, and it is by that sign that +you will appear as Christ and true king; and it is by such means that +you will establish Christian socialism, which is the kingdom of God on +earth.’” + +Having spoken in this way, Choulette lighted one of those long and +tortuous Italian cigars, which are pierced with a straw. He drew from it +several puffs of infectious vapor, then he continued, tranquilly: + +“And it would be practical. You may refuse to acknowledge any quality in +me except my clear view of situations. Ah, Madame Marmet, you will +never know how true it is that the great works of this world were always +achieved by madmen. Do you think, Madame Martin, that if Saint Francis +of Assisi had been reasonable, he would have poured upon the earth, +for the refreshment of peoples, the living water of charity and all the +perfumes of love?” + +“I do not know,” replied Madame Martin; “but reasonable people have +always seemed to me to be bores. I can say this to you, Monsieur +Choulette.” + +They returned to Fiesole by the steam tramway which goes up the hill. +The rain fell. Madame Marmet went to sleep and Choulette complained. All +his ills came to attack him at once: the humidity in the air gave him +a pain in the knee, and he could not bend his leg; his carpet-bag, lost +the day before in the trip from the station to Fiesole, had not been +found, and it was an irreparable disaster; a Paris review had just +published one of his poems, with typographical errors as glaring as +Aphrodite’s shell. + +He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile, +absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened, +thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found +Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of +parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses +which she had composed in the night. At her friend’s coming she raised +her little face, plain but illuminated by splendid eyes. + +“Darling, permit me to introduce to you the Prince Albertinelli.” + +The Prince possessed a certain youthful, godlike beauty, that his black +beard intensified. He bowed. + +“Madame, you would make one love France, if that sentiment were not +already in our hearts.” + +The Countess and Choulette asked Miss Bell to read to them the verses +she was writing. She excused herself from reciting her uncertain cadence +to the French poet, whom she liked best after Francois Villon. Then she +recited in her pretty, hissing, birdlike voice. + +“That is very pretty,” said Choulette, “and bears the mark of Italy +softly veiled by the mists of Thule.” + +“Yes,” said the Countess Martin, “that is pretty. But why, dear Vivian, +did your two beautiful innocents wish to die?” + +“Oh, darling, because they felt as happy as possible, and desired +nothing more. It was discouraging, darling, discouraging. How is it that +you do not understand that?” + +“And do you think that if we live the reason is that we hope?” + +“Oh, yes. We live in the hope of what to-morrow, tomorrow, king of the +land of fairies, will bring in his black mantle studded with stars, +flowers, and tears. Oh, bright king, To-morrow!” + + + + +BOOK 2. + + + + +CHAPTER X. DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE + +They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was sketching +monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know what they +would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express rare ideas +in odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in this way +that she often found her inspiration. + +Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian ‘O Lola’! His +soft fingers hardly touched the keys. + +Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles +that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a +needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and +which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the +strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought +he had lost it in the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti +Palace; and he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian +painters. + +Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said: + +“I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my +hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the reason +why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the +farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not +more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than +myself. The sacristan’s widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not +permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work +which we can do ourselves with noble pride.” + +The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who +for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company +of Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which her companion +caused her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances +to persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the +frescoes of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M. +Schmoll, the Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback. +She was terrified at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas +back to her little circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an +easy turn, which irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice +the public meetings at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne, +the evening receptions where shone the worldly and the spiritualist +philosophers. As for the women, they were all charming and +irreproachable. She dined with all of them. And Therese thought: “She +is too prudent. She bores me.” And she thought of leaving her at Fiesole +and visiting the churches alone. Employing a word that Le Menil had +taught her, she said to herself: + +“I will ‘plant’ Madame Marmet.” + +A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his white +imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed, +under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and +voluptuousness. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the +Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now celebrated +in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess +Martin at once. She questioned him on his methods, and on the results +he obtained from them. He said that he worked with prudent energy. “The +earth,” he said, “is like women. The earth does not wish one to treat +it with either timidity or brutality.” The Ave Maria rang in all +the campaniles, seeming to make of the sky an immense instrument of +religious music. “Darling,” said Miss Bell, “do you observe that the air +of Florence is made sonorous and silvery at night by the sound of the +bells?” + +“It is singular,” said Choulette, “we have the air of people who are +waiting for something.” + +Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a +little late; she feared he had missed the train. + +Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely “Madame Marmet, +is it possible for you to look at a door--a simple, painted, wooden +door like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like any +other--without being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor who +might, at any moment, come in? The door of one’s room, Madame Marmet, +opens on the infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one ever +know the true name of the man or woman, who, under a human guise, with a +known face, in ordinary clothes, comes into one’s house?” + +He added that when he was closeted in his room he could not look at the +door without feeling his hair stand on end. But Madame Marmet saw the +doors of her rooms open without fear. She knew the name of every one who +came to see her--charming persons. + +Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: “Madame +Marmet, those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names +which you do not know, and which are their real names.” + +Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to +cross the threshold in order to enter one’s life. + +“Misfortune is ingenious and subtle. It comes by the window, it goes +through walls. It does not always show itself, but it is always there. +The poor doors are innocent of the coming of that unwelcome visitor.” + +Choulette warned Madame Martin severely that she should not call +misfortune an unwelcome visitor. + +“Misfortune is our greatest master and our best friend. Misfortune +teaches us the meaning of life. Madame, when you suffer, you know what +you must know; you believe what you must believe; you do what you must +do; you are what you must be. And you shall have joy, which pleasure +expels. True joy is timid, and does not find pleasure among a +multitude.” + +Prince Albertinelli said that Miss Bell and her French friends did not +need to be unfortunate in order to be perfect, and that the doctrine of +perfection reached by suffering was a barbarous cruelty, held in horror +under the beautiful sky of Italy. When the conversation languished, +he prudently sought again at the piano the phrases of the graceful and +banal Sicilian air, fearing to slip into an air of Trovatore, which was +written in the same manner. + +Vivian Bell questioned the monsters she had created, and complained of +their absurd replies. + +“At this moment,” she said, “I should like to hear speak only figures +on tapestries which should say tender things, ancient and precious as +themselves.” + +And the handsome Prince, carried away by the flood of melody, sang. His +voice displayed itself like a peacock’s plumage, and died in spasms of +“ohs” and “ahs.” + +The good Madame Marmet, her eyes fixed on the door, said: + +“I think that Monsieur Dechartre is coming.” + +He came in, animated, with joy on his usually grave face. + +Miss Bell welcomed him with birdlike cries. + +“Monsieur Dechartre, we were impatient to see you. Monsieur Choulette +was talking evil of doors--yes, of doors of houses; and he was saying +also that misfortune is a very obliging old gentleman. You have lost +all these beautiful things. You have made us wait very long, Monsieur +Dechartre. Why?” + +He apologized; he had taken only the time to go to his hotel and change +his dress. He had not even gone to bow to his old friend the bronze San +Marco, so imposing in his niche on the San Michele wall. He praised the +poetess and saluted the Countess Martin with joy hardly concealed. + +“Before quitting Paris I went to your house, where I was told you had +gone to wait for spring at Fiesole, with Miss Bell. I then had the hope +of finding you in this country, which I love now more than ever.” + +She asked him whether he had gone to Venice, and whether he had seen +again at Ravenna the empresses wearing aureolas, and the phantoms that +had formerly dazzled him. + +No, he had not stopped anywhere. + +She said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the wall, on +the St. Paulin bell. + +He said to her: + +“You are looking at the Nolette.” + +Vivian Bell laid aside her papers and her pencils. + +“You shall soon see a marvel, Monsieur Dechartre. I have found the queen +of small bells. I found it at Rimini, in an old building in ruins, which +is used as a warehouse. I bought it and packed it myself. I am waiting +for it. You shall see. It bears a Christ on a cross, between the Virgin +and Saint John, the date of 1400, and the arms of Malatesta--Monsieur +Dechartre, you are not listening enough. Listen to me attentively. In +1400 Lorenzo Ghiberti, fleeing from war and the plague, took refuge at +Rimini, at Paola Malatesta’s house. It was he that modelled the figures +of my bell. And you shall see here, next week, Ghiberti’s work.” + +The servant announced that dinner was served. + +Miss Bell apologized for serving to them Italian dishes. Her cook was a +poet of Fiesole. + +At table, before the fiascani enveloped with corn straw, they talked of +the fifteenth century, which they loved. Prince Albertinelli praised the +artists of that epoch for their universality, for the fervent love they +gave to their art, and for the genius that devoured them. He talked with +emphasis, in a caressing voice. + +Dechartre admired them. But he admired them in another way. + +“To praise in a becoming manner,” he said, “those men, who worked so +heartily, the praise should be modest and just. They should be placed in +their workshops, in the shops where they worked as artisans. It is +there that one may admire their simplicity and their genius. They were +ignorant and rude. They had read little and seen little. The hills that +surround Florence were the boundary of their horizon. They knew +only their city, the Holy Scriptures, and some fragments of antique +sculptures, studied and caressed lovingly.” + +“You are right,” said Professor Arrighi. “They had no other care than to +use the best processes. Their minds bent only on preparing varnish and +mixing colors. The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel, +in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split, +passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae.” + +“Happy time,” said Dechartre, “when nobody troubled himself about that +originality for which we are so avidly seeking to-day. The apprentice +tried to work like the master. He had no other ambition than to resemble +him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the +others. They worked not for glory, but to live.” + +“They were right,” said Choulette. “Nothing is better than to work for a +living.” + +“The desire to attain fame,” continued Dechartre, “did not trouble them. +As they did not know the past, they did not conceive the future; and +their dream did not go beyond their lives. They exercised a powerful +will in working well. Being simple, they made few mistakes, and saw the +truth which our intelligence conceals from us.” + +Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he +had made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom +the Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction. He liked +to impress upon people the fact that he, the Bohemian and vagabond, had +been received by that royal Princess, at whose house neither Miss +Bell nor the Countess Martin would have been admitted, and whom Prince +Albertinelli prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony. + +“She devotes herself,” said the Prince, “to the practices of piety.” + +“She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity,” said Choulette. +“In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes +the most rigorous etiquette to be observed, so that her grandeur is +almost a penance, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the +church. It is a village church, where the chickens roam, while the +‘cure’ plays briscola with the sacristan.” + +And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a +servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely: + +“After waiting in consecutive anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss +her hand.” + +And he stopped. + +Madame Martin asked, impatiently: + +“What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility +and her simplicity?” + +“She said to me: ‘Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently +new and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.’ She +said also ‘We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are not +better. He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous plaster which +has not yet come off.’ Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned +to address to me. O simple grandeur! O Christian virtue! O daughter +of Saint Louis! O marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of +Hungary!” + +Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he +denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin +was wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people +were always jesting. + +Then they reverted to the subject of art, which in that country is +inhaled with the air. + +“As for me,” said the Countess Martin, “I am not learned enough to +admire Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that +art of the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen +piety and purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they +are very pretty. The rest, those figures of Virgins and angels, are +voluptuous, caressing, and at times perversely ingenuous. What is there +religious in those young Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint +Sebastian, brilliant with youth, who seems merely the dolorous Bacchus +of Christianity?” + +Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be +right, she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and, +finding no piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all. + +“There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half +a Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect of Epicurus, and who +sought for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti +disdained the ignorant folk who believed in the immortality of the soul. +The following phrase by him was quoted: ‘The death of man is exactly +similar to that of brutes.’ Later, when antique beauty was excavated +from ruins, the Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that +worked in the churches and cloisters were neither devout nor chaste. +Perugino was an atheist, and did not conceal it.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Bell; “but it was said that his head was hard, and that +celestial truths, could not penetrate his thick cranium. He was harsh +and avaricious, and quite embedded in material interests. He thought +only of buying houses.” + +Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia. + +“He was,” he said, “an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of +Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk practised the art +of manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned +lapis-lazuli. Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the +prior, who doubtless had a secret, esteemed it more precious than rubies +or sapphires. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of +his convent, and he expected marvels, less from the skilfulness of the +master than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During +all the time that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history +of Jesus Christ, the prior kept by his side and presented to him the +precious powder in a bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it, +under the saintly man’s eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his +brush, loaded with color, in a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall +with it. He used in that manner a great quantity of the powder. And the +good father, seeing his bag getting thinner, sighed: ‘Jesus! How that +lime devours the ultramarine!’ When the frescoes were finished, and +Perugino had received from the monk the agreed price, he placed in +his hand a package of blue powder: ‘This is for you, father. Your +ultramarine which I took with my brush fell to the bottom of my cup, +whence I gathered it every day. I return it to you. Learn to trust +honest people.” + +“Oh,” said Therese, “there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that +Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the +least scrupulous. There are many misers who are honest.” + +“Naturally, darling,” said Miss Bell. “Misers do not wish to owe +anything, and prodigal people can bear to have debts. They do not think +of the money they have, and they think less of the money they owe. I +did not say that Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property. +I said that he had a hard business head and that he bought houses. I am +very glad to hear that he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the +Gesuati.” + +“Since your Pietro was rich,” said Choulette, “it was his duty to return +the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are +not.” + +At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver +bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase +which Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage, +after meals. + +“I wash my hands,” he said, “of the evil that Madame Martin does or may +do by her speech, or otherwise.” + +And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor +Arrighi. + +In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee: + +“Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn us to the savage sadness of +equality? Why, Daphnis’s flute would not be melodious if it were made of +seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between +masters and servants, aristocrats and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad +barbarian, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in +need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this +world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate her, nude and +in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor +little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to +abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in +society, the humble with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor +and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race.” + +“Enemies of the human race!” replied Choulette, while stirring his +coffee. “That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied to the Christians +who talked of divine love to him.” + +Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes +about art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times +prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he +had seen, to love all that he loved. + +He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of +spring. He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw +already the light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow +of laurel-trees falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of +Florence had nothing more to do than to serve as an adornment to this +young woman. + +He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics +of her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which +every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and +living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never +forgets. + +Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which had +pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure +taste. But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the +compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling +only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious details +of it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air. +She was resigned to the appreciation of women only, and these had in +their appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic +admiration of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received +agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was +too intimate and almost indiscreet. + +“So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?” + +No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, even +now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He found +no pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a woman having +rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her. + +He continued, in a tone a little more elevated: + +“I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day, +without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She +dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We +must, like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. To paint, +carve, or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit.” + +“Monsieur Dechartre,” asked Prince Albertinelli, “how do you think a +mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?” + +“I think,” said Choulette, “so little of a terrestrial future, that I +have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, +leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence.” + +He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never +lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not +desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this. + +“Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put +into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be +accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are +to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what +is, and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur +Dechartre? Beware, for God may hear you.” + +Dechartre replied: + +“It would be enough for me to live one moment more.” + +And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort +Madame Martin to the Brancacci chapel. + +An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon +citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, +her head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her +head, was thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her +new life: Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light +as shadows, ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a +little sad, and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the +Prince Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of +ideas, and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face. + +She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those +that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer +tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She +discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful +to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered. +She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being. +She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. +He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could +not see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She +was not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went straight +on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only +a black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps she had +been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell, +without even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. She never +had had another. “I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me,” + she thought. + +Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was +not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said +to herself: + +“He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he +admires.” She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety +of Florence. She had seen casually, at the Offices, a picture that +Dechartre liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein +Leonardo, the sculptor said, had expressed the minute profundity and +tragic refinement of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting +that she had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and +went to sleep. + +She dreamed that she met in a deserted church Robert Le Menil enveloped +in furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a +crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of +him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and +heard at the open window a sad, monotonous cry, and saw a humming-bird +darting about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began +to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. “THE DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE” + +She took pleasure in dressing early, with delicate and subtle taste. Her +dressing-room, an aesthetic fantasy of Vivian Bell, with its coarsely +varnished pottery, its tall copper pitchers, and its faience pavement, +like a chess-board, resembled a fairy’s kitchen. It was rustic and +marvellous, and the Countess Martin could have in it the agreeable +surprise of mistaking herself for a fairy. While her maid was dressing +her hair, she heard Dechartre and Choulette talking under her windows. +She rearranged all the work Pauline had done, and uncovered the line of +her nape, which was fine and pure. She looked at herself in the glass, +and went into the garden. + +Dechartre was there, reciting verses of Dante, and looking at Florence: +“At the hour when our mind, a greater stranger to the flesh...” + +Near him, Choulette, seated on the balustrade of the terrace, his legs +hanging, and his nose in his beard, was still at work on the figure of +Misery on his stick. + +Dechartre resumed the rhymes of the canticle: “At the hour when our +mind, a greater stranger to the flesh; and less under the obsession of +thoughts, is almost divine in its visions,...” + +She approached beside the boxwood hedge, holding a parasol and dressed +in a straw-colored gown. The faint sunlight of winter enveloped her in +pale gold. + +Dechartre greeted her joyfully. + +She said: + +“You are reciting verses that I do not know. I know only Metastasio. My +teacher liked only Metastasio. What is the hour when the mind has divine +visions?” + +“Madame, that hour is the dawn of the day. It may be also the dawn of +faith and of love.” + +Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave +at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether +strangers to the flesh. But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the +pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the +golden hills. He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images +that one sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not +related to the object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the +contrary, to ideas abandoned during the day. + +Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket. + +“Yes,” said Dechartre, “the things we see at night are unfortunate +remains of what we have neglected the day before. Dreams avenge things +one has disdained. They are reproaches of abandoned friends. Hence their +sadness.” + +She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said: + +“That is perhaps true.” + +Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait +of Misery on his stick. Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and +Choulette recognized the Virgin in it. He had even composed a quatrain +which he was to write on it in spiral form--a didactic and moral +quatrain. He would cease to write, except in the style of the +commandments of God rendered into French verses. The four lines +expressed simplicity and goodness. He consented to recite them. + +Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the +distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa, +almost as blue as the sky. Jacques Dechartre looked at her. It seemed +to him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he +discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested +with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace. The +daylight which she liked, was indulgent to her. And truly she was +pretty, bathed in that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms +and feeds noble thoughts. A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded +cheeks; her eyes, bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the +brilliancy of her teeth set off her lips of ardent sweetness. His look +embraced her supple bust, her full hips, and the bold attitude of her +waist. She held her parasol with her left hand, the other hand played +with violets. Dechartre had a mania for beautiful hands. Hands presented +to his eyes a physiognomy as striking as the face--a character, a soul. +These hands enchanted him. They were exquisite. He adored their slender +fingers, their pink nails, their palms soft and tender, traversed by +lines as elegant as arabesques, and rising at the base of the fingers +in harmonious mounts. He examined them with charmed attention until she +closed them on the handle of her umbrella. Then, standing behind her, he +looked at her again. Her bust and arms, graceful and pure in line, her +beautiful form, which was like that of a living amphora, pleased him. + +“Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens, +is it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many +flowers in them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees.” + +It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of +her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it. + +He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but +felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened, +seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things: + +“That view is beautiful, The weather is fine.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. HEARTS AWAKENED + +In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking +of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of +the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy, +who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the +illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and +resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in +language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the +adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark +and blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning +more charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those +magnificent forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was +through him, that she understood art and life. She took no interest in +things that did not interest him. How had this affection come to her? +She had no precise remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul +Vence wished to introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him, +no presentiment that he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze +statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked +at the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel’s. But she did not imagine +that he could be agreeable to her, or more seductive than many artists +and lovers of art at whom she laughed with her friends. When she saw +him, he pleased her; she had a desire to attract him, to see him often. +The night he dined at her house she realized that she had for him a +noble and elevating affection. But soon after he irritated her a little; +it made her impatient to see him closeted within himself and too little +preoccupied by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in that +state of impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the grille +of the Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and of the +Empress seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him serious +and charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the night, +but too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had felt +a sort of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along the +boxwood bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every day +or never to see him again. + +Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near +her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new. +He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened +in her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was +determined never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her +lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her. For a moment +she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer, +exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without +being exacting. But she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea. +If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare +to think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and +closing her eyes. + +She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when +Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope +marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the +handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only +astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, +when the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson. + +In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without +saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to +Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was +happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two +or three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he +regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her +house. + +“I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He +said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at +Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale +and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not +wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in +persuading you. + +“I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary, +that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter +resort. I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it. +Reassure me at once, I pray you. + +“Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your +husband and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it +annoys him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in +Paris. I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister. +This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among +fashionable people.” + +Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three +fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal +which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand. + +In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He +feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under +these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be +taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be +very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return +soon. + +Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire, +and calmly watched it burn. + +Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had +complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer? +Should she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so +indifferent to her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she +had no desire to be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle +toward him! Seeing that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn +tranquillity, she became sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was +the same man he had been before. She was not the same woman. They were +separated now by imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in +the air that make one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she +had not begun to write an answer. + +Anxious, she thought: “He trusts me. He suspects nothing.” This made her +more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were +simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others. + +She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The +latter said: + +“Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you? +Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls +naturally expressed.” + +Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, and +said: + +“May I look?” + +“Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the +popular songs of your country.” + +“Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me.” + +“Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several +meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very +clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly +disengage one’s self from what one has taken into the heart.” + +The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the +Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was +to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along +the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism. +As they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and +terraces ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend +the villa, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers +of the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and +diverted one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then +she confessed the thought which had come to her the day before. + +“You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had +left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate +and polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of +distinction who live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my +cook Pompaloni does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them, +but he puts the salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet’s tongue is very +sweet, but the salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like +Pompaloni’s dish, my love--each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like +Madame Marmet a great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found +her alone and sad in a corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking +mournfully of her husband. I said to her: ‘Do you wish me to think of +your husband, too? I will think of him with you. I have been told that +he was a learned man, a member of the Royal Society of Paris. Madame +Marmet, talk to me of him.’ She replied that he had devoted himself +to the Etruscans, and that he had given to them his entire life. Oh, +darling, I cherished at once the memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who +lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to me. I said to +Madame Marmet, ‘We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, a modest +little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?’ She +replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to +the Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze +figures, grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were +a seriously gay people. They made bronze caricatures. But the +monkeys--some afflicted with big stomachs, others astonished to show +their bones--Madame Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration. She +contemplated them like--there is a beautiful French word that escapes +me--like the monuments and the trophies of Monsieur Marmet.” + +Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull, +the streets ugly, the passers-by common. + +“Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his +palace.” + +“I do not think so.” + +“Why, darling, why?” + +“Because I do not please him much.” + +Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great +admirer of the Countess Martin. + +The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade +were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held +rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the +most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The +Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons into +the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not +an attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio +Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now +fallen, had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering +the works of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin +several paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a +Mantegna. + +The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection; +she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the +darkness a bit of armor and a white horse. + +A valet presented a card. + +The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he +was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression +of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors. +Dechartre was on the staircase. + +The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero, +but Antinous. + +“I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace,” said +Miss Bell. “I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery.” + +And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. +Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. + +Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old +men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable +tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to +her, in a low tone: + +“This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world +hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that +Jews could not sell.” + +He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green +velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo. + +“I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London, +of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that +it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to +sell it for fifty thousand francs.” + +The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully. + +“There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm +that this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old +inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about +it.” + +And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures +by the pre-Raphaelites. + +Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese. +He had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again, +delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had +imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and +also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed +cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her; +that he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He +murmured bitterly in her ear: “I have reflected. I did not wish to come. +Why did I come?” She understood at once what he meant, that he feared +her now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her +that he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the +desires he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to +understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and +look at bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not +interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt +reassured, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived +the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said “No, +nothing interesting.” The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to +breakfast, asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused +himself. He was about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found +himself alone with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away +from her. He had no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled +to her that she was the next morning to visit the Bargello. “You have +permitted me to accompany you.” She asked him if he had not found her +moody and tiresome. Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he +feared she was sad. + +“Alas,” he added, “your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know +them.” She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. “You do not think +that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?” And she walked away +brusquely. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. “YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!” + +After dinner, in the salon of the bells, under the lamps from which +the great shades permitted only an obscure light to filter, good Madame +Marmet was warming herself by the hearth, with a white cat on her knees. +The evening was cool. Madame Martin, her eyes reminiscent of the golden +light, the violet peaks, and the ancient trees of Florence, smiled with +happy fatigue. She had gone with Miss Bell, Dechartre, and Madame Marmet +to the Chartrist convent of Ema. And now, in the intoxication of her +visions, she forgot the care of the day before, the importunate +letters, the distant reproaches, and thought of nothing in the world +but cloisters chiselled and painted, villages with red roofs, and roads +where she saw the first blush of spring. Dechartre had modelled for Miss +Bell a waxen figure of Beatrice. Vivian was painting angels. Softly bent +over her, Prince Albertinelli caressed his beard and threw around him +glances that appeared to seek admiration. + +Replying to a reflection of Vivian Bell on marriage and love: + +“A woman must choose,” he said. “With a man whom women love her heart is +not quiet. With a man whom the women do not love she is not happy.” + +“Darling,” asked Miss Bell, “what would you wish for a friend dear to +you?” + +“I should wish, Vivian, that my friend were happy. I should wish +also that she were quiet. She should be quiet in hatred of treason, +humiliating suspicions, and mistrust.” + +“But, darling, since the Prince has said that a woman can not have at +the same time happiness and security, tell me what your friend should +choose.” + +“One never chooses, Vivian; one never chooses. Do not make me say what I +think of marriage.” + +At this moment Choulette appeared, wearing the magnificent air of those +beggars of whom small towns are proud. He had played briscola with +peasants in a coffeehouse of Fiesole. + +“Here is Monsieur Choulette,” said Miss Bell. “He will teach what we are +to think of marriage. I am inclined to listen to him as to an oracle. He +does not see the things that we see, and he sees things that we do not +see. Monsieur Choulette, what do you think of marriage?” + +He took a seat and lifted in the air a Socratic finger: + +“Are you speaking, Mademoiselle, of the solemn union between man and +woman? In this sense, marriage is a sacrament. But sometimes, alas! it +is almost a sacrilege. As for civil marriage, it is a formality. The +importance given to it in our society is an idiotic thing which would +have made the women of other times laugh. We owe this prejudice, like +many others, to the bourgeois, to the mad performances of a lot of +financiers which have been called the Revolution, and which seem +admirable to those that have profited by it. Civil marriage is, in +reality, only registry, like many others which the State exacts in order +to be sure of the condition of persons: in every well organized state +everybody must be indexed. Morally, this registry in a big ledger has +not even the virtue of inducing a wife to take a lover. Who ever thinks +of betraying an oath taken before a mayor? In order to find joy in +adultery, one must be pious.” + +“But, Monsieur,” said Therese, “we were married at the church.” + +Then, with an accent of sincerity: + +“I can not understand how a man ever makes up his mind to marry; nor how +a woman, after she has reached an age when she knows what she is doing, +can commit that folly.” + +The Prince looked at her with distrust. He was clever, but he was +incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object, +disinterestedly, and to express general ideas. He imagined that Countess +Martin-Belleme was suggesting to him projects that she wished him to +consider. And as he was thinking of defending himself and also avenging +himself, he made velvet eyes at her and talked with tender gallantry: + +“You display, Madame, the pride of the beautiful and intelligent French +women whom subjection irritates. French women love liberty, and none of +them is as worthy of liberty as you. I have lived in France a little. +I have known and admired the elegant society of Paris, the salons, the +festivals, the conversations, the plays. But in our mountains, under our +olive-trees, we become rustic again. We assume golden-age manners, and +marriage is for us an idyl full of freshness.” + +Vivian Bell examined the statuette which Dechartre had left on the +table. + +“Oh! it was thus that Beatrice looked, I am sure. And do you know, +Monsieur Dechartre, there are wicked men who say that Beatrice never +existed?” + +Choulette declared he wished to be counted among those wicked men. He +did not believe that Beatrice had any more reality than other ladies +through whom ancient poets who sang of love represented some scholastic +idea, ridiculously subtle. + +Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself, jealous of Dante +as of the universe, a refined man of letters, Choulette continued: + +“I suspect that the little sister of the angels never lived, except in +the imagination of the poet. It seems a pure allegory, or, rather, an +exercise in arithmetic or a theme of astrology. Dante, who was a good +doctor of Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his +pointed cap--Dante believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed +mathematician dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of +arithmetic, that is all.” + +And he lighted his pipe. + +Vivian Bell exclaimed: + +“Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much, +and if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased +with you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the +canticle in which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the +Divine Comedy, Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table. +Open it and read it.” + +During the Prince’s reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near +Countess Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor +among the poets. He recalled to Therese the painting they had seen +together two days before, on the door of the Servi, a fresco almost +obliterated, where one hardly divined the presence of the poet wearing a +laurel wreath, Florence, and the seven circles. This was enough to exalt +the artist. But she had distinguished nothing, she had not been moved. +And then she confessed that Dante did not attract her. Dechartre, +accustomed to her sharing all his ideas of art and poetry, felt +astonishment and some discontent. He said, aloud: + +“There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel.” + +Miss Bell, lifting her head, asked what were these things that “darling” + did not feel; and when she learned that it was the genius of Dante, she +exclaimed, in mock anger: + +“Oh, do you not honor the father, the master worthy of all praise, the +god? I do not love you any more, darling. I detest you.” + +And, as a reproach to Choulette and to the Countess Martin, she recalled +the piety of that citizen of Florence who took from the altar the +candles that had been lighted in honor of Christ, and placed them before +the bust of Dante. + +The Prince resumed his interrupted reading. Dechartre persisted in +trying to make Therese admire what she did not know. Certainly he would +have easily sacrificed Dante and all the poets of the universe for her. +But near him, tranquil, and an object of desire, she irritated him, +almost without his realizing it, by the charm of her laughing beauty. He +persisted in imposing on her his ideas, his artistic passions, even his +fantasy, and his capriciousness. He insisted in a low tone, in phrases +concise and quarrelsome. She said: + +“Oh, how violent you are!” + +Then he bent to her ear, and in an ardent voice, which he tried to +soften: + +“You must take me with my own soul!” + +Therese felt a shiver of fear mingled with joy. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE AVOWAL + +She next day she said to herself that she would reply to Robert. It was +raining. She listened languidly to the drops falling on the terrace. +Vivian Bell, careful and refined, had placed on the table artistic +stationery, sheets imitating the vellum of missals, others of pale +violet powdered with silver dust; celluloid pens, white and light, which +one had to manage like brushes; an iris ink which, on a page, spread a +mist of azure and gold. Therese did not like such delicacy. It seemed +to her not appropriate for letters which she wished to make simple and +modest. When she saw that the name of “friend,” given to Robert on +the first line, placed on the silvery paper, tinted itself like +mother-of-pearl, a half smile came to her lips. The first phrases were +hard to write. She hurried the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell +and of Prince Albertinelli, a little of Choulette, and that she had seen +Dechartre at Florence. She praised some pictures of the museums, but +without discrimination, and only to fill the pages. She knew that Robert +had no appreciation of painting; that he admired nothing except a little +cuirassier by Detaille, bought at Goupil’s. + +She saw again in her mind this cuirassier, which he had shown to her +one day, with pride, in his bedroom, near the mirror, under family +portraits. All this, at a distance, seemed to her petty and tiresome. +She finished her letter with words of friendship, the sweetness of which +was not feigned. Truly, she had never felt more peaceful and gentle +toward her lover. In four pages she had said little and explained less. +She announced only that she should stay a month in Florence, the air of +which did her good. Then she wrote to her father, to her husband, and to +Princess Seniavine. She went down the stairway with the letters in her +hand. In the hall she threw three of them on the silver tray destined +to receive papers for the post-office. Mistrusting Madame Marmet, she +slipped into her pocket the letter to Le Menil, counting on chance to +throw it into a post-box. + +Almost at the same time Dechartre came to accompany the three friends +in a walk through the city. As he was waiting he saw the letters on the +tray. + +Without believing that characters could be divined through penmanship, +he was susceptible to the form of letters as to elegance of drawing. The +writing of Therese charmed him, and he liked its openness, the bold and +simple turn of its lines. He looked at the addresses without reading +them, with an artist’s admiration. + +They visited, that morning, Santa Maria Novella, where the Countess +Martin had already gone with Madame Marmet. But Miss Bell had reproached +them for not observing the beautiful Ginevra of Benci on a fresco of the +choir. “You must visit that figure of the morning in a morning light,” + said Vivian. While the poetess and Therese were talking together, +Dechartre listened patiently to Madame Marmet’s conversation, filled +with anecdotes, wherein academicians dined with elegant women, and +shared the anxiety of that lady, much preoccupied for several days by +the necessity to buy a tulle veil. She could find none to her taste in +the shops of Florence. + +As they came out of the church they passed the cobbler’s shop. The good +man was mending rustic shoes. Madame Martin asked the old man whether he +was well, whether he had enough work for a living, whether he was happy. +To all these questions he replied with the charming affirmative of +Italy, the musical si, which sounded melodious even in his toothless +mouth. She made him tell his sparrow’s story. The poor bird had once +dipped its leg in burning wax. + +“I have made for my little companion a wooden leg out of a match, and he +hops upon my shoulder as formerly,” said the cobbler. + +“It is this good old man,” said Miss Bell, “who teaches wisdom to +Monsieur Choulette. There was at Athens a cobbler named Simon, who wrote +books on philosophy, and who was the friend of Socrates. I have always +thought that Monsieur Choulette resembled Socrates.” + +Therese asked the cobbler to tell his name and his history. His name was +Serafino Stoppini, and he was a native of Stia. He was old. He had had +much trouble in his life. + +He lifted his spectacles to his forehead, uncovering blue eyes, very +soft, and almost extinguished under their red lids. + +“I have had a wife and children; I have none now. I have known things +which I know no more.” + +Miss Bell and Madame Marmet went to look for a veil. + +“He has nothing in the world,” thought Therese, “but his tools, a +handful of nails, the tub wherein he dips his leather, and a pot of +basilick, yet he is happy.” + +She said to him: + +“This plant is fragrant, and it will soon be in bloom.” + +He replied: + +“If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die.” + +Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table. + +Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her: + +“You know...” + +She looked at him and waited. + +He finished his phrase: + +“... that I love you?” + +She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the +lids of which were trembling. Then she made a motion with her head that +meant Yes. And, without his trying to stop her, she rejoined Miss Bell +and Madame Marmet, who were waiting for her at the corner. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER + +Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend +and Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor +Emmanuel had loved when he was Duke of Savoy. For thirty years she had +not once gone out of her palace on the Arno, where, she painted, and +wearing a wig, she played the guitar in her spacious white salon. She +received the best society of Florence, and Miss Bell often called on +her. At table this recluse, eighty-seven years of age, questioned the +Countess Martin on the fashionable world of Paris, whose movement was +familiar to her through the journals. Solitary, she retained respect and +a sort of devotion for the world of pleasure. + +As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was +blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets +with black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in +the pure air, stands a hill with three slender trees. They walked; and +Vivian showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging, +some marble masterpiece--a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine. They +walked through these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or +San Michele, where it had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them. +Therese was thinking of him now with deepest interest. Madame Marmet +was thinking of buying a veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso. This +affair recalled to her M. Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day, +took from his pocket a veil with gold dots and wiped his forehead with +it, thinking it was his handkerchief. The audience was astonished, and +whispered to one another. It was a veil that had been confided to him +the day before by his niece, Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had +accompanied to the theatre, and Madame Marmet explained how, finding +it in the pocket of his overcoat, he had taken it to return it to his +niece. + +At Lagrange’s name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the +savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for +that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble. +But above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared +of clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold. Miss +Bell showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled +niches, ornament the facade of the church. + +“See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George. Saint George was +formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed.” + +But “darling” said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn. +At this moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her +pocket. + +“Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre,” said the good Madame Marmet. + +He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should +have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello’s St. George +held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained +a particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could +see in his niche at the left. + +When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she +saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint. +Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his +St. Mark with abundant friendship. + +“It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to +do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is +not appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take +pleasure in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that +Donatello, after giving a soul to him, exclaimed: ‘Mark, why do you not +speak?’” + +Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the +burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a +veil. + +Therese and Dechartre remained. + +“I like him,” continued the sculptor; “I like Saint Mark because I +feel in him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of +Donatello, who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because +he recalls to me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler +to whom you were speaking so kindly this morning.” + +“Ah,” she said, “I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur +Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men +of that painter.” + +As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she +found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it +seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it +under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark. + +Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at +his heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had +dropped the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in +the morning Therese’s letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put +that one with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained +immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured; +perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from +the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet. + +“Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the +dressmaker’s.” + +Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of +Madame Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish. + +All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she was +saying to him: “I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in +love with me.” But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a +lover. He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another +made him suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the +letter, remained in his eyes and made them burn. + +She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she +saw him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the +reason. She thought it odd that he should be jealous without having the +right to be jealous; but this did not displease her. + +When they reached the Corso, they saw Miss Bell and Madame Marmet coming +out of the dressmaker’s shop. + +Dechartre said to Therese, in an imperious and supplicating voice: + +“I must speak to you. I must see you alone tomorrow; meet me at six +o’clock at the Lungarno Acciaoli.” + +She made no reply. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. “TO-MORROW?” + +When, in her Carmelite mantle, she came to the Lungarno Acciaoli, at +about half-past six, Dechartre greeted her with a humble look that moved +her. The setting sun made the Arno purple. They remained silent for a +moment. While they were walking past the monotonous line of palaces to +the old bridge, she was the first to speak. + +“You see, I have come. I thought I ought to come. I do not think I am +altogether innocent of what has happened. I know: I have done what was +my fate in order that you should be to me what you are now. My attitude +has put thoughts into your head which you would not have had otherwise.” + +He looked as if he did not understand. She continued: + +“I was selfish, I was imprudent. You were agreeable to me; I liked your +wit; I could not get along without you. I have done what I could +to attract you, to retain you. I was a coquette--not coldly, nor +perfidiously, but a coquette.” + +He shook his head, denying that he ever had seen a sign of this. + +“Yes, I was a coquette. Yet it was not my habit. But I was a coquette +with you. I do not say that you have tried to take advantage of it, +as you had the right to do, nor that you are vain about it. I have not +remarked vanity in you. It may be possible that you had not noticed. +Superior men sometimes lack cleverness. But I know very well that I was +not as I should have been, and I beg your pardon. That is the reason why +I came. Let us be good friends, since there is yet time.” + +He repeated, with sombre softness, that he loved her. The first hours of +that love had been easy and delightful. He had only desired to see her, +and to see her again. But soon she had troubled him. The evil had come +suddenly and violently one day on the terrace of Fiesole. And now he had +not the courage to suffer and say nothing. He had not come with a fixed +design. If he spoke of his passion he spoke by force and in spite of +himself; in the strong necessity of talking of her to herself, since +she was for him the only being in the world. His life was no longer in +himself, it was in her. She should know it, then, that he was in love +with her, not with vague tenderness, but with cruel ardor. Alas! his +imagination was exact and precise. He saw her continually, and she +tortured him. + +And then it seemed to him that they might have joys which should make +life worth living. Their existence might be a work of art, beautiful and +hidden. They would think, comprehend, and feel together. It would be a +marvellous world of emotions and ideas. + +“We could make of life a delightful garden.” + +She feigned to think that the dream was innocent. + +“You know very well that I am susceptible to the charm of your mind. It +has become a necessity to see you and hear you. I have allowed this to +be only too plain to you. Count upon my friendship and do not torment +yourself.” She extended her hand to him. He did not take it, but +replied, brusquely: + +“I do not desire your friendship. I will not have it. I must have you +entirely or never see you again. You know that very well. Why do you +extend your hand to me with derisive phrases? Whether you wished it or +not, you have made me desperately in love with you. You have become +my evil, my suffering, my torture, and you ask me to be an agreeable +friend. Now you are coquettish and cruel. If you can not love me, let me +go; I will go, I do not know where, to forget and hate you. For I have +against you a latent feeling of hatred and anger. Oh, I love you, I love +you!” + +She believed what he was saying, feared that he might go, and feared the +sadness of living without him. She replied: + +“I found you in my path. I do not wish to lose you. No, I do not wish to +lose you.” + +Timid yet violent, he stammered; the words were stifled in his throat. +Twilight descended from the far-off mountains, and the last reflections +of the sun became pallid in the east. She said: + +“If you knew my life, if you had seen how empty it was before I +knew you, you would know what you are to me, and would not think of +abandoning me.” + +But, with the tranquil tone of her voice and with the rustle of her +skirts on the pavement, she irritated him. + +He told her how he suffered. He knew now the divine malady of love. + +“The grace of your thoughts, your magnificent courage, your superb +pride, I inhale them like a perfume. It seems to me when you speak that +your mind is floating on your lips. Your mind is for me only the odor of +your beauty. I have retained the instincts of a primitive man; you have +reawakened them. I feel that I love you with savage simplicity.” + +She looked at him softly and said nothing. They saw the lights of +evening, and heard lugubrious songs coming toward them. And then, like +spectres chased by the wind, appeared the black penitents. The crucifix +was before them. They were Brothers of Mercy, holding torches, singing +psalms on the way to the cemetery. In accordance with the Italian +custom, the cortege marched quickly. The crosses, the coffin, the +banners, seemed to leap on the deserted quay. Jacques and Therese stood +against the wall in order that the funeral train might pass. + +The black avalanche had disappeared. There were women weeping behind the +coffin carried by the black phantoms, who wore heavy shoes. + +Therese sighed: + +“What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world?” + +He looked as if he had not heard, and said: + +“Before I knew you I was not unhappy. I liked life. I was retained in +it by dreams. I liked forms, and the mind in forms, the appearances that +caress and flatter. I had the joy of seeing and of dreaming. I enjoyed +everything and depended upon nothing. My desires, abundant and light, I +gratified without fatigue. I was interested in everything and wished for +nothing. One suffers only through the will. Without knowing it, I was +happy. Oh, it was not much, it was only enough to live. Now I have no +joy in life. My pleasures, the interest that I took in the images of +life and of art, the vivid amusement of creating with my hands the +figures of my dreams--you have made me lose everything and have not +left me even regret. I do not want my liberty and tranquillity again. It +seems to me that before I knew you I did not live; and now that I feel +that I am living, I can not live either far from you or near you. I am +more wretched than the beggars we saw on the road to Ema. They had air +to breathe, and I can breathe only you, whom I have not. Yet I am glad +to have known you. That alone counts in my existence. A moment ago I +thought I hated you. I was wrong; I adore you, and I bless you for the +harm you have done me. I love all that comes to me from you.” + +They were nearing the black trees at the entrance to San Niccola bridge. +On the other side of the river the vague fields displayed their sadness, +intensified by night. Seeing that he was calm and full of a soft +languor, she thought that his love, all imagination, had fled in words, +and that his desires had become only a reverie. She had not expected so +prompt a resignation. It almost disappointed her to escape the danger +she had feared. + +She extended her hand to him, more boldly this time than before. + +“Then, let us be friends. It is late. Let us return. Take me to my +carriage. I shall be what I have been to you, an excellent friend. You +have not displeased me.” + +But he led her to the fields, in the growing solitude of the shore. + +“No, I will not let you go without having told you what I wish to say. +But I know no longer how to speak; I can not find the words. I love you. +I wish to know that you are mine. I swear to you that I will not live +another night in the horror of doubting it.” + +He pressed her in his arms; and seeking the light of her eyes through +the obscurity of her veil, said “You must love me. I desire you to love +me, and it is your fault, for you have desired it too. Say that you are +mine. Say it.” + +Having gently disengaged herself, she replied, faintly and slowly “I can +not! I can not! You see I am acting frankly with you. I said to you +a moment ago that you had not displeased me. But I can not do as you +wish.” + +And recalling to her thought the absent one who was waiting for her, +she repeated: “I can not!” Bending over her he anxiously questioned her +eyes, the double stars that trembled and veiled themselves. “Why? You +love me, I feel it, I see it. You love me. Why will you do me this +wrong?” + +He drew her to him, wishing to lay his soul, with his lips, on her +veiled lips. She escaped him swiftly, saying: “I can not. Do not ask +more. I can not be yours.” + +His lips trembled, his face was convulsed. He exclaimed “You have a +lover, and you love him. Why do you mock me?” + +“I swear to you I have no desire to mock you, and that if I loved any +one in the world it would be you.” But he was not listening to her. + +“Leave me, leave me!” And he ran toward the dark fields. The Arno formed +lagoons, upon which the moon, half veiled, shone fitfully. He walked +through the water and the mud, with a step rapid, blind, like that of +one intoxicated. She took fright and shouted. She called him. But he +did not turn his head and made no answer. He fled with alarming +recklessness. She ran after him. Her feet were hurt by the stones, and +her skirt was heavy with water, but soon she overtook him. + +“What were you about to do?” + +He looked at her, and saw her fright in her eyes. “Do not be afraid,” he +said. “I did not see where I was going. I assure you I did not intend to +kill myself. I am desperate, but I am calm. I was only trying to escape +from you. I beg your pardon. But I could not see you any longer. Leave +me, I pray you. Farewell!” + +She replied, agitated and trembling: “Come! We shall do what we can.” + +He remained sombre and made no reply. She repeated “Come!” + +She took his arm. The living warmth of her hand animated him. He said: + +“Do you wish it?” + +“I can not leave you.” + +“You promise?” + +“I must.” + +And, in her anxiety and anguish, she almost smiled, in thinking that he +had succeeded so quickly by his folly. + +“To-morrow?” said he, inquiringly. + +She replied quickly, with a defensive instinct: + +“Oh, no; not to-morrow!” + +“You do not love me; you regret that you have promised.” + +“No, I do not regret, but--” + +He implored, he supplicated her. She looked at him for a moment, turned +her head, hesitated, and said, in a low tone: + +“Saturday.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION + +After dinner, Miss Bell was sketching in the drawing-room. She was +tracing, on canvas, profiles of bearded Etruscans for a cushion which +Madame Marmet was to embroider. Prince Albertinelli was selecting the +wool with an almost feminine knowledge of shades. It was late when +Choulette, having, as was his habit, played briscola with the cook at +the caterer’s, appeared, as joyful as if he possessed the mind of a +god. He took a seat on a sofa, beside Madame Martin, and looked at her +tenderly. Voluptuousness shone in his green eyes. He enveloped her, +while talking to her, with poetic and picturesque phrases. It was like +the sketch of a lovesong that he was improvising for her. In oddly +involved sentences, he told her of the charm that she exhaled. + +“He, too!” said she to herself. + +She amused herself by teasing him. She asked whether he had not found in +Florence, in the low quarters, one of the kind of women whom he liked +to visit. His preferences were known. He could deny it as much as he +wished: no one was ignorant of the door where he had found the cordon of +his Third Order. His friends had met him on the boulevard. His taste for +unfortunate women was evident in his most beautiful poems. + +“Oh, Monsieur Choulette, so far as I am able to judge, you like very bad +women.” + +He replied with solemnity: + +“Madame, you may collect the grain of calumny sown by Monsieur Paul +Vence and throw handfuls of it at me. I will not try to avoid it. It is +not necessary you should know that I am chaste and that my mind is pure. +But do not judge lightly those whom you call unfortunate, and who should +be sacred to you, since they are unfortunate. The disdained and lost +girl is the docile clay under the finger of the Divine Potter: she is +the victim and the altar of the holocaust. The unfortunates are nearer +God than the honest women: they have lost conceit. They do not glorify +themselves with the untried virtue the matron prides herself on. They +possess humility, which is the cornerstone of virtues agreeable to +heaven. A short repentance will be sufficient for them to be the first +in heaven; for their sins, without malice and without joy, contain +their own forgiveness. Their faults, which are pains, participate in the +merits attached to pain; slaves to brutal passion, they are deprived +of all voluptuousness, and in this they are like the men who practise +continence for the kingdom of God. They are like us, culprits; but shame +falls on their crime like a balm, suffering purifies it like fire. That +is the reason why God will listen to the first voice which they shall +send to him. A throne is prepared for them at the right hand of the +Father. In the kingdom of God, the queen and the empress will be happy +to sit at the feet of the unfortunate; for you must not think that the +celestial house is built on a human plan. Far from it, Madame.” + +Nevertheless, he conceded that more than one road led to salvation. One +could follow the road of love. + +“Man’s love is earthly,” he said, “but it rises by painful degrees, and +finally leads to God.” + +The Prince had risen. Kissing Miss Bell’s hand, he said: + +“Saturday.” + +“Yes, the day after to-morrow, Saturday,” replied Vivian. + +Therese started. Saturday! They were talking of Saturday quietly, as of +an ordinary day. Until then she had not wished to think that Saturday +would come so soon or so naturally. + +The guests had been gone for half an hour. Therese, tired, was thinking +in her bed, when she heard a knock at the door of her room. The panel +opened, and Vivian’s little head appeared. + +“I am not intruding, darling? You are not sleepy?” + +No, Therese had no desire to sleep. She rose on her elbow. Vivian sat on +the bed, so light that she made no impression on it. + +“Darling, I am sure you have a great deal of reason. Oh, I am sure +of it. You are reasonable in the same way that Monsieur Sadler is a +violinist. He plays a little out of tune when he wishes. And you, +too, when you are not quite logical, it is for your own pleasure. Oh, +darling, you have a great deal of reason and of judgment, and I come to +ask your advice.” + +Astonished, and a little anxious, Therese denied that she was logical. +She denied this very sincerely. But Vivian would not listen to her. + +“I have read Francois Rabelais a great deal, my love. It is in Rabelais +and in Villon that I studied French. They are good old masters of +language. But, darling, do you know the ‘Pantagruel?’ ‘Pantagruel’ is +like a beautiful and noble city, full of palaces, in the resplendent +dawn, before the street-sweepers of Paris have come. The sweepers have +not taken out the dirt, and the maids have not washed the marble steps. +And I have seen that French women do not read the ‘Pantagruel.’ You do +not know it? Well, it is not necessary. In the ‘Pantagruel,’ Panurge +asks whether he must marry, and he covers himself with ridicule, my +love. Well, I am quite as laughable as he, since I am asking the same +question of you.” + +Therese replied with an uneasiness she did not try to conceal: + +“As for that, my dear, do not ask me. I have already told you my +opinion.” + +“But, darling, you have said that only men are wrong to marry. I can not +take that advice for myself.” + +Madame Martin looked at the little boyish face and head of Miss Bell, +which oddly expressed tenderness and modesty. + +Then she embraced her, saying: + +“Dear, there is not a man in the world exquisite and delicate enough for +you.” + +She added, with an expression of affectionate gravity: + +“You are not a child. If some one loves you, and you love him, do what +you think you ought to do, without mingling interests and combinations +that have nothing to do with sentiment. This is the advice of a friend.” + +Miss Bell hesitated a moment. Then she blushed and arose. She had been a +little shocked. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. “I KISS YOUR FEET BECAUSE THEY HAVE COME!” + +Saturday, at four o’clock, Therese went, as she had promised, to the +gate of the English cemetery. There she found Dechartre. He was serious +and agitated; he spoke little. She was glad he did not display his joy. +He led her by the deserted walls of the gardens to a narrow street which +she did not know. She read on a signboard: Via Alfieri. After they had +taken fifty steps, he stopped before a sombre alley: + +“It is in there,” he said. + +She looked at him with infinite sadness. + +“You wish me to go in?” + +She saw he was resolute, and followed him without saying a word, into +the humid shadow of the alley. He traversed a courtyard where the grass +grew among the stones. In the back was a pavilion with three windows, +with columns and a front ornamented with goats and nymphs. On the +moss-covered steps he turned in the lock a key that creaked and +resisted. He murmured, + +“It is rusty.” + +She replied, without thought “All the keys are rusty in this country.” + +They went up a stairway so silent that it seemed to have forgotten the +sound of footsteps. He pushed open a door and made Therese enter the +room. She went straight to a window opening on the cemetery. Above the +wall rose the tops of pine-trees, which are not funereal in this land +where mourning is mingled with joy without troubling it, where the +sweetness of living extends to the city of the dead. He took her hand +and led her to an armchair. He remained standing, and looked at the room +which he had prepared so that she would not find herself lost in it. +Panels of old print cloth, with figures of Comedy, gave to the walls the +sadness of past gayeties. He had placed in a corner a dim pastel which +they had seen together at an antiquary’s, and which, for its shadowy +grace, she called the shade of Rosalba. There was a grandmother’s +armchair; white chairs; and on the table painted cups and Venetian +glasses. In all the corners were screens of colored paper, whereon were +masks, grotesque figures, the light soul of Florence, of Bologna, and +of Venice in the time of the Grand Dukes and of the last Doges. A mirror +and a carpet completed the furnishings. + +He closed the window and lighted the fire. She sat in the armchair, and +as she remained in it erect, he knelt before her, took her hands, kissed +them, and looked at her with a wondering expression, timorous and proud. +Then he pressed his lips to the tip of her boot. + +“What are you doing?” + +“I kiss your feet because they have come.” + +He rose, drew her to him softly, and placed a long kiss on her lips. She +remained inert, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her toque fell, +her hair dropped on her shoulders. + +Two hours later, when the setting sun made immeasurably longer the +shadows on the stones, Therese, who had wished to walk alone in the +city, found herself in front of the two obelisks of Santa Maria Novella +without knowing how she had reached there. She saw at the corner of the +square the old cobbler drawing his string with his eternal gesture. He +smiled, bearing his sparrow on his shoulder. + +She went into the shop, and sat on a chair. She said in French: + +“Quentin Matsys, my friend, what have I done, and what will become of +me?” + +He looked at her quietly, with laughing kindness, not understanding nor +caring. Nothing astonished him. She shook her head. + +“What I did, my good Quentin, I did because he was suffering, and +because I loved him. I regret nothing.” + +He replied, as was his habit, with the sonorous syllable of Italy: + +“Si! si!” + +“Is it not so, Quentin? I have not done wrong? But, my God! what will +happen now?” + +She prepared to go. He made her understand that he wished her to wait. +He culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her. + +“For its fragrance, signora!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. CHOULETTE TAKES A JOURNEY + +It was the next day. + +Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty stick, his +pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who +was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin +coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity. + +“Farewell, Madame. I am quitting Fiesole, you, Dechartre, the too +handsome Prince Albertinelli, and that gentle ogress, Miss Bell. I am +going to visit the Assisi mountain, which the poet says must be named no +longer Assisi, but the Orient, because it is there that the sun of love +rose. I am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is +resting in a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not +even take out of this world a shroud--out of this world where he left +the revelation of all joy and of all kindness.” + +“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like +Saint Clara a great deal.” + +“You are right, Madame; she was a woman of strength and prudence. When +Saint Francis, ill and almost blind, came to spend a few days at Saint +Damien, near his friend, she built with her own hands a hut for him in +the garden. Pain, languor, and burning eyelids deprived him of sleep. +Enormous rats came to attack him at night. Then he composed a joyous +canticle in praise of our splendid brother the Sun, and our sister the +Water, chaste, useful, and pure. My most beautiful verses have less +charm and splendor. And it is just that it should be thus, for Saint +Francis’s soul was more beautiful than his mind. I am better than all +my contemporaries whom I have known, yet I am worth nothing. When Saint +Francis had composed his Song of the Sun he rejoiced. He thought: ‘We +shall go, my brothers and I, into the cities, and stand in the public +squares, with a lute, on the market-day. Good people will come near us, +and we shall say to them: “We are the jugglers of God, and we shall +sing a lay to you. If you are pleased, you will reward us.” They will +promise, and when we shall have sung, we shall recall their promise to +them. We shall say to them: “You owe a reward to us. And the one that we +ask of you is that you love one another.” Doubtless, to keep their +word and not injure God’s poor jugglers, they will avoid doing ill to +others.’” + +Madame Martin thought St. Francis was the most amiable of the saints. + +“His work,” replied Choulette, “was destroyed while he lived. Yet he +died happy, because in him was joy with humility. He was, in fact, God’s +sweet singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his +task and teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that +poet, Madame, if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit. For all +moral beauty is achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom +that comes from God and resembles folly.” + +“I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about +the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You +will imprison them all in convents.” + +“I confess,” replied Choulette, “that they embarrass me a great deal in +my project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh +and injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead +to joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable +crimes of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to +supper, Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels.” He took his pipe, +his carpet-bag, and his stick: + +“The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do +evil when one loves purely. But sensual love is formed of hatred, +selfishness, and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you +beautiful one night, on this sofa, I was assailed by a cloud of violent +thoughts. I had come from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell’s +cook improvise magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was +inundated by a celestial joy which the sight of you made me lose. It +must be that a profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. For, near +you, I felt reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. They were +lies. I felt that I was your adversary and your enemy; I hated you. When +I saw you smile, I felt a desire to kill you.” + +“Truly?” + +“Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have +inspired more than once. But common people feel it without being +conscious of it, while my vivid imagination represents me to myself +incessantly. I contemplate my mind, at times splendid, often hideous. +If you had been able to read my mind that night you would have screamed +with fright.” + +Therese smiled: + +“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara.” + +He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger: + +“You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and +who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame.” + +He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form +disappear behind the bushes of the garden. + +In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for +her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an +anguish which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased. She did +not feel the stupor of the first time that she had yielded for love; +she did not feel the brusque vision of the irreparable. She was under +influences slower, more vague, and more powerful. This time a charming +reverie bathed the reminiscence of the caresses which she had received. +She was full of trouble and anxiety, but she felt no regret. She had +acted less through her will than through a force which she divined to +be higher. She absolved herself because of her disinterestedness. She +counted on nothing, having calculated nothing. + +Doubtless, she had been wrong to yield, since she was not free; but she +had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice. +She did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that +surpass immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went +away from her and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; at +least, she thought not. She would keep the reminiscence and the imprint +of the rarest and most precious thing one may find in the world. Perhaps +he was incapable of real attachment. He thought he loved her. He had +loved her for an hour. She dared not wish for more, in the embarrassment +of the false situation which irritated her frankness and her pride, and +which troubled the lucidity of her intelligence. While the carriage +was carrying her to San Marco, she persuaded herself that he would say +nothing to her of the day before, and that the room from which one could +see the pines rise to the sky would leave to them only the dream of a +dream. + +He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look +that he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same +time that she wished him to be thus. + +“You--” he said, “I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing +that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place +where I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you.” + +“Then you still love me?” + +“It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a +phantom. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It +is true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the +only, good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered +think they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to obtain +you?” + +“Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly. If we have +reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always +confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I +never will reproach you for anything.” + +An agile troupe of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them +with an importunity wherein was mingled the gracefulness which Italians +never lose. Their subtlety made them divine that these were lovers, and +they knew that lovers are prodigal. Dechartre threw coin to them, and +they all returned to their happy laziness. + +A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that +there was no monk. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautiful +under the arcades of the cloister! + +They visited the cells where, on the bare plaster, Fra Angelico, aided +by his brother Benedetto, painted innocent pictures for his companions. + +“Do you recall the winter night when, meeting you before the Guimet +Museum, I accompanied you to the narrow street bordered by small gardens +which leads to the Billy Quay? Before separating we stopped a moment on +the parapet along which runs a thin boxwood hedge. You looked at that +boxwood, dried by winter. And when you went away I looked at it for a +long time.” + +They were in the cell wherein Savonarola lived. The guide showed to them +the portrait and the relics of the martyr. + +“What could there have been in me that you liked that day? It was dark.” + +“I saw you walk. It is in movements that forms speak. Each one of your +steps told me the secrets of your charming beauty. Oh! my imagination +was never discreet in anything that concerned you. I did not dare to +speak to you. When I saw you, it frightened me. It frightened me because +you could do everything for me. When you were present, I adored you +tremblingly. When you were far from me, I felt all the impieties of +desire.” + +“I did not suspect this. But do you recall the first time we saw each +other, when Paul Vence introduced you? You were seated near a screen. +You were looking at the miniatures. You said to me: ‘This lady, painted +by Siccardi, resembles Andre Chenier’s mother.’ I replied to you: ‘She +is my husband’s great-grandmother. How did Andre Chenier’s mother look?’ +And you said: ‘There is a portrait of her: a faded Levantine.’” + +He excused himself and thought that he had not spoken so impertinently. + +“You did. My memory is better than yours.” + +They were walking in the white silence of the convent. They saw the cell +which Angelico had ornamented with the loveliest painting. And there, +before the Virgin who, in the pale sky, receives from God the Father +the immortal crown, he took Therese in his arms and placed a kiss on her +lips, almost in view of two Englishwomen who were walking through the +corridors, consulting their Baedeker. She said to him: + +“We must not forget Saint Anthony’s cell.” + +“Therese, I am suffering in my happiness from everything that is yours +and that escapes me. I am suffering because you do not live for me +alone. I wish to have you wholly, and to have had you in the past.” + +She shrugged her shoulders a little. + +“Oh, the past!” + +“The past is the only human reality. Everything that is, is past.” + +She raised toward him her eyes, which resembled bits of blue sky full of +mingled sun and rain. + +“Well, I may say this to you: I never have felt that I lived except with +you.” + +When she returned to Fiesole, she found a brief and threatening letter +from Le Menil. He could not understand, her prolonged absence, her +silence. If she did not announce at once her return, he would go to +Florence for her. + +She read without astonishment, but was annoyed to see that everything +disagreeable that could happen was happening, and that nothing would +be spared to her of what she had feared. She could still calm him and +reassure him: she had only to say to him that she loved him; that she +would soon return to Paris; that he should renounce the foolish idea +of rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be +watched at once. But she would have to write: “I love you.” She must +quiet him with caressing phrases. + +She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth. She +accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls carried +away by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving ocean of +events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of her a fond +reminiscence in a corner of his soul. + +She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square. +Children were playing in the twilight. She looked from the top of the +hill to the beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel. +And the peace of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the +box. Then only she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what +the result would be. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. WHAT IS FRANKNESS? + +In the square, where the spring sun scattered its yellow roses, the +bells at noon dispersed the rustic crowd of grain-merchants assembled +to sell their wares. At the foot of the Lanzi, before the statues, the +venders of ices had placed, on tables covered with red cotton, small +castles bearing the inscription: ‘Bibite ghiacciate’. And joy descended +from heaven to earth. Therese and Jacques, returning from an early +promenade in the Boboli Gardens, were passing before the illustrious +loggia. Therese looked at the Sabine by John of Bologna with that +interested curiosity of a woman examining another woman. But Dechartre +looked at Therese only. He said to her: + +“It is marvellous how the vivid light of day flatters your beauty, loves +you, and caresses the mother-of-pearl on your cheeks.” + +“Yes,” she said. “Candle-light hardens my features. I have observed +this. I am not an evening woman, unfortunately. It is at night that +women have a chance to show themselves and to please. At night, Princess +Seniavine has a fine blond complexion; in the sun she is as yellow as a +lemon. It must be owned that she does not care. She is not a coquette.” + +“And you are?” + +“Oh, yes. Formerly I was a coquette for myself, now I am a coquette for +you.” + +She looked at the Sabine woman, who with her waving arms, long and +robust, tried to avoid the Roman’s embraces. + +“To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form and that length of +limb? I am not shaped in that way.” + +He took pains to reassure her. But she was not disturbed about it. She +was looking now at the little castle of the ice-vender. A sudden desire +had come to her to eat an ice standing there, as the working-girls of +the city stood. + +“Wait a moment,” said Dechartre. + +He ran toward the street that follows the left side of the Lanzi, and +disappeared. + +After a moment he came back, and gave her a little gold spoon, the +handle of which was finished in a lily of Florence, with its chalice +enamelled in red. + +“You must eat your ice with this. The man does not give a spoon with +his ices. You would have had to put out your tongue. It would have been +pretty, but you are not accustomed to it.” + +She recognized the spoon, a jewel which she had remarked the day before +in the showcase of an antiquarian. + +They were happy; they disseminated their joy, which was full and simple, +in light words which had no sense. And they laughed when the Florentine +repeated to them passages of the old Italian writers. She enjoyed the +play of his face, which was antique in style and jovial in expression. +But she did not always understand what he said. She asked Jacques: + +“What did he say?” + +“Do you really wish to know?” + +Yes, she wished to know. + +“Well, he said he should be happy if the fleas in his bed were shaped +like you!” + +When she had eaten the ice, he asked her to return to San Michele. +It was so near! They would cross the square and at once discover the +masterpiece in stone. They went. They looked at the St. George and at +the bronze St. Mark. Dechartre saw again on the wall the post-box, and +he recalled with painful exactitude the little gloved hand that had +dropped the letter. He thought it hideous, that copper mouth which had +swallowed Therese’s secret. He could not turn his eyes away from it. All +his gayety had fled. She admired the rude statue of the Evangelist. + +“It is true that he looks honest and frank, and it seems that, if he +spoke, nothing but words of truth would come out of his mouth.” + +He replied bitterly: + +“It is not a woman’s mouth.” + +She understood his thought, and said, in her soft tone: + +“My friend, why do you say this to me? I am frank.” + +“What do you call frank? You know that a woman is obliged to lie.” + +She hesitated. Then she said: + +“A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. “I NEVER HAVE LOVED ANY ONE BUT YOU!” + +Therese was dressed in sombre gray. The bushes on the border of +the terrace were covered with silver stars and on the hillsides the +laurel-trees threw their odoriferous flame. The cup of Florence was in +bloom. + +Vivian Bell walked, arrayed in white, in the fragrant garden. + +“You see, darling, Florence is truly the city of flowers, and it is not +inappropriate that she should have a red lily for her emblem. It is a +festival to-day, darling.” + +“A festival, to-day?” + +“Darling, do you not know this is the first day of May? You did not wake +this morning in a charming fairy spectacle? Do you not celebrate the +Festival of Flowers? Do you not feel joyful, you who love flowers? For +you love them, my love, I know it: you are very good to them. You said +to me that they feel joy and pain; that they suffer as we do.” + +“Ah! I said that they suffer as we do?” + +“Yes, you said it. It is their festival to-day. We must celebrate it +with the rites consecrated by old painters.” + +Therese heard without understanding. She was crumpling under her glove +a letter which she had just received, bearing the Italian postage-stamp, +and containing only these two lines: + +“I am staying at the Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli. I shall +expect you to-morrow morning. No. 18.” + +“Darling, do you not know it is the custom of Florence to celebrate +spring on the first day of May every year? Then you did not understand +the meaning of Botticelli’s picture consecrated to the Festival of +Flowers. Formerly, darling, on the first day of May the entire city +gave itself up to joy. Young girls, crowned with sweetbrier and other +flowers, made a long cortege through the Corso, under arches, and sang +choruses on the new grass. We shall do as they did. We shall dance in +the garden.” + +“Ah, we shall dance in the garden?” + +“Yes, darling; and I will teach you Tuscan steps of the fifteenth +century which have been found in a manuscript by Mr. Morrison, the +oldest librarian in London. Come back soon, my love; we shall put on +flower hats and dance.” + +“Yes, dear, we shall dance,” said Therese. + +And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its +stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she +found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of +his whip: + +“Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli.” + +She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli. She had gone there at +sunset, and she had seen the rays of the sun on the agitated surface of +the river. Then night had come, the murmur of the waters in the silence, +the words and the looks that had troubled her, the first kiss of +her lover, the beginning of incomparable love. Oh, yes, she recalled +Lungarno Acciaoli and the river-side beyond the old bridge--Great +Britain Hotel--she knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was +fortunate, since he would come, that he had gone there. He might as +easily have gone to the Hotel de la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was +fortunate they were not side by side in the same corridor. Lungarno +Acciaoli! The dead body which they had seen pass was at peace somewhere +in the little flowery cemetery. + +“Number 18.” + +It was a bare hotel room, with a stove in the Italian fashion, a set +of brushes displayed on the table, and a time-table. Not a book, not +a journal. He was there; she saw suffering on his bony face, a look of +fever. This produced on her a sad impression. He waited a moment for +a word, a gesture; but she dared do nothing. He offered a chair. She +refused it and remained standing. + +“Therese, something has happened of which I do not know. Speak.” + +After a moment of silence, she replied, with painful slowness: + +“My friend, when I was in Paris, why did you go away from me?” + +By the sadness of her accent he believed, he wished to believe, in the +expression of an affectionate reproach. His face colored. He replied, +ardently: + +“Ah, if I could have foreseen! That hunting party--I cared little +for it, as you may think! But you--your letter, that of the +twenty-seventh”--he had a gift for dates--“has thrown me into a horrible +anxiety. Something has happened. Tell me everything.” + +“My friend, I believed you had ceased to love me.” + +“But now that you know the contrary?” + +“Now--” + +She paused, her arms fell before her and her hands were joined. + +Then, with affected tranquillity, she continued: + +“Well, my friend, we took each other without knowing. One never knows. +You are young; younger than I, since we are of the same age. You have, +doubtless, projects for the future.” + +He looked at her proudly. She continued: + +“Your family, your mother, your aunts, your uncle the General, have +projects for you. That is natural. I might have become an obstacle. It +is better that I should disappear from your life. We shall keep a fond +remembrance of each other.” + +She extended her gloved hand. He folded his arms: + +“Then, you do not want me? You have made me happy, as no other man ever +was, and you think now to brush me aside? Truly, you seem to think you +have finished with me. What have you come to say to me? That it was a +liaison, which is easily broken? That people take each other, quit each +other--well, no! You are not a person whom one can easily quit.” + +“Yes,” said Therese, “you had perhaps given me more of your heart than +one does ordinarily in such 180 cases. I was more than an amusement for +you. But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived +you, if I am frivolous--you know people have said so--well, if I have +not been to you what I should have been--” + +She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she +said: + +“If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious; +if I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment--” + +He interrupted her: + +“You are not telling the truth.” + +“No, I am not telling the truth. And I do not know how to lie. I wished +to spoil our past. I was wrong. It was--you know what it was. But--” + +“But?” + +“I have always told you I was not sure of myself. There are women, it +is said, who are sure of themselves. I warned you that I was not like +them.” + +He shook his head violently, like an irritated animal. + +“What do you mean? I do not understand. I understand nothing. Speak +clearly. There is something between us. I do not know what. I demand to +know what it is. What is it?” + +“There is the fact that I am not a woman sure of herself, and that you +should not rely on me. No, you should not rely on me. I had promised +nothing--and then, if I had promised, what are words?” + +“You do not love me. Oh, you love me no more! I can see it. But it is so +much the worse for you! I love you. You should not have given yourself +to me. Do not think that you can take yourself back. I love you and I +shall keep you. So you thought you could get out of it very quietly? +Listen a moment. You have done everything to make me love you, to attach +me to you, to make it impossible for me to live without you. + +“Six weeks ago you asked for nothing better. You were everything for me, +I was everything for you. And now you desire suddenly that I should +know you no longer; that you should be to me a stranger, a lady whom one +meets in society. Ah, you have a fine audacity! Have I dreamed? All the +past is a dream? I invented it all? Oh, there can be no doubt of it. You +loved me. I feel it still. Well, I have not changed. I am what I was; +you have nothing to complain of. I have not betrayed you for other +women. It isn’t credit that I claim. I could not have done it. When one +has known you, one finds the prettiest women insipid. I never have had +the idea of deceiving you. I have always acted well toward you. Why +should you not love me? Answer! Speak! Say you love me still. Say it, +since it is true. Come, Therese, you will feel at once that you love as +you loved me formerly in the little nest where we were so happy. Come!” + +He approached her ardently. She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him +away with a kind of horror. + +He understood, stopped, and said: + +“You have a lover.” + +She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb. + +Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in +shame. He lowered his eyes and was silent. His fingers to his lips, and +biting his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on her +waist, and bled. He threw himself in an armchair, drew his handkerchief +to wipe off the blood, and remained indifferent and without thought. + +She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look +vague, arranged her hat with instinctive care. At the noise, formerly +delicious, that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at +her, and asked furiously: + +“Who is he? I will know.” + +She did not move. She replied with soft firmness: + +“I have told you all I can. Do not ask more; it would be useless.” + +He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen +before. + +“Oh, do not tell me his name. It will not be difficult for me to find +it.” + +She said not a word, saddened for him, anxious for another, full of +anguish and fear, and yet without regret, without bitterness, because +her real soul was elsewhere. + +He had a vague sensation of what passed in her mind. In his anger to +see her so sweet and so serene, to find her beautiful, and beautiful for +another, he felt a desire to kill her, and he shouted at her: + +“Go!” + +Then, weakened by this effort of hatred, which was not natural to him, +he buried his head in his hands and sobbed. + +His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him. She thought +she might perhaps console him for her loss. Amicably and comfortably she +seated herself beside him. + +“My friend, blame me. I am to blame, but more to be pitied. Disdain +me, if you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the +plaything of life. In fine, judge me as you wish. But keep for me a +little friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence, +something like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong +wind. That is what I deserve. Do not be harsh to the agreeable but +frivolous visitor who passed through your life. Bid good-by to me as to +a traveller who goes one knows not where, and who is sad. There is so +much sadness in separation! You were irritated against me a moment ago. +Oh, I do not reproach you for it. I only suffer for it. Reserve a little +sympathy for me. Who knows? The future is always unknown. It is very +gray and obscure before me. Let me say to myself that I have been kind, +simple, frank with you, and that you have not forgotten it. In time you +will understand, you will forgive; to-day have a little pity.” + +He was not listening to her words. He was appeased simply by the caress +of her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear. He exclaimed: + +“You do not love him. I am the one whom you love. Then--” + +She hesitated: + +“Ah, to say whom one loves or loves not is not an easy thing for a +woman, or at least for me. I do not know how other women do. But life is +not good to me. I am tossed to and fro by force of circumstances.” + +He looked at her calmly. An idea came to him. He had taken a resolution; +he forgave, he forgot, provided she returned to him at once. + +“Therese, you do not love him. It was an error, a moment of +forgetfulness, a horrible and stupid thing that you did through +weakness, through surprise, perhaps in spite. Swear to me that you never +will see him again.” + +He took her arm: + +“Swear to me!” + +She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He +wrenched her wrist. She exclaimed: + +“You hurt me!” + +However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near +the brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper +ornamented with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the +hotel, with innumerable windows. + +“Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take +the letter.” + +And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and +determined, she said: + +“I can not, I will not.” + +“Why?” + +“Because--do you wish to know?--because I love him.” + +Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps +he would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by +sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die. + +“Is what you say true? Is it possible?” + +“How do I know? Can I say? Do I understand? Have I an idea, a sentiment, +about anything?” + +With an effort she added: + +“Am I at this moment aware of anything except my sadness and your +despair?” + +“You love him, you love him! What is he, who is he, that you should love +him?” + +His surprise made him stupid; he was in an abyss of astonishment. +But what she had said separated them. He dared not complain. He only +repeated: + +“You love him, you love him! But what has he done to you, what has he +said, to make you love him? I know you. I have not told you every time +your ideas shocked me. I would wager he is not even a man in society. +And you believe he loves you? You believe it? Well, you are deceiving +yourself. He does not love you. You flatter him, simply. He will quit +you at the first opportunity. When he shall have compromised you, he +will abandon you. Next year people will say of you: ‘She is not at all +exclusive.’ I am sorry for your father; he is one of my friends, and +will know of your behavior. You can not expect to deceive him.” + +She listened, humiliated but consoled, thinking how she would have +suffered had she found him generous. + +In his simplicity he sincerely disdained her. This disdain relieved him. + +“How did the thing happen? You can tell me.” + +She shrugged her shoulders with so much pity that he dared not continue. +He became contemptuous again. + +“Do you imagine that I shall aid you in saving appearances, that I shall +return to your house, that I shall continue to call on your husband?” + +“I think you will continue to do what a gentleman should. I ask nothing +of you. I should have liked to preserve of you the reminiscence of an +excellent friend. I thought you might be indulgent and kind to, me, but +it is not possible. I see that lovers never separate kindly. Later, you +will judge me better. Farewell!” + +He looked at her. Now his face expressed more pain than anger. She never +had seen his eyes so dry and so black. It seemed as if he had grown old +in an hour. + +“I prefer to tell you in advance. It will be impossible for me to see +you again. You are not a woman whom one may meet after one has been +loved by her. You are not like others. You have a poison of your own, +which you have given to me, and which I feel in me, in my veins. Why +have I known you?” + +She looked at him kindly. + +“Farewell! Say to yourself that I am not worthy of being regretted so +much.” + +Then, when he saw that she placed her hand on the latch of the door, +when he felt at that gesture that he was to lose her, that he should +never have her again, he shouted. He forgot everything. There remained +in him only the dazed feeling of a great misfortune accomplished, of +an irreparable calamity. And from the depth of his stupor a desire +ascended. He desired to possess again the woman who was leaving him and +who would never return. He drew her to him. He desired her, with all the +strength of his animal nature. She resisted with all the force of her +will, which was free and on the alert. She disengaged herself, crumpled, +torn, without even having been afraid. + +He understood that everything was useless; he realized she was no longer +for him, because she belonged to another. As his suffering returned, he +pushed her out of the door. + +She remained a moment in the corridor, proudly waiting for a word. + +But he shouted again, “Go!” and shut the door violently. + +On the Via Alfieri, she saw again the pavilion in the rear of the +courtyard where pale grasses grew. She found it silent and tranquil, +faithful, with its goats and nymphs, to the lovers of the time of the +Grand Duchess Eliza. She felt at once freed from the painful, brutal +world, and transported to ages wherein she had not known the sadness of +life. At the foot of the stairs, the steps of which were covered with +roses, Dechartre was waiting. She threw herself in his arms. He carried +her inert, like a precious trophy before which he had become pallid and +trembling. She enjoyed, her eyelids half closed, the superb humiliation +of being a beautiful prey. Her fatigue, her sadness, her disgust with +the day, the reminiscence of violence, her regained liberty, the need +of forgetting, remains of fright, everything vivified, awakened her +tenderness. She threw her arms around the neck of her lover. + +They were as gay as children. They laughed, said tender nothings, +played, ate lemons, oranges, and other fruits piled up near-them on +painted plates. Her lips, half-open, showed her brilliant teeth. She +asked, with coquettish anxiety, if he were not disillusioned after the +beautiful dream he had made of her. + +In the caressing light of the day, for the enjoyment of which he had +arranged, he contemplated her with youthful joy. He lavished praise +and kisses upon her. They forgot themselves in caresses, in friendly +quarrels, in happy glances. + +He asked her how a little red mark on her temple had come there. She +replied that she had forgotten; that it was nothing. She hardly lied; +she had really forgotten. + +They recalled to each other their short but beautiful history, all their +life, which began upon the day when they had met. + +“You know, on the terrace, the day after your arrival, you said vague +things to me. I guessed that you loved me.” + +“I was afraid to seem stupid to you.” + +“You were, a little. It was my triumph. It made me impatient to see you +so little troubled near me. I loved you before you loved me. Oh, I do +not blush for it!” + +He gave her a glass of Asti. But there was a bottle of Trasimene. She +wished to taste it, in memory of the lake which she had seen silent and +beautiful at night in its opal cup. That was when she had first visited +Italy, six years before. + +He chided her for having discovered the beauty of things without his +aid. + +She said: + +“Without you, I did not know how to see anything. Why did you not come +to me before?” + +He closed her lips with a kiss. Then she said: + +“Yes, I love you! Yes, I never have loved any one but you!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. A MEETING AT THE STATION + +Le Menil had written: “I leave tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Meet +me at the station.” + +She had gone to meet him. She saw him in long coat and cape, precise and +calm, in front of the hotel stages. He said only: + +“Ah, you have come.” + +“But, my friend, you called me.” + +He did not confess that he had written in the absurd hope that she would +love him again and that the rest would be forgotten, or that she would +say to him: “It was only a trial of your love.” + +If she had said so he would have believed her, however. + +Astonished because she did not speak, he said, dryly: + +“What have you to say to me? It is not for me to speak, but for you. I +have no explanations to give you. I have not to justify a betrayal.” + +“My friend, do not be cruel, do not be ungrateful. This is what I had +to say to you. And I must repeat that I leave you with the sadness of a +real friend.” + +“Is that all? Go and say this to the other man. It will interest him +more than it interests me.” + +“You called me, and I came; do not make me regret it.” + +“I am sorry to have disturbed you. You could doubtless find a better +employment for your time. I will not detain you. Rejoin him, since you +are longing to do so.” + +At the thought that his unhappy words expressed a moment of eternal +human pain, and that tragedy had illustrated many similar griefs, she +felt all the sadness and irony of the situation, which a curl of her +lips betrayed. He thought she was laughing. + +“Do not laugh; listen to me. The other day, at the hotel, I wanted to +kill you. I came so near doing it that now I know what I escaped. I will +not do it. You may rest secure. What would be the use? As I wish to keep +up appearances, I shall call on you in Paris. It will grieve me to learn +that you can not receive me. I shall see your husband, I shall see your +father also. It will be to say good-by to them, as I intend to go on a +long voyage. Farewell, Madame!” + +At the moment when he turned his back to her, Therese saw Miss Bell and +Prince Albertinelli coming out of the freight-station toward her. +The Prince was very handsome. Vivian was walking by his side with the +lightness of chaste joy. + +“Oh, darling, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! The Prince, and +I have seen, at the customhouse, the new bell, which has just come.” + +“Ah, the bell has come?” + +“It is here, darling, the Ghiberti bell. I saw it in its wooden cage. It +did not ring, because it was a prisoner. But it will have a campanile in +my Fiesole house. + +“When it feels the air of Florence, it will be happy to let its silvery +voice be heard. Visited by the doves, it will ring for all our joys and +all our sufferings. It will ring for you, for me, for the Prince, for +good Madame Marmet, for Monsieur Choulette, for all our friends.” + +“Dear, bells never ring for real joys and for real sufferings. Bells are +honest functionaries, who know only official sentiments.” + +“Oh, darling, you are much mistaken. Bells know the secrets of souls; +they know everything. But I am very glad to find you here. I know, my +love, why you came to the station. Your maid betrayed you. She told me +you were waiting for a pink gown which was delayed in coming and that +you were very impatient. But do not let that trouble you. You are always +beautiful, my love.” + +She made Madame Martin enter her wagon. + +“Come, quick, darling; Monsieur Jacques Dechartre dines at the house +to-night, and I should not like to make him wait.” + +And while they were driving through the silence of the night, through +the pathways full of the fresh perfume of wildflowers, she said: + +“Do you see over there, darling, the black distaffs of the Fates, the +cypresses of the cemetery? It is there I wish to sleep.” + +But Therese thought anxiously: “They saw him. Did they recognize him? I +think not. The place was dark, and had only little blinding lights. +Did she know him? I do not recall whether she saw him at my house last +year.” + +What made her anxious was a sly smile on the Prince’s face. + +“Darling, do you wish a place near me in that rustic cemetery? Shall we +rest side by side under a little earth and a great deal of sky? But I do +wrong to extend to you an invitation which you can not accept. It will +not be permitted to you to sleep your eternal sleep at the foot of the +hill of Fiesole, my love. You must rest in Paris, in a handsome tomb, by +the side of Count Martin-Belleme.” + +“Why? Do you think, dear, that the wife must be united to her husband +even after death?” + +“Certainly she must, darling. Marriage is for time and for eternity. +Do you not know the history of a young pair who loved each other in the +province of Auvergne? They died almost at the same time, and were placed +in two tombs separated by a road. But every night a sweetbrier bush +threw from one tomb to the other its flowery branches. The two coffins +had to be buried together.” + +When they had passed the Badia, they saw a procession coming up the +side of the hill. The wind blew on the candles borne in gilded wooden +candlesticks. The girls of the societies, dressed in white and +blue, carried painted banners. Then came a little St. John, blond, +curly-haired, nude, under a lamb’s fleece which showed his arms and +shoulders; and a St. Mary Magdalene, seven years old, crowned only with +her waving golden hair. The people of Fiesole followed. Countess Martin +recognized Choulette among them. With a candle in one hand, a book in +the other, and blue spectacles on the end of his nose, he was singing. +His unkempt beard moved up and down with the rhythm of the song. In the +harshness of light and shade that worked in his face, he had an air that +suggested a solitary monk capable of accomplishing a century of penance. + +“How amusing he is!” said Therese. “He is making a spectacle of himself +for himself. He is a great artist.” + +“Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious +man? Why? There is much joy and much beauty in faith. Poets know this. +If Monsieur Choulette had not faith, he could not write the admirable +verses that he does.” + +“And you, dear, have you faith?” + +“Oh, yes; I believe in God and in the word of Christ.” + +Now the banners and the white veils had disappeared down the road. But +one could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle +reflected in rays of gold. + +Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden. Therese found +him resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first +sufferings of love. While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix +upon a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under +the trees. + +“You promised me that you would be in the garden when I came. I have +been waiting for you an hour, which seemed eternal. You were not to go +out. Your absence has surprised and grieved me.” + +She replied vaguely that she had been compelled to go to the station, +and that Miss Bell had brought her back in the wagon. + +He begged her pardon for his anxiety, but everything alarmed him. His +happiness made him afraid. + +They were already at table when Choulette appeared, with the face of an +antique satyr. A terrible joy shone in his phosphorous eyes. Since his +return from Assisi, he lived only among paupers, drank chianti all +day with girls and artisans to whom he taught the beauty of joy and +innocence, the advent of Jesus Christ, and the imminent abolition of +taxes and military service. At the beginning of the procession he had +gathered vagabonds in the ruins of the Roman theatre, and had delivered +to them in a macaronic language, half French and half Tuscan, a sermon, +which he took pleasure in repeating: + +“Kings, senators, and judges have said: ‘The life of nations is in us.’ +Well, they lie; and they are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle.’ + +“The life of nations is in the crops of the fields yellowing under the +eye of the Lord. It is in the vines, and in the smiles and tears with +which the sky bathes the fruits on the trees. + +“The life of nations is not in the laws, which were made by the rich and +powerful for the preservation of riches and power. + +“The chiefs of kingdoms and of republics have said in their books +that the right of peoples is the right of war, and they have glorified +violence. And they render honors unto conquerors, and they raise in the +public squares statues to the victorious man and horse. But one has not +the right to kill; that is the reason why the just man will not draw +from the urn a number that will send him to the war. The right is not to +pamper the folly and crimes of a prince raised over a kingdom or over a +republic; and that is the reason why the just man will not pay taxes and +will not give money to the publicans. He will enjoy in peace the fruit +of his work, and he will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and +he will eat the fruits of the trees that he has cut.” + +“Ah, Monsieur Choulette,” said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, “you are +right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which +taxes exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three +per cent. of its net income? The master and the servants are the prey of +the publicans.” + +Dechartre and Madame Martin were struck by the unexpected sincerity of +his accent. + +He added: + +“I like the King. I am sure of my loyalty, but the misfortunes of the +peasants move me.” + +The truth was, he pursued with obstinacy a single aim: to reestablish +the domain of Casentino that his father, Prince Carlo, an officer of +Victor Emmanuel, had left devoured by usurers. His affected gentleness +concealed his stubbornness. He had only useful vices. It was to become +a great Tuscan landowner that he had dealt in pictures, sold the famous +ceilings of his palace, made love to rich old women, and, finally, +sought the hand of Miss Bell, whom he knew to be skilful at earning +money and practised in the art of housekeeping. He really liked +peasants. The ardent praises of Choulette, which he understood vaguely, +awakened this affection in him. He forgot himself enough to express his +mind: + +“In a country where master and servants form one family, the fate of the +one depends on that of the others. Taxes despoil us. How good are our +farmers! They are the best men in the world to till the soil.” + +Madame Martin confessed that she should not have believed it. The +country of Lombardy alone seemed to her to be well cultivated. Tuscany +appeared a beautiful, wild orchard. + +The Prince replied, smilingly, that perhaps she would not speak in that +way if she had done him the honor of visiting his farms of Casentino, +although these had suffered from long and ruinous lawsuits. She would +have seen there what an Italian landscape really is. + +“I take a great deal of care of my domain. I was coming from it to-night +when I had the double pleasure of finding at the station Miss Bell, +who had gone there to find her Ghiberti bell, and you, Madame, who were +talking with a friend from Paris.” + +He had the idea that it would be disagreeable to her to hear him speak +of that meeting. He looked around the table, and saw the expression of +anxious surprise which Dechartre could not restrain. He insisted: + +“Forgive, Madame, in a rustic, a certain pretension to knowing something +about the world. In the man who was talking to you I recognized +a Parisian, because he had an English air; and while he affected +stiffness, he showed perfect ease and particular vivacity.” + +“Oh,” said Therese, negligently, “I have not seen him for a long time. +I was much surprised to meet him at Florence at the moment of his +departure.” + +She looked at Dechartre, who affected not to listen. + +“I know that gentleman,” said Miss Bell. “It is Monsieur Le Menil. I +dined with him twice at Madame Martin’s, and he talked to me very well. +He said he liked football; that he introduced the game in France, +and that now football is quite the fashion. He also related to me his +hunting adventures. He likes animals. I have observed that hunters like +animals. I assure you, darling, that Monsieur Le Menil talks admirably +about hares. He knows their habits. He said to me it was a pleasure to +look at them dancing in the moonlight on the plains. He assured me that +they were very intelligent, and that he had seen an old hare, pursued +by dogs, force another hare to get out of the trail so as to deceive the +hunters. Darling, did Monsieur Le Menil ever talk to you about hares?” + +Therese replied she did not know, and that she thought hunters were +tiresome. + +Miss Bell exclaimed. She did not think M. Le Menil was ever tiresome +when talking of the hares that danced in the moonlight on the plains and +among the vines. She would like to raise a hare, like Phanion. + +“Darling, you do not know Phanion. Oh, I am sure that Monsieur Dechartre +knows her. She was beautiful, and dear to poets. She lived in the Island +of Cos, beside a dell which, covered with lemon-trees, descended to +the blue sea. And they say that she looked at the blue waves. I related +Phanion’s history to Monsieur Le Menil, and he was very glad to hear it. +She had received from some hunter a little hare with long ears. She +held it on her knees and fed it on spring flowers. It loved Phanion and +forgot its mother. It died before having eaten too many flowers. Phanion +lamented over its loss. She buried it in the lemon-grove, in a grave +which she could see from her bed. And the shade of the little hare was +consoled by the songs of the poets.” + +The good Madame Marmet said that M. Le Menil pleased by his elegant and +discreet manners, which young men no longer practise. She would have +liked to see him. She wanted him to do something for her. + +“Or, rather, for my nephew,” she said. “He is a captain in the +artillery, and his chiefs like him. His colonel was for a long time +under orders of Monsieur Le Menil’s uncle, General La Briche. If +Monsieur Le Menil would ask his uncle to write to Colonel Faure in favor +of my nephew I should be grateful to him. My nephew is not a stranger to +Monsieur Le Menil. They met last year at the masked ball which Captain +de Lassay gave at the hotel at Caen.” + +Madame Marmet cast down her eyes and added: + +“The invited guests, naturally, were not society women. But it is said +some of them were very pretty. They came from Paris. My nephew, who gave +these details to me, was dressed as a coachman. Monsieur Le Menil was +dressed as a Hussar of Death, and he had much success.” + +Miss Bell said that she was sorry not to have known that M. Le Menil was +in Florence. Certainly, she should have invited him to come to Fiesole. + +Dechartre remained sombre and distant during the rest of the dinner: and +when, at the moment of leaving, Therese extended her hand to him, she +felt that he avoided pressing it in his. + + + + +BOOK 3. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. “ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS IN LOVE” + +The next day, in the hidden pavilion of the Via Alfieri, she found him +preoccupied. She tried to distract him with ardent gayety, with the +sweetness of pressing intimacy, with superb humility. But he remained +sombre. 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 Berthier d’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: + + A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly + A hero must be human. Napoleon was human + Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere + Brilliancy of a fortune too new + Curious to know her face of that day + Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared + Do you think that people have not talked about us? + Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality + Does one ever possess what one loves? + Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone + Each was moved with self-pity + Everybody knows about that + Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city + Gave value to her affability by not squandering it + He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions + He studied until the last moment + He is not intelligent enough to doubt + He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes + He knew now the divine malady of love + Her husband had become quite bearable + His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth + (Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder + I love myself because you love me + I can forget you only when I am with you + I wished to spoil our past + I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness + I have to pay for the happiness you give me + I gave myself to him because he loved me + I haven’t a taste, I have tastes + I have known things which I know no more + I do not desire your friendship + Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests + Immobility of time + Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself + Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object + It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him + It is an error to be in the right too soon + It was too late: she did not wish to win + Jealous without having the right to be jealous + Kisses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair + Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope + Laughing in every wrinkle of his face + Learn to live without desire + Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges + Life as a whole is too vast and too remote + Life is made up of just such trifles + Life is not a great thing + Little that we can do when we are powerful + Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty + Love was only a brief intoxication + Lovers never separate kindly + Made life give all it could yield + Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud + Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past + Nobody troubled himself about that originality + None but fools resisted the current + Not everything is known, but everything is said + Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain + One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars + One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel + One is never kind when one is in love + One should never leave the one whom one loves + Picturesquely ugly + Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open + Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her + Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill + She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it + She is happy, since she likes to remember + Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one + Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others + Since she was in love, she had lost prudence + So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice + Superior men sometimes lack cleverness + That sort of cold charity which is called altruism + That if we live the reason is that we hope + That absurd and generous fury for ownership + The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne + The door of one’s room opens on the infinite + The past is the only human reality--Everything that is, is past + The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you + The violent pleasure of losing + The discouragement which the irreparable gives + The real support of a government is the Opposition + The politician never should be in advance of circumstances + There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget + There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel + They are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle’ + To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form + Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know + Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies + Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life + Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? + We are too happy; we are robbing life + What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world + Whether they know or do not know, they talk + Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault + You must take me with my own soul! + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 3922-0.txt or 3922-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/2/3922/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/3922-0.zip b/3922-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3660b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/3922-0.zip diff --git a/3922-h.zip b/3922-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f0849cd --- /dev/null +++ b/3922-h.zip diff --git a/3922-h/3922-h.htm b/3922-h/3922-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a6be67 --- /dev/null +++ b/3922-h/3922-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11436 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Red Lily, by Anatole France + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Red Lily, Complete + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 4, 2006 [EBook #3922] +Last Updated: August 23, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + THE RED LILY + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Anatole France + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + The real name of the subject of this preface is Jacques-Anatole Thibault. + He was born in Paris, April 16, 1844, the son of a bookseller of the Quai + Malaquais, in the shadow of the Institute. He was educated at the College + Stanislas and published in 1868 an essay upon Alfred de Vigny. This was + followed by two volumes of poetry: ‘Les Poemes Dores’ (1873), and ‘Les + Noces Corinthiennes’ (1876). With the last mentioned book his reputation + became established. + </p> + <p> + Anatole France belongs to the class of poets known as “Les Parnassiens.” + Yet a book like ‘Les Noces Corinthiennes’ ought to be classified among a + group of earlier lyrics, inasmuch as it shows to a large degree the + influence of Andre Chenier and Alfred de Vigny. France was, and is, also a + diligent contributor to many journals and reviews, among others, ‘Le + Globe, Les Debats, Le Journal Officiel, L’Echo de Paris, La Revue de + Famille, and Le Temps’. On the last mentioned journal he succeeded Jules + Claretie. He is likewise Librarian to the Senate, and has been a member of + the French Academy since 1896. + </p> + <p> + The above mentioned two volumes of poetry were followed by many works in + prose, which we shall notice. France’s critical writings are collected in + four volumes, under the title, ‘La Vie Litteraire’ (1888-1892); his + political articles in ‘Opinions Sociales’ (2 vols., 1902). He combines in + his style traces of Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, and Renan, and, indeed, + some of his novels, especially ‘Thais’ (1890), ‘Jerome Coignard’ (1893), + and Lys Rouge (1894), which was crowned by the Academy, are romances of + the first rank. + </p> + <p> + Criticism appears to Anatole France the most recent and possibly the + ultimate evolution of literary expression, “admirably suited to a highly + civilized society, rich in souvenirs and old traditions.... It proceeds,” + in his opinion, “from philosophy and history, and demands for its + development an absolute intellectual liberty..... It is the last in date + of all literary forms, and it will end by absorbing them all .... To be + perfectly frank the critic should say: ‘Gentlemen, I propose to enlarge + upon my own thoughts concerning Shakespeare, Racine, Pascal, Goethe, or + any other writer.’” + </p> + <p> + It is hardly necessary to say much concerning a critic with such + pronounced ideas as Anatole France. He gives us, indeed, the full flower + of critical Renanism, but so individualized as to become perfection in + grace, the extreme flowering of the Latin genius. It is not too much to + say that the critical writings of Anatole France recall the Causeries du + Lundi, the golden age of Sainte-Beuve! + </p> + <p> + As a writer of fiction, Anatole France made his debut in 1879 with + ‘Jocaste’, and ‘Le Chat Maigre’. Success in this field was yet decidedly + doubtful when ‘Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard’ appeared in 1881. It at once + established his reputation; ‘Sylvestre Bonnard’, as ‘Le Lys Rouge’ later, + was crowned by the French Academy. These novels are replete with fine + irony, benevolent scepticism and piquant turns, and will survive the + greater part of romances now read in France. The list of Anatole France’s + works in fiction is a large one. The titles of nearly all of them, + arranged in chronological order, are as follows: ‘Les Desirs de Jean + Seyvien (1882); Abeille (1883); Le Livre de mon Ami (1885); Nos Enfants + (1886); Balthazar (1889); Thais (1890); L’Etui de Naire (1892); Jerome + Coignard, and La Rotisserie de la Reine Pedanque (1893); and Histoire + Contemporaine (1897-1900), the latter consisting of four separate works: + ‘L’Orme du Mail, Le Mannequin d’Osier, L’Anneau d’Amethyste, and Monsieur + Bergeret a Paris’. All of his writings show his delicately critical + analysis of passion, at first playfully tender in its irony, but later, + under the influence of his critical antagonism to Brunetiere, growing + keener, stronger, and more bitter. In ‘Thais’ he has undertaken to show + the bond of sympathy that unites the pessimistic sceptic to the Christian + ascetic, since both despise the world. In ‘Lys Rouge’, his greatest novel, + he traces the perilously narrow line that separates love from hate; in + ‘Opinions de M. l’Abbe Jerome Coignard’ he has given us the most radical + breviary of scepticism that has appeared since Montaigne. ‘Le Livre de mon + Ami’ is mostly autobiographical; ‘Clio’ (1900) contains historical + sketches. + </p> + <p> + To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature + would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the stature + and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive qualities: + delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of writers who are + more read and probably will ever exercise greater influence than some of + greater name. The latter show us life as a whole; but life as a whole is + too vast and too remote to excite in most of us more than a somewhat + languid curiosity. France confines himself to themes of the keenest + personal interest, the life of the world we live in. It is herein that he + excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies are many-sided, his power of + exposition is unsurpassed. No one has set before us the mind of our time, + with its half-lights, its shadowy vistas, its indefiniteness, its haze on + the horizon, so vividly as he. + </p> + <p> + In Octave Mirbeau’s notorious novel, a novel which it would be + complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by her + director against the works of Anatole France, “Ne lisez jamais du + Voltaire... C’est un peche mortel... ni de Renan... ni de l’Anatole + France. Voila qui est dangereux.” The names are appropriately united; a + real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession exists between the three + writers. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JULES LEMAITRE + de l’Academie Francais +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK 1.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>"I NEED LOVE” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>"ONE CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE YOUNG!” + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>A DISCUSSION ON THE + LITTLE CORPORAL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>THE + END OF A DREAM <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>A + DINNER ‘EN FAMILLE’ <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>A + DISTINGUISHED RELICT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. + </a>MADAME HAS HER WAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. + </a>THE LADY OF THE BELLS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER + IX. </a>CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> + <b>BOOK 2.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>DECHARTRE + ARRIVES IN FLORENCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>"THE + DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. + </a>HEARTS AWAKENED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. + </a>"YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>THE AVOWAL <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>"TO-MORROW?” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>"I KISS YOUR FEET BECAUSE + THEY HAVE COME!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>CHOULETTE + TAKES A JOURNEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>WHAT + IS FRANKNESS? <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a>"I + NEVER HAVE LOVED ANY ONE BUT YOU!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> + CHAPTER XXII. </a>A MEETING AT THE STATION <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0025"> <b>BOOK 3.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>"ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS + IN LOVE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>CHOULETTE’S + AMBITION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>"WE ARE + ROBBING LIFE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>IN + DECHARTRE’S STUDIO <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. + </a>THE PRIMROSE PATH <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER + XXVIII. </a>NEWS OF LE MENIL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER + XXIX. </a>JEALOUSY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a>A + LETTER FROM ROBERT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. + </a>AN UNWELCOME APPARITION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER + XXXII. </a>THE RED LILY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER + XXXIII. </a>A WHITE NIGHT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER + XXXIV. </a>"I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU ALWAYS!” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>"ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS + IN LOVE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>CHOULETTE’S + AMBITION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>"WE ARE + ROBBING LIFE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>IN + DECHARTRE’S STUDIO <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. + </a>THE PRIMROSE PATH <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER + XXVIII. </a>NEWS OF LE MENIL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER + XXIX. </a>JEALOUSY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a>A + LETTER FROM ROBERT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. + </a>AN UNWELCOME APPARITION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER + XXXII. </a>THE RED LILY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER + XXXIII. </a>A WHITE NIGHT <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a>"I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU + ALWAYS!” <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + BOOK 1. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. “I NEED LOVE” + </h2> + <p> + She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the + tea-table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of + flowers ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the + flowery branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls quiver. + Then she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention. She held + herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow with her + eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin gown, + around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein sombre + lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face of that + day. The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this amiable + woman whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her, lived without + either acute joy or profound sadness. + </p> + <p> + On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures of + the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique games + and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender + columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke of + past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the marble + bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly out + of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night, powdered + like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers. Everything was + asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light rattle of + Therese’s pearls could be heard. + </p> + <p> + Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw + through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine spreading + its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water was + reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the ‘Hirondelle’, + emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble travellers + toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let + the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book from + the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in gold: + ‘Yseult la Blonde’, by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French verses + composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read + indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry than + of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable friend, and + whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their meetings, which were + so rare, kissed her, calling her “darling,” and babbled; who, plain yet + seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly exquisite, lived at Fiesole like + a philosopher, while England celebrated her as her most beloved poet. Like + Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson, she had fallen in love with the life + and art of Tuscany; and, without even finishing her Tristan, the first + part of which had inspired in Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote + Provencal verses and French poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent + her ‘Yseult la Blonde’ to “Darling,” with a letter inviting her to spend a + month with her at Fiesole. She had written: “Come; you will see the most + beautiful things in the world, and you will embellish them.” + </p> + <p> + And “darling” was saying to herself that she would not go, that she must + remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not + indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by + chance at this line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Love and gentle heart are one. +</pre> + <p> + And she asked herself, with gentle irony, whether Miss Bell had ever been + in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell. The + poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was very + handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please an aesthete + who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an Annunciation. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Therese. I am positively worn out.” + </p> + <p> + The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple in her furs, which almost + seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely, + and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing, said: + </p> + <p> + “This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met him + in an alley and made him go with me to the bridge, where he wished to buy + from the guardian a learned magpie which performs the manual of arms with + a gun. Oh! I am so tired!” + </p> + <p> + “But why did you drag the General to the bridge?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he had gout in his toe.” + </p> + <p> + Therese shrugged her shoulders, smiling: + </p> + <p> + “You squander your wickedness. You spoil things.” + </p> + <p> + “And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a + serious investment?” + </p> + <p> + Therese made her drink some Tokay. + </p> + <p> + Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere + approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking + stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face. + </p> + <p> + “How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?” + </p> + <p> + Therese thought he was at the Chamber, and even that he was making a + speech there. + </p> + <p> + Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame Martin + why she had not gone to Madame Meillan’s the day before. They had played a + comedy there. + </p> + <p> + “A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I don’t know. I was in the little green room, under the + portrait of the Duc d’Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one + of those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur + Garain.” + </p> + <p> + The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful + information, pricked up his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Garain,” he asked, “the minister who was in the Cabinet when the princes + were exiled?” + </p> + <p> + “Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the + yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness. And + from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc + d’Orleans. I said to him: ‘Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake. It + is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.’ At this moment + Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet. He paid great + compliments—to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so + beautiful as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed + me.” + </p> + <p> + The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the day + before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself and his + saddle. + </p> + <p> + He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good + horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys. + </p> + <p> + “It is the same with fencing,” he added. “Formerly—” + </p> + <p> + Princess Seniavine interrupted him: + </p> + <p> + “General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always + charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because she + is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we have been + here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead clouded, her + glance vague, her mouth dolorous. Behold a victim!” + </p> + <p> + She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General + astonished. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had + said. + </p> + <p> + He collected himself and asked: + </p> + <p> + “And how are your poets, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for + people who lived by writing and were not of his circle. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits + you wrapped in a red muffler?” + </p> + <p> + “My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on + anybody. Men and women—nothing is sure. Life is a continual + betrayal. Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to + me from Florence and sent her book.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Bell? Isn’t she that young person who looks, with her yellow waving + hair, like a little lapdog?” + </p> + <p> + He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least thirty. + </p> + <p> + An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a + little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly—Madame + Marmet and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a + square monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of + elegance. The General hurried out. + </p> + <p> + They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often with + the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the book + tiresome. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” sighed Madame Martin, “all books are tiresome. But men are more + tiresome than books, and they are more exacting.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had + retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was the + widow of a member of the ‘Academie des Inscriptions’, and plumed herself + upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in her black gown + and her beautiful white hair. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult him + particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children. + </p> + <p> + “You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion, + Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain such trifles.” + </p> + <p> + M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with disdain. + Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you have + only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty.” + </p> + <p> + She did not conceal her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She + regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She had + appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His ill-health, + his dark humor, his assiduous labor, separated him from society. The + little bilious man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted her. She held + in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his talent ripened in + solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an excellent writer, the + author of powerful essays on art and on life. + </p> + <p> + Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the large + circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told + frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered + scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old Madame + de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries; Madame + Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife of the + exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against the + mantelpiece, M. Berthier d’Eyzelles, editor of the ‘Journal des Debats’, a + deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted at + him: + </p> + <p> + “Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped among + themselves: + </p> + <p> + “What did he do to get the button from the Prince?” + </p> + <p> + “He, nothing. His wife, everything.” + </p> + <p> + They had their own cynical philosophy. One of them had no faith in + promises of men. + </p> + <p> + “They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their hands + and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a club. They + say, ‘I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster ball—a + snowball! They vote. It’s a black ball. Life seems a vile affair when I + think of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then don’t think of it.” + </p> + <p> + Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy stories + in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning Madame + Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added, negligently: + </p> + <p> + “Everybody knows it.” + </p> + <p> + Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame + Marmet and Paul Vence remained. + </p> + <p> + The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?” + </p> + <p> + It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see + new faces. She replied, unconcernedly: + </p> + <p> + “Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions made + by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an amateur, + is he not?” + </p> + <p> + “He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He + caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about + him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did not + live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that he is + solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he lacks, what he + will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity of + mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions. In my + opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or philosophy. + He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the wealth of his + mind.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet approved. + </p> + <p> + She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened a + great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her + affability by not squandering it. Either because she liked Madame Martin, + or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in every + house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative, in a + corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She lacked only + her dog. + </p> + <p> + “How is Toby?” asked Madame Martin. “Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby? He + has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink and + blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden + spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to empty + armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked nose before + Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly. + </p> + <p> + It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions. He smiled and + turned a madrigal for the Countess Martin with that hereditary harsh, + coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their creditors, + the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea. He dragged his + phrases heavily. This great philologist knew all languages except French. + And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and rusty like the + iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried leaves of anthology. + M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit. + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning his + bow. + </p> + <p> + When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre and + pitiful. He complained piteously. He was not decorated enough, not + provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State—he, + Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some + grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he + discovered Vivian Bell’s book. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ‘Yseult La Blonde’,” he exclaimed, bitterly. “You are reading that + book, Madame? Well, learn that Mademoiselle Vivian Bell has stolen an + inscription from me, and that she has altered it, moreover, by putting it + into verse. You will find it on page 109 of her book: ‘A shade may weep + over a shade.’ You hear, Madame? ‘A shade may weep over a shade.’ Well, + those words are translated literally from a funeral inscription which I + was the first to publish and to illustrate. Last year, one day, when I was + dining at your house, being placed by the side of Mademoiselle Bell, I + quoted this phrase to her, and it pleased her a great deal. At her + request, the next day I translated into French the entire inscription and + sent it to her. And now I find it changed in this volume of verses under + this title: ‘On the Sacred Way’—the sacred way, that is I.” + </p> + <p> + And he repeated, in his bad humor: + </p> + <p> + “I, Madame, am the sacred way.” + </p> + <p> + He was annoyed that the poet had not spoken to him about this inscription. + He would have liked to see his name at the top of the poem, in the verses, + in the rhymes. He wished to see his name everywhere, and always looked for + it in the journals with which his pockets were stuffed. But he had no + rancor. He was not really angry with Miss Bell. He admitted gracefully + that she was a distinguished person, and a poet that did great honor to + England. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if + he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such + marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know. + </p> + <p> + “I never know anything,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at + the death of Marmet. + </p> + <p> + “The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling. We were wet and + frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read + under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, + which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An + indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it + possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious + quarrel? + </p> + <p> + “The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique + study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else + knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost. Schmoll + said continually to Marmet: ‘You do not know Etruscan, my dear colleague; + that is the reason why you are an honorable savant and a fair-minded man.’ + Piqued by his ironic praise, Marmet thought of learning a little Etruscan. + He read to his colleague a memoir on the part played by flexions in the + idiom of the ancient Tuscans.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin asked what a flexion was. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Madame, if I explain anything to you, it will mix up everything. Be + content with knowing that in that memoir poor Marmet quoted Latin texts + and quoted them wrong. Schmoll is a Latinist of great learning, and, after + Mommsen, the chief epigraphist of the world. + </p> + <p> + “He reproached his young colleague—Marmet was not fifty years old—with + reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time Marmet + had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, finally, in + spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without rancor. It is a + virtue of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes. + One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute with Renan and + Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him. Marmet refused to + take it, and said ‘I do not know you.’—‘Do you take me for a Latin + inscription?’ Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried because of that + satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his enemy with horror.” + </p> + <p> + “And I have made them dine together, side by side.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I should + like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one.” + </p> + <p> + A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed + with brusque suppleness. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil.” + </p> + <p> + They had met before at Madame Martin’s, and saw each other often at the + Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan’s. + </p> + <p> + “Madame Meillan’s—there’s a house where one is bored,” said Paul + Vence. + </p> + <p> + “Yet Academicians go there,” said M. Robert Le Menil. “I do not exaggerate + their value, but they are the elite.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin smiled. + </p> + <p> + “We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan’s you are preoccupied + by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted Princess + Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves.” + </p> + <p> + “What wolves?” + </p> + <p> + “Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty a + woman your conversation was rather savage!” + </p> + <p> + Paul Vence rose. + </p> + <p> + “So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has a + great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you. There is + life in his mind. He is full of ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do not ask for so much,” Madame Martin said. “People that are + natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes they + amuse me.” + </p> + <p> + When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps + had vanished; then, coming nearer: + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, at three o’clock? Do you still love me?” + </p> + <p> + He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was + late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her + husband would come. + </p> + <p> + He entreated. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other side of + the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished introduced to + her. + </p> + <p> + “I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me. + He is a sculptor.” + </p> + <p> + He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding: + </p> + <p> + “A sculptor? They are usually brutal.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I + should meet him, I will not do so.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give to + me.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame + Meillan’s yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a + house for you.” + </p> + <p> + He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure + which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored + intrigue. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended on + the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, looked + at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown. Nothing + of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her languid body, + more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind. She kept for a + while a profound immobility, which added to her personal attraction the + charm of things that art had created. + </p> + <p> + He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze in + the ashes, she said: + </p> + <p> + “We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd + districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where misery + dwells.” + </p> + <p> + He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he thought + it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and he thought + them dangerous. People might see them. + </p> + <p> + “And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip—” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know or + do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is said.” + </p> + <p> + She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for some + reason which she would not tell. He bent upon her beautiful, grave eyes + which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured him. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care? Nothing + matters.” + </p> + <p> + He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was waiting + for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy. Then she + began again to read in the ashes. + </p> + <p> + She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had + passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where + slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and the + bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still ignored + the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of her + imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears. When + she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is not + worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary thing. + She should have known this. She thought: + </p> + <p> + “I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed of + a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid taste of + life, and seemed to inhale the future like a salt and pungent aroma. Why? + What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned enough of the + sadness of everything?” + </p> + <p> + She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was a + daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank, + founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them the + resources of a brilliant mind, invincible force of character, a rare + alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as if + he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of + Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father. + Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive and powerful + atheist, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable + things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and + precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women of + the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with the + brutality of his temperament and the shrewdness of his mind. + </p> + <p> + Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished at Joinville, + delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which + held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter. + There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died one + night of sadness and exhaustion, never having loved anything on earth + except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue Maubeuge. + </p> + <p> + She never had had any intimacy with her daughter, whom she felt + instinctively too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart; and + she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong + Montessuy blood, the ardor which had made her suffer so much, and which + she forgave in her husband, but not in her daughter. + </p> + <p> + But Montessuy recognized his daughter and loved her. Like most hearty, + full-blooded men, he had hours of charming gayety. Although he lived out + of his house a great deal, he breakfasted with her almost every day, and + sometimes took her out walking. He understood gowns and furbelows. He + instructed and formed Therese. He amused her. Near her, his instinct for + conquest inspired him still. He desired to win always, and he won his + daughter. He separated her from her mother. Therese admired him, she + adored him. + </p> + <p> + In her dream she saw him as the unique joy of her childhood. She was + persuaded that no man in the world was as amiable as her father. + </p> + <p> + At her entrance in life, she despaired at once of finding elsewhere so + rich a nature, such a plenitude of active and thinking forces. This + discouragement had followed her in the choice of a husband, and perhaps + later in a secret and freer choice. + </p> + <p> + She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had + permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower, + embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and + well. He considered the exterior advantages, estimated the eighty years of + imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came to him + that she might wish to find love in marriage. + </p> + <p> + He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of the + luxurious desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a display + of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which were for him + all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject of the happiness + of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter would remain + virtuous. + </p> + <p> + While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded so + badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled with + melancholy irony. And she admired her father the more. + </p> + <p> + After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as any + other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in the + ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences, that + of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated traits + of it, some absurd images, a fleeting and fastidious impression. The time + had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years had passed, and + she did not even remember how she had regained her liberty, so prompt and + easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold, sickly, selfish, and + polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by business and politics, + laborious, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked women only through vanity, + and he never had loved his wife. The separation had been frank and + complete. And since then, strangers to each other, they felt a tacit, + mutual gratitude for their freedom. She would have had some affection for + him if she had not found him hypocritical and too subtle in the art of + obtaining her signature when he needed money for enterprises that were + more for ostentation than real benefit. The man with whom she dined and + talked every day had no significance for her. + </p> + <p> + With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned a + sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so + precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented to + her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and + dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories. + His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three + generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had + loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance, and + his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary term + of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin. The homage of + this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with pleasure. He had a + marvellous art of conversation. He amused her. She let him see it, and at + once he promised to himself, in his heroic frivolity, to finish worthily + his happy life by the subjugation of this young woman whom he appreciated + above every one else, and who evidently admired him. He displayed, to + capture her, the most learned stratagems. But she escaped him very easily. + </p> + <p> + She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her + ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of his + mind. She said to herself: “I gave myself to him because he loved me.” It + was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful instinct had + impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of her being. But + even this was not her real self; what awakened her nature at last was the + fact that she believed in the sincerity of his sentiment. She had yielded + as soon as she had felt that she was loved. She had given herself, + quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded easily. He was mistaken. + She had felt the discouragement which the irreparable gives, and that sort + of shame which comes of having suddenly something to conceal. Everything + that had been whispered before her about other women resounded in her + burning ears. But, proud and delicate, she took care to hide the value of + the gift she was making. He never suspected her moral uneasiness, which + lasted only a few days, and was replaced by perfect tranquillity. After + three years she defended her conduct as innocent and natural. + </p> + <p> + Having done harm to no one, she had no regrets. She was content. She was + in love, she was loved. Doubtless she had not felt the intoxication she + had expected, but does one ever feel it? She was the friend of the good + and honest fellow, much liked by women who passed for disdainful and hard + to please, and he had a true affection for her. The pleasure she gave him + and the joy of being beautiful for him attached her to this friend. He + made life for her not continually delightful, but easy to bear, and at + times agreeable. + </p> + <p> + That which she had not divined in her solitude, notwithstanding vague + yearnings and apparently causeless sadness, he had revealed to her. She + knew herself when she knew him. It was a happy astonishment. Their + sympathies were not in their minds. Her inclination toward him was simple + and frank, and at this moment she found pleasure in the idea of meeting + him the next day in the little apartment where they had met for three + years. With a shake of the head and a shrug of her shoulders, coarser than + one would have expected from this exquisite woman, sitting alone by the + dying fire, she said to herself: “There! I need love!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. “ONE CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE YOUNG!” + </h2> + <p> + It was no longer daylight when they came out of the little apartment in + the Rue Spontini. Robert Le Menil made a sign to a coachman, and entered + the carriage with Therese. Close together, they rolled among the vague + shadows, cut by sudden lights, through the ghostly city, having in their + minds only sweet and vanishing impressions while everything around them + seemed confused and fleeting. + </p> + <p> + The carriage approached the Pont-Neuf. They stepped out. A dry cold made + vivid the sombre January weather. Under her veil Therese joyfully inhaled + the wind which swept on the hardened soil a dust white as salt. She was + glad to wander freely among unknown things. She liked to see the stony + landscape which the clearness of the air made distinct; to walk quickly + and firmly on the quay where the trees displayed the black tracery of + their branches on the horizon reddened by the smoke of the city; to look + at the Seine. In the sky the first stars appeared. + </p> + <p> + “One would think that the wind would put them out,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He observed, too, that they scintillated a great deal. He did not think it + was a sign of rain, as the peasants believe. He had observed, on the + contrary, that nine times in ten the scintillation of stars was an augury + of fine weather. + </p> + <p> + Near the little bridge they found old iron-shops lighted by smoky lamps. + She ran into them. She turned a corner and went into a shop in which queer + stuffs were hanging. Behind the dirty panes a lighted candle showed pots, + porcelain vases, a clarinet, and a bride’s wreath. + </p> + <p> + He did not understand what pleasure she found in her search. + </p> + <p> + “These shops are full of vermin. What can you find interesting in them?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything. I think of the poor bride whose wreath is under that globe. + The dinner occurred at Maillot. There was a policeman in the procession. + There is one in almost all the bridal processions one sees in the park on + Saturdays. Don’t they move you, my friend, all these poor, ridiculous, + miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past?” + </p> + <p> + Among cups decorated with flowers she discovered a little knife, the ivory + handle of which represented a tall, thin woman with her hair arranged a la + Maintenon. She bought it for a few sous. It pleased her, because she + already had a fork like it. Le Menil confessed that he had no taste for + such things, but said that his aunt knew a great deal about them. At Caen + all the merchants knew her. She had restored and furnished her house in + proper style. This house was noted as early as 1690. In one of its halls + were white cases full of books. His aunt had wished to put them in order. + She had found frivolous books in them, ornamented with engravings so + unconventional that she had burned them. + </p> + <p> + “Is she silly, your aunt?” asked Therese. + </p> + <p> + For a long time his anecdotes about his aunt had made her impatient. Her + friend had in the country a mother, sisters, aunts, and numerous relatives + whom she did not know and who irritated her. He talked of them with + admiration. It annoyed her that he often visited them. When he came back, + she imagined that he carried with him the odor of things that had been + packed up for years. He was astonished, naively, and he suffered from her + antipathy to them. + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. The sight of a public-house, the panes of which were + flaming, recalled to him the poet Choulette, who passed for a drunkard. He + asked her if she still saw that Choulette, who called on her wearing a + mackintosh and a red muffler. + </p> + <p> + It annoyed her that he spoke like General Lariviere. She did not say that + she had not seen Choulette since autumn, and that he neglected her with + the capriciousness of a man not in society. + </p> + <p> + “He has wit,” she said, “fantasy, and an original temperament. He pleases + me.” + </p> + <p> + And as he reproached her for having an odd taste, she replied: + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a taste, I have tastes. You do not disapprove of them all, I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + He replied that he did not criticise her. He was only afraid that she + might do herself harm by receiving a Bohemian who was not welcome in + respectable houses. + </p> + <p> + She exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Not welcome in respectable houses—Choulette? Don’t you know that he + goes every year for a month to the Marquise de Rieu? Yes, to the Marquise + de Rieu, the Catholic, the royalist. But since Choulette interests you, + listen to his latest adventure. Paul Vence related it to me. I understand + it better in this street, where there are shirts and flowerpots at the + windows. + </p> + <p> + “This winter, one night when it was raining, Choulette went into a + public-house in a street the name of which I have forgotten, but which + must resemble this one, and met there an unfortunate girl whom the waiters + would not have noticed, and whom he liked for her humility. Her name was + Maria. The name was not hers. She found it nailed on her door at the top + of the stairway where she went to lodge. Choulette was touched by this + perfection of poverty and infamy. He called her his sister, and kissed her + hands. Since then he has not quitted her a moment. He takes her to the + coffee-houses of the Latin Quarter where the rich students read their + reviews. He says sweet things to her. He weeps, she weeps. They drink; and + when they are drunk, they fight. He loves her. He calls her his chaste + one, his cross and his salvation. She was barefooted; he gave her yarn and + knitting-needles that she might make stockings. And he made shoes for this + unfortunate girl himself, with enormous nails. He teaches her verses that + are easy to understand. He is afraid of altering her moral beauty by + taking her out of the shame where she lives in perfect simplicity and + admirable destitution.” + </p> + <p> + Le Menil shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “But that Choulette is crazy, and Paul Vence has no right to tell you such + stories. I am not austere, assuredly; but there are immoralities that + disgust me.” They were walking at random. She fell into a dream. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, morality, I know—duty! But duty—it takes the devil to + discover it. I can assure you that I do not know where duty is. It’s like + a young lady’s turtle at Joinville. We spent all the evening looking for + it under the furniture, and when we had found it, we went to bed.” + </p> + <p> + He thought there was some truth in what she said. He would think about it + when alone. + </p> + <p> + “I regret sometimes that I did not remain in the army. I know what you are + going to say—one becomes a brute in that profession. Doubtless, but + one knows exactly what one has to do, and that is a great deal in life. I + think that my uncle’s life is very beautiful and very agreeable. But now + that everybody is in the army, there are neither officers nor soldiers. It + all looks like a railway station on Sunday. My uncle knew personally all + the officers and all the soldiers of his brigade. Nowadays, how can you + expect an officer to know his men?” + </p> + <p> + She had ceased to listen. She was looking at a woman selling fried + potatoes. She realized that she was hungry and wished to eat fried + potatoes. + </p> + <p> + He remonstrated: + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows how they are cooked.” + </p> + <p> + But he had to buy two sous’ worth of fried potatoes, and to see that the + woman put salt on them. + </p> + <p> + While Therese was eating them, he led her into deserted streets far from + the gaslights. Soon they found themselves in front of the cathedral. The + moon silvered the roofs. + </p> + <p> + “Notre Dame,” she said. “See, it is as heavy as an elephant yet as + delicate as an insect. The moon climbs over it and looks at it with a + monkey’s maliciousness. She does not look like the country moon at + Joinville. At Joinville I have a path—a flat path—with the + moon at the end of it. She is not there every night; but she returns + faithfully, full, red, familiar. She is a country neighbor. I go seriously + to meet her. But this moon of Paris I should not like to know. She is not + respectable company. Oh, the things that she has seen during the time she + has been roaming around the roofs!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled a tender smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your little path where you walked alone and that you liked because + the sky was at the end of it! I see it as if I were there.” + </p> + <p> + It was at the Joinville castle that he had seen her for the first time, + and had at once loved her. It was there, one night, that he had told her + of his love, to which she had listened, dumb, with a pained expression on + her mouth and a vague look in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + The reminiscence of this little path where she walked alone moved him, + troubled him, made him live again the enchanted hours of his first desires + and hopes. He tried to find her hand in her muff and pressed her slim + wrist under the fur. + </p> + <p> + A little girl carrying violets saw that they were lovers, and offered + flowers to them. He bought a two-sous’ bouquet and offered it to Therese. + </p> + <p> + She was walking toward the cathedral. She was thinking: “It is like an + enormous beast—a beast of the Apocalypse.” + </p> + <p> + At the other end of the bridge a flower-woman, wrinkled, bearded, gray + with years and dust, followed them with her basket full of mimosas and + roses. Therese, who held her violets and was trying to slip them into her + waist, said, joyfully: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I have some.” + </p> + <p> + “One can see that you are young,” the old woman shouted with a wicked air, + as she went away. + </p> + <p> + Therese understood at once, and a smile came to her lips and eyes. They + were passing near the porch, before the stone figures that wear sceptres + and crowns. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go in,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He did not wish to go in. He declared that the door was closed. She pushed + it, and slipped into the immense nave, where the inanimate trees of the + columns ascended in darkness. In the rear, candles were moving in front of + spectre-like priests, under the last reverberations of the organs. She + trembled in the silence, and said: + </p> + <p> + “The sadness of churches at night moves me; I feel in them the grandeur of + nothingness.” + </p> + <p> + He replied: + </p> + <p> + “We must believe in something. If there were no God, if our souls were not + immortal, it would be too sad.” + </p> + <p> + She remained for a while immovable under the curtains of shadow hanging + from the arches. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “My poor friend, we do not know what to do with this life, which is so + short, and yet you desire another life which shall never finish.” + </p> + <p> + In the carriage that took them back he said gayly that he had passed a + fine afternoon. He kissed her, satisfied with her and with himself. But + his good-humor was not communicated to her. The last moments they passed + together were spoiled for her always by the presentiment that he would not + say at parting the thing that he should say. Ordinarily, he quitted her + brusquely, as if what had happened were not to last. At every one of their + partings she had a confused feeling that they were parting forever. She + suffered from this in advance and became irritable. + </p> + <p> + Under the trees he took her hand and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “Is it not rare, Therese, to love as we love each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Rare? I don’t know; but I think that you love me.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “I, too, love you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will love me always?” + </p> + <p> + “What does one ever know?” + </p> + <p> + And seeing the face of her lover darken: + </p> + <p> + “Would you be more content with a woman who would swear to love only you + for all time?” + </p> + <p> + He remained anxious, with a wretched air. She was kind and she reassured + him: + </p> + <p> + “You know very well, my friend, that I am not fickle.” + </p> + <p> + Almost at the end of the lane they said good-by. He kept the carriage to + return to the Rue Royale. He was to dine at the club and go to the + theatre, and had no time to lose. + </p> + <p> + Therese returned home on foot. Opposite the Trocadero she remembered what + the old flower-woman had said: “One can see that you are young.” The words + came back to her with a significance not immoral but sad. “One can see + that you are young!” Yes, she was young, she was loved, and she was bored + to death. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. A DISCUSSION ON THE LITTLE CORPORAL + </h2> + <p> + In the centre of the table flowers were disposed in a basket of gilded + bronze, decorated with eagles, stars, and bees, and handles formed like + horns of plenty. On its sides winged Victorys supported the branches of + candelabra. This centrepiece of the Empire style had been given by + Napoleon, in 1812, to Count Martin de l’Aisne, grandfather of the present + Count Martin-Belleme. Martin de l’Aisne, a deputy to the Legislative Corps + in 1809, was appointed the following year member of the Committee on + Finance, the assiduous and secret works of which suited his laborious + temperament. Although a Liberal, he pleased the Emperor by his application + and his exact honesty. For two years he was under a rain of favors. In + 1813 he formed part of the moderate majority which approved the report in + which Laine censured power and misfortune, by giving to the Empire tardy + advice. January 1, 1814, he went with his colleagues to the Tuileries. The + Emperor received them in a terrifying manner. He charged on their ranks. + Violent and sombre, in the horror of his present strength and of his + coming fall, he stunned them with his anger and his contempt. + </p> + <p> + He came and went through their lines, and suddenly took Count Martin by + the shoulders, shook him and dragged him, exclaiming: “A throne is four + pieces of wood covered with velvet? No! A throne is a man, and that man is + I. You have tried to throw mud at me. Is this the time to remonstrate with + me when there are two hundred thousand Cossacks at the frontiers? Your + Laine is a wicked man. One should wash one’s dirty linen at home.” And + while in his anger he twisted in his hand the embroidered collar of the + deputy, he said: “The people know me. They do not know you. I am the elect + of the nation. You are the obscure delegates of a department.” He + predicted to them the fate of the Girondins. The noise of his spurs + accompanied the sound of his voice. Count Martin remained trembling the + rest of his life, and tremblingly recalled the Bourbons after the defeat + of the Emperor. The two restorations were in vain; the July government and + the Second Empire covered his oppressed breast with crosses and cordons. + Raised to the highest functions, loaded with honors by three kings and one + emperor, he felt forever on his shoulder the hand of the Corsican. He died + a senator of Napoleon III, and left a son agitated by the same fear. + </p> + <p> + This son had married Mademoiselle Belleme, daughter of the first president + of the court of Bourges, and with her the political glories of a family + which gave three ministers to the moderate monarch. The Bellemes, + advocates in the time of Louis XV, elevated the Jacobin origins of the + Martins. The second Count Martin was a member of all the Assemblies until + his death in 1881. His son took without trouble his seat in the Chamber of + Deputies. Having married Mademoiselle Therese Montessuy, whose dowry + supported his political fortune, he appeared discreetly among the four or + five bourgeois, titled and wealthy, who rallied to democracy, and were + received without much bad grace by the republicans, whom aristocracy + flattered. + </p> + <p> + In the dining-room, Count Martin-Belleme was doing the honors of his table + with the good grace, the sad politeness, recently prescribed at the Elysee + to represent isolated France at a great northern court. From time to time + he addressed vapid phrases to Madame Garain at his right; to the Princess + Seniavine at his left, who, loaded with diamonds, felt bored. Opposite + him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin, having by her side + General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions, + caressed with her fan her smooth white shoulders. At the two semicircles, + whereby the dinner-table was prolonged, were M. Montessuy, robust, with + blue eyes and ruddy complexion; a young cousin, Madame Belleme de + Saint-Nom, embarrassed by her long, thin arms; the painter Duviquet; M. + Daniel Salomon; then Paul Vence and Garain the deputy; Belleme de + Saint-Nom; an unknown senator; and Dechartre, who was dining at the house + for the first time. The conversation, at first trivial and insignificant, + was prolonged into a confused murmur, above which rose Garain’s voice: + </p> + <p> + “Every false idea is dangerous. People think that dreamers do no harm. + They are mistaken: dreamers do a great heal of harm. Even apparently + inoffensive utopian ideas really exercise a noxious influence. They tend + to inspire disgust at reality.” + </p> + <p> + “It is, perhaps, because reality is not beautiful,” said Paul Vence. + </p> + <p> + M. Garain said that he had always been in favor of all possible + improvements. He had asked for the suppression of permanent armies in the + time of the Empire, for the separation of church and state, and had + remained always faithful to democracy. His device, he said, was “Order and + Progress.” He thought he had discovered that device. + </p> + <p> + Montessuy said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Monsieur Garain, be sincere. Confess that there are no reforms to + be made, and that it is as much as one can do to change the color of + postage-stamps. Good or bad, things are as they should be. Yes, things are + as they should be; but they change incessantly. Since 1870 the industrial + and financial situation of the country has gone through four or five + revolutions which political economists had not foreseen and which they do + not yet understand. In society, as in nature, transformations are + accomplished from within.” + </p> + <p> + As to matters of government his ideas were terse and decided. He was + strongly attached to the present, heedless of the future, and the + socialists troubled him little. Without caring whether the sun and capital + should be extinguished some day, he enjoyed them. According to him, one + should let himself be carried. None but fools resisted the current or + tried to go in front of it. + </p> + <p> + But Count Martin, naturally sad, had, dark presentiments. In veiled words + he announced catastrophes. His timorous phrases came through the flowers, + and irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy. He + explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by themselves, + of throwing off barbarism, and that without the Jews and the Arabs Europe + would be to-day, as in the time of the Crusades, sunk in ignorance, + misery, and cruelty. + </p> + <p> + “The Middle Ages,” he said, “are closed only in the historical manuals + that are given to pupils to spoil their minds. In reality, barbarians are + always barbarians. Israel’s mission is to instruct nations. It was Israel + which, in the Middle Ages, brought to Europe the wisdom of ages. Socialism + frightens you. It is a Christian evil, like priesthood. And anarchy? Do + you not recognize in it the plague of the Albigeois and of the Vaudois? + The Jews, who instructed and polished Europe, are the only ones who can + save it to-day from the evangelical evil by which it is devoured. But they + have not fulfilled their duty. They have made Christians of themselves + among the Christians. And God punishes them. He permits them to be exiled + and to be despoiled. Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere. + From Russia my co-religionists are expelled like savage beasts. In France, + civil and military employments are closing against Jews. They have no + longer access to aristocratic circles. My nephew, young Isaac Coblentz, + has had to renounce a diplomatic career, after passing brilliantly his + admission examination. The wives of several of my colleagues, when Madame + Schmoll calls on them, display with intention, under her eyes, + anti-Semitic newspapers. And would you believe that the Minister of Public + Instruction has refused to give me the cross of the Legion of Honor for + which I have applied? There’s ingratitude! Anti-Semitism is death—it + is death, do you hear? to European civilization.” + </p> + <p> + The little man had a natural manner which surpassed all the art in the + world. Grotesque and terrible, he threw the table into consternation by + his sincerity. Madame Martin, whom he amused, complimented him on this: + </p> + <p> + “At least,” she said, “you defend your co-religionists. You are not, + Monsieur Schmoll, like a beautiful Jewish lady of my acquaintance who, + having read in a journal that she received the elite of Jewish society, + went everywhere shouting that she had been insulted.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure, Madame, that you do not know how beautiful and superior to all + other moralities is Jewish morality. Do you know the parable of the three + rings?” + </p> + <p> + This question was lost in the murmur of the dialogues wherein were mingled + foreign politics, exhibitions of paintings, fashionable scandals, and + Academy speeches. They talked of the new novel and of the coming play. + This was a comedy. Napoleon was an incidental character in it. + </p> + <p> + The conversation settled upon Napoleon I, often placed on the stage and + newly studied in books—an object of curiosity, a personage in the + fashion, no longer a popular hero, a demi-god, wearing boots for his + country, as in the days when Norvins and Beranger, Charlet and Raffet were + composing his legend; but a curious personage, an amusing type in his + living infinity, a figure whose style is pleasant to artists, whose + movements attract thoughtless idlers. + </p> + <p> + Garain, who had founded his political fortune on hatred of the Empire, + judged sincerely that this return of national taste was only an absurd + infatuation. He saw no danger in it and felt no fear about it. In him fear + was sudden and ferocious. For the moment he was very quiet; he talked + neither of prohibiting performances nor of seizing books, of imprisoning + authors, or of suppressing anything. Calm and severe, he saw in Napoleon + only Taine’s ‘condottiere’ who kicked Volney in the stomach. Everybody + wished to define the true Napoleon. Count Martin, in the face of the + imperial centrepiece and of the winged Victorys, talked suitably of + Napoleon as an organizer and administrator, and placed him in a high + position as president of the state council, where his words threw light + upon obscure questions. Garain affirmed that in his sessions, only too + famous, Napoleon, under pretext of taking snuff, asked the councillors to + pass to him their gold boxes ornamented with miniatures and decked with + diamonds, which they never saw again. The anecdote was told to him by the + son of Mounier himself. + </p> + <p> + Montessuy esteemed in Napoleon the genius of order. “He liked,” he said, + “work well done. That is a taste most persons have lost.” + </p> + <p> + The painter Duviquet, whose ideas were those of an artist, was + embarrassed. He did not find on the funeral mask brought from St. Helena + the characteristics of that face, beautiful and powerful, which medals and + busts have consecrated. One must be convinced of this now that the bronze + of that mask was hanging in all the old shops, among eagles and sphinxes + made of gilded wood. And, according to him, since the true face of + Napoleon was not that of the ideal Napoleon, his real soul may not have + been as idealists fancied it. Perhaps it was the soul of a good bourgeois. + Somebody had said this, and he was inclined to think that it was true. + Anyway, Duviquet, who flattered himself with having made the best + portraits of the century, knew that celebrated men seldom resemble the + ideas one forms of them. + </p> + <p> + M. Daniel Salomon observed that the fine mask about which Duviquet talked, + the plaster cast taken from the inanimate face of the Emperor, and brought + to Europe by Dr. Antommarchi, had been moulded in bronze and sold by + subscription for the first time in 1833, under Louis Philippe, and had + then inspired surprise and mistrust. People suspected the Italian chemist, + who was a sort of buffoon, always talkative and famished, of having tried + to make fun of people. Disciples of Dr. Gall, whose system was then in + favor, regarded the mask as suspicious. They did not find in it the bumps + of genius; and the forehead, examined in accordance with the master’s + theories, presented nothing remarkable in its formation. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely,” said Princess Seniavine. “Napoleon was remarkable only for + having kicked Volney in the stomach and stealing a snuffbox ornamented + with diamonds. Monsieur Garain has just taught us.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” said Madame Martin, “nobody is sure that he kicked Volney.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything becomes known in the end,” replied the Princess, gayly. + “Napoleon did nothing at all. He did not even kick Volney, and his head + was that of an idiot.” + </p> + <p> + General Lariviere felt that he should say something. He hurled this + phrase: + </p> + <p> + “Napoleon—his campaign of 1813 is much discussed.” + </p> + <p> + The General wished to please Garain, and he had no other idea. However, he + succeeded, after an effort, in formulating a judgment: + </p> + <p> + “Napoleon committed faults; in his situation he should not have committed + any.” And he stopped abruptly, very red. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin asked: + </p> + <p> + “And you, Monsieur Vence, what do you think of Napoleon?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I have not much love for sword-bearers, and conquerors seem to me + to be dangerous fools. But in spite of everything, that figure of the + Emperor interests me as it interests the public. I find character and life + in it. There is no poem or novel that is worth the Memoirs of Saint + Helena, although it is written in ridiculous fashion. What I think of + Napoleon, if you wish to know, is that, made for glory, he had the + brilliant simplicity of the hero of an epic poem. A hero must be human. + Napoleon was human.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh!” every one exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + But Paul Vence continued: + </p> + <p> + “He was violent and frivolous; therefore profoundly human. I mean, similar + to everybody. He desired, with singular force, all that most men esteem + and desire. He had illusions, which he gave to the people. This was his + power and his weakness; it was his beauty. He believed in glory. He had of + life and of the world the same opinion as any one of his grenadiers. He + retained always the infantile gravity which finds pleasure in playing with + swords and drums, and the sort of innocence which makes good military men. + He esteemed force sincerely. He was a man among men, the flesh of human + flesh. He had not a thought that was not in action, and all his actions + were grand yet common. It is this vulgar grandeur which makes heroes. And + Napoleon is the perfect hero. His brain never surpassed his hand—that + hand, small and beautiful, which grasped the world. He never had, for a + moment, the least care for what he could not reach.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Garain, “according to you, he was not an intellectual genius. + I am of your opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” continued Paul Vence, “he had enough genius to be brilliant in + the civil and military arena of the world. But he had not speculative + genius. That genius is another pair of sleeves, as Buffon says. We have a + collection of his writings and speeches. His style has movement and + imagination. And in this mass of thoughts one can not find a philosophic + curiosity, not one expression of anxiety about the unknowable, not an + expression of fear of the mystery which surrounds destiny. At Saint + Helena, when he talks of God and of the soul, he seems to be a little + fourteen-year-old school-boy. Thrown upon the world, his mind found itself + fit for the world, and embraced it all. Nothing of that mind was lost in + the infinite. Himself a poet, he knew only the poetry of action. He + limited to the earth his powerful dream of life. In his terrible and + touching naivete he believed that a man could be great, and neither time + nor misfortune made him lose that idea. His youth, or rather his sublime + adolescence, lasted as long as he lived, because life never brought him a + real maturity. Such is the abnormal state of men of action. They live + entirely in the present, and their genius concentrates on one point. The + hours of their existence are not connected by a chain of grave and + disinterested meditations. They succeed themselves in a series of acts. + They lack interior life. This defect is particularly visible in Napoleon, + who never lived within himself. From this is derived the frivolity of + temperament which made him support easily the enormous load of his evils + and of his faults. His mind was born anew every day. He had, more than any + other person, a capacity for diversion. The first day that he saw the sun + rise on his funereal rock at Saint Helena, he jumped from his bed, + whistling a romantic air. It was the peace of a mind superior to fortune; + it was the frivolity of a mind prompt in resurrection. He lived from the + outside.” + </p> + <p> + Garain, who did not like Paul Vence’s ingenious turn of wit and language, + tried to hasten the conclusion: + </p> + <p> + “In a word,” he said, “there was something of the monster in the man.” + </p> + <p> + “There are no monsters,” replied Paul Vence; “and men who pass for + monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had + the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for + him.” + </p> + <p> + Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he + excused himself with a sort of fright. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” said Schmoll again, “the parable of the three rings, + sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew.” + </p> + <p> + Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox, regretted + that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and justice. + </p> + <p> + “One great principle,” he said, “is that men should be judged by their + acts.” + </p> + <p> + “And women?” asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; “do you judge them by + their acts? And how do you know what they do?” + </p> + <p> + The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of + silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on the + cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain. + </p> + <p> + General Lariviere fell into dreams. + </p> + <p> + “When public clamor has split my ears,” he said to his neighbor, “I shall + go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers.” + </p> + <p> + He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given to + a rose. This pleased him highly. + </p> + <p> + Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings. + </p> + <p> + The Princess rallied the Deputy. + </p> + <p> + “Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things for + very different reasons?” + </p> + <p> + Montessuy said she was right. + </p> + <p> + “It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This + thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was known + neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an English + legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell Lowell of + London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his time with three + women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her husband; the other + was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows; the third, who had + for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become ugly, and was a + servant in a den. After what she had done, after what she had seen, love + signified nothing to her. These three women behaved alike for very + different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the mass of actions, + their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of the human being.” + </p> + <p> + “Some of our actions,” said Madame Martin, “have our look, our face: they + are our daughters. Others do not resemble us at all.” + </p> + <p> + She rose and took the General’s arm. + </p> + <p> + On the way to the drawing-room the Princess said: + </p> + <p> + “Therese is right. Some actions do not express our real selves at all. + They are like the things we do in nightmares.” + </p> + <p> + The nymphs of the tapestries smiled vainly in their faded beauty at the + guests, who did not see them. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin served the coffee with her young cousin, Madame Belleme de + Saint-Nom. She complimented Paul Vence on what he had said at the table. + </p> + <p> + “You talked of Napoleon with a freedom of mind that is rare in the + conversations I hear. I have noticed that children, when they are + handsome, look, when they pout, like Napoleon at Waterloo. You have made + me feel the profound reasons for this similarity.” + </p> + <p> + Then, turning toward Dechartre: + </p> + <p> + “Do you like Napoleon?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I do not like the Revolution. And Napoleon is the Revolution in + boots.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Dechartre, why did you not say this at dinner? But I see you + prefer to be witty only in tete-a-tetes.” + </p> + <p> + Count Martin-Belleme escorted the men to the smoking-room. Paul Vence + alone remained with the women. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had + finished his novel, and what was the subject of it. It was a study in + which he tried to reach the truth through a series of plausible + conditions. + </p> + <p> + “Thus,” he said, “the novel acquires a moral force which history, in its + heavy frivolity, never had.” + </p> + <p> + She inquired whether the book was written for women. He said it was not. + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong, Monsieur Vence, not to write for women. A superior man can + do nothing else for them.” + </p> + <p> + He wished to know what gave her that idea. + </p> + <p> + “Because I see that all the intelligent women love fools.” + </p> + <p> + “Who bore them.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! But superior men would weary them more. They would have more + resources to employ in boring them. But tell me the subject of your + novel.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you insist?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I insist upon nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will tell you. It is a study of popular manners; the history of a + young workman, sober and chaste, as handsome as a girl, with the mind of a + virgin, a sensitive soul. He is a carver, and works well. At night, near + his mother, whom he loves, he studies, he reads books. In his mind, simple + and receptive, ideas lodge themselves like bullets in a wall. He has no + desires. He has neither the passions nor the vices that attach us to life. + He is solitary and pure. Endowed with strong virtues, he becomes + conceited. He lives among miserable people. He sees suffering. He has + devotion without humanity. He has that sort of cold charity which is + called altruism. He is not human because he is not sensual.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! One must be sensual to be human?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, Madame. True pity, like tenderness, comes from the heart. He + is not intelligent enough to doubt. He believes what he has read. And he + has read that to establish universal happiness society must be destroyed. + Thirst for martyrdom devours him. One morning, having kissed his mother, + he goes out; he watches for the socialist deputy of his district, sees + him, throws himself on him, and buries a poniard in his breast. Long live + anarchy! He is arrested, measured, photographed, questioned, judged, + condemned to death, and guillotined. That is my novel.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not very amusing,” said the Princess; “but that is not your fault. + Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other Frenchmen. The Russians + have more audacity and more imagination.” + </p> + <p> + Countess Martin asked Paul Vence whether he knew a silent, timid-looking + man among the guests. Her husband had invited him. She knew nothing of + him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was a senator. + He had seen him one day by chance in the Luxembourg, in the gallery that + served as a library. + </p> + <p> + “I went there to look at the cupola, where Delacroix has painted, in a + wood of bluish myrtles, heroes and sages of antiquity. That gentleman was + there, with the same wretched and pitiful air. His coat was damp and he + was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying, while + rubbing his hands: ‘The proof that the Republic is the best of governments + is that in 1871 it could kill in a week sixty thousand insurgents without + becoming unpopular. After such a repression any other regime would have + been impossible.’” + </p> + <p> + “He is a very wicked man,” said Madame Martin. “And to think that I was + pitying him!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace of + her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the banks of + the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her. + </p> + <p> + Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The + General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin. + </p> + <p> + “I met this morning, in the park, Baronne Warburg, mounted on a + magnificent horse. She said, ‘General, how do you manage to have such fine + horses?’ I replied: Madame, to have fine horses, you must be either very + wealthy or very clever.’” + </p> + <p> + He was so well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice. + </p> + <p> + Paul Vence came near Countess Martin: + </p> + <p> + “I know that senator’s name: it is Lyer. He is the vice-president of a + political society, and author of a book entitled, The Crime of December + Second.” + </p> + <p> + The General continued: + </p> + <p> + “The weather was horrible. I went into a hut and found Le Menil there. I + was in a bad humor. He was making fun of me, I saw, because I sought + shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like wind and + snow. He said that he liked bad weather, and that he was to go foxhunting + with friends next week.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause; the General continued: + </p> + <p> + “I wish him much joy, but I don’t envy him. Foxhunting is not agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is useful,” said Montessuy. + </p> + <p> + The General shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Foxes are dangerous for chicken-coops in the spring when the fowls have + to feed their families.” + </p> + <p> + “Foxes are sly poachers, who do less harm to farmers than to hunters. I + know something of this.” + </p> + <p> + Therese was not listening to the Princess, who was talking to her. She was + thinking: + </p> + <p> + “He did not tell me that he was going away!” + </p> + <p> + “Of what are you thinking, dear?” inquired the Princess. + </p> + <p> + “Of nothing interesting,” Therese replied. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE END OF A DREAM + </h2> + <p> + In the little shadowy room, where sound was deadened by curtains, + portieres, cushions, bearskins, and carpets from the Orient, the firelight + shone on glittering swords hanging among the faded favors of the cotillons + of three winters. The rosewood chiffonier was surmounted by a silver cup, + a prize from some sporting club. On a porcelain plaque, in the centre of + the table, stood a crystal vase which held branches of white lilacs; and + lights palpitated in the warm shadows. Therese and Robert, their eyes + accustomed to obscurity, moved easily among these familiar objects. He + lighted a cigarette while she arranged her hair, standing before the + mirror, in a corner so dim she could hardly see herself. She took pins + from the little Bohemian glass cup standing on the table, where she had + kept it for three years. He looked at her, passing her light fingers + quickly through the gold ripples of her hair, while her face, hardened and + bronzed by the shadow, took on a mysterious expression. She did not speak. + </p> + <p> + He said to her: + </p> + <p> + “You are not cross now, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said: + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said at + first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from + General Lariviere.” + </p> + <p> + He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained + cold and reserved toward him. But he affected to think that she only + pouted. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I met + Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my promise + to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I meant to + tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere told you + first, but there was no significance in that.” + </p> + <p> + Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a + glance from her tranquil eyes, which he did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “Then you are going?” + </p> + <p> + “Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at most.” + </p> + <p> + She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented with a branch of holly. + </p> + <p> + “Is it something that you can not postpone?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover, + Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence.” + </p> + <p> + Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Is fox-hunting interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems that one must fathom. The + intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at night + a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure you it is + not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. I do not care + for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you half a dozen + skins.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish me to do with them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can make rugs of them.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will be hunting eight days?” + </p> + <p> + “Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at + this time there was a delightful reunion at her house. She had with her + her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five women + are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable. I shall probably find them + at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt’s birthday, and I + shall remain there two days.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable if + you shortened on my account a sojourn which is so agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + “But you, Therese?” + </p> + <p> + “I, my friend? I can take care of myself.” + </p> + <p> + The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She + said, in a dreamy tone: + </p> + <p> + “It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone.” + </p> + <p> + He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “You love me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but—” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I am thinking—I am thinking that we are separated all + through the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your + friends half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, + it is better not to see each other at all.” + </p> + <p> + He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He looked + at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common to all + lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her through + force of education and simplicity of intelligence. + </p> + <p> + “Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me? + Sometimes you are painfully harsh.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her little head brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate. It is in the blood. I take + it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the castle, the + ceilings, the tapestries, the gardens, the park, the hunting-grounds, you + have said that none better were in France; but you have not seen my + father’s workshop—a white wooden table and a mahogany bureau. + Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my father made + figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in the apartment + where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a parvenu’s + daughter, or a conqueror’s daughter, it’s all the same. We are people of + material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess what he + could buy—that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep—what? I + do not know—the happiness that I have—or that I have not. I + have my own way of being exacting. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I + know very well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes + in giving herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something, + because my trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or + think what I like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what is + due to me. And then—” + </p> + <p> + She lowered her voice: + </p> + <p> + “And then, I have—impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you + have? You shouldn’t have loved me.” + </p> + <p> + This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his + pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she did, + but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to a + woman’s words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often + words are the same as actions. + </p> + <p> + Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength and + confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims, which he judged + absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her; and, + naively, he always ended by playing it. + </p> + <p> + “You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be + agreeable to you. Don’t be capricious with me.” + </p> + <p> + “And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not + because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I was + capricious.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, astonished and saddened. + </p> + <p> + “The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was + love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you loved + me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the + satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my + desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone. You + are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your + foxhunt, isn’t that capricious?” + </p> + <p> + He replied, very sincerely: + </p> + <p> + “If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice + that small pleasure with great joy.” + </p> + <p> + She felt that he spoke the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling the + most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he would not + go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would seek hereafter + only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to take his reason + seriously, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you have promised!” + </p> + <p> + And she affected to yield. + </p> + <p> + Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her + listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn. He + put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids as a + reward. He said: + </p> + <p> + “We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. I + will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here + to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the + next day nor any other day. + </p> + <p> + Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her. + </p> + <p> + The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity fair, + exhibitions. As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to increase. + The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the exhibitions + would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see him again + before his departure. + </p> + <p> + As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to + observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed by + this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained silent + and unhappy. + </p> + <p> + With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on the + key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the sapphire + and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she turned her head + toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little mockingly, yet with + a touch of tragic emotion: + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little visits + are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!” + </p> + <p> + She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a point + not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely forced + him to do so. + </p> + <p> + In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world, + without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was + her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But the + avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights, + enveloped her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so + agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold of + winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains of + the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and there. + These small shops, these monotonous windows, were nothing to her. Yet she + felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship of + inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of + houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly upon her. She was + alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between the + two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had taken + so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that day + brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day had left + a subtle, strange, persistent sting, which would never leave her. What had + happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced everything. She had a sort + of obscure certainty that she would never return to that room which had so + recently enclosed the most secret and dearest phases of her life. She had + loved Robert with the seriousness of a necessary joy. Made to be loved, + and very reasonable, she had not lost in the abandonment of herself that + instinct of reflection, that necessity for security, which was so strong + in her. She had not chosen: one seldom chooses. She had not allowed + herself to be taken at random and by surprise. She had done what she had + wished to do, as much as one ever does what one wishes to do in such + cases. She had nothing to regret. He had been to her what it was his duty + to be. She felt, in spite of everything, that all was at an end. She + thought, with dry sadness, that three years of her life had been given to + an honest man who had loved her and whom she had loved. “For I loved him. + I must have loved him in order to give myself to him.” But she could not + feel again the sentiments of early days, the movements of her mind when + she had yielded. She recalled small and insignificant circumstances: the + flowers on the wall-paper and the pictures in the room. She recalled the + words, a little ridiculous and almost touching, that he had said to her. + But it seemed to her that the adventure had occurred to another woman, to + a stranger whom she did not like and whom she hardly understood. And what + had happened only a moment ago seemed far distant now. The room, the + lilacs in the crystal vase, the little cup of Bohemian glass where she + found her pins—she saw all these things as if through a window that + one passes in the street. She was without bitterness, and even without + sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas! This absence for a week was not + a betrayal, it was not a fault against her; it was nothing, yet it was + everything. It was the end. She knew it. She wished to cease. It was the + consent of all the forces of her being. She said to herself: “I have no + reason to love him less. Do I love him no more? Did I ever love him?” She + did not know and she did not care to know. Three years, during which there + had been months when they had seen each other every day—was all this + nothing? Life is not a great thing. And what one puts in it, how little + that is! + </p> + <p> + In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end it + all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was not a + resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a state of + the body and of the mind. + </p> + <p> + When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain, and + on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its bell in + an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that he had + given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame. They had loved each + other that day—perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened at that + reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor little flower + skeleton, in her memory. + </p> + <p> + While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her + dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and + the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a + crisis. She thought: “How do other women manage such things? And I, who + promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?” + </p> + <p> + Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil + disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made of + a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the other + end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized her and + bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her; she + thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few steps with + her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this place the + tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal a glimpse of + the sky. + </p> + <p> + He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of + her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively. + </p> + <p> + “Graceful movements,” he added, “are like music for the eyes.” + </p> + <p> + She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause of + her good health. + </p> + <p> + He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The mystery + of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages had become + common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm. He had seen + golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the Bosporus; but + it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother country of his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “I shall go there next week,” he said. “I long to see again Ravenna asleep + among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen Ravenna, Madame? + It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms appear. The magic of + death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale, with their barbarous + angels and their aureolated empresses, make one feel the monstrous + delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its silver lamels, the grave + of Galla Placidia is frightful under its crypt, luminous yet gloomy. When + one looks through an opening in the sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw + the daughter of Theodosius, seated on her golden chair, erect in her gown + studded with stones and embroidered with scenes from the Old Testament; + her beautiful, cruel face preserved hard and black with aromatic plants, + and her ebony hands immovable on her knees. For thirteen centuries she + retained this funereal majesty, until one day a child passed a candle + through the opening of the grave and burned the body.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her + conceit, had done during her life. + </p> + <p> + “Twice a slave,” said Dechartre, “she became twice an empress.” + </p> + <p> + “She must have been beautiful,” said Madame Martin. “You have made me see + her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to Venice, + Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals bordered by + palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I still like + Venice, after being there three times.” + </p> + <p> + He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice. + </p> + <p> + Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made + studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + “Elsewhere,” he said, “even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice it + is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops lovingly + the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the iridescent + atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice is in its sky + and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women are! Their forms + are so slender and supple under their black shawls. If nothing remained of + these women except a bone, one would find in that bone the charm of their + exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they form laughing groups, + agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant necks, flowery smiles, and + inflaming glances. And all bend, with the suppleness of young animals, at + the passage of a priest whose head resembles that of Vitellius, and who + carries the chalice, preceded by two choir-boys.” + </p> + <p> + He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas, sometimes + quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost outstripped + him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and supple carriage. He + observed the little shake which at moments her obstinate head gave to the + holly on her toque. + </p> + <p> + Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate, + with a young woman almost unknown. + </p> + <p> + They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows of + trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of + boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay. + One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in misty + days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights of the city + were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three golden nails of + the Orion belt. Dechartre continued: + </p> + <p> + “Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at + her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with + small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in + the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as a + flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most beautiful + light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a butcher + standing behind me with his basket on his head.” + </p> + <p> + At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two + lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly. + </p> + <p> + “It is true that at Venice,” she said, “all women are pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls—the + cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are commonplace + enough.” + </p> + <p> + “By others you mean society women; and you don’t like these?” + </p> + <p> + “Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them, that’s + a different affair.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. A DINNER ‘EN FAMILLE’ + </h2> + <p> + She dined that night alone with her husband. The narrow table had not the + basket with golden eagles and winged Victorys. The candelabra did not + light Oudry’s paintings. While he talked of the events of the day, she + fell into a sad reverie. It seemed to her that she floated in a mist. It + was a peaceful and almost sweet suffering. She saw vaguely through the + clouds the little room of the Rue Spontini transported by angels to one of + the summits of the Himalaya Mountains, and Robert Le Menil—in the + quaking of a sort of world’s end—had disappeared while putting on + his gloves. She felt her pulse to see whether she were feverish. A rattle + of silverware on the table awoke her. She heard her husband saying: + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend Gavaut delivered to-day, in the Chamber, an excellent + speech on the question of the reserve funds. It’s extraordinary how his + ideas have become healthy and just. Oh, he has improved a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + She could not refrain from smiling. + </p> + <p> + “But Gavaut, my friend, is a poor devil who never thought of anything + except escaping from the crowd of those who are dying of hunger. Gavaut + never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him seriously + in the political world? You may be sure that he never gave an illusion to + any woman, not even his wife. And yet to produce that sort of illusion a + man does not need much.” She added, brusquely: + </p> + <p> + “You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. I + have accepted; I am going.” + </p> + <p> + Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going. + </p> + <p> + At once she answered: + </p> + <p> + “With Madame Marmet.” + </p> + <p> + There was no objection to make. Madame Marmet was a proper companion, and + it was appropriate for her to visit Italy, where her husband had made some + excavations. He asked only: + </p> + <p> + “Have you invited her? When are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Next week.” + </p> + <p> + He had the wisdom not to make any objection, judging that opposition would + only make her capriciousness firmer, and fearing to give impetus to that + foolish idea. He said: + </p> + <p> + “Surely, to travel is an agreeable pastime. I thought that we might in the + spring visit the Caucasus and Turkestan. There is an interesting country. + General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains, and + everything else on his railway. He is a friend of mine; he is quite + charmed with you. He will provide us with an escort of Cossacks.” + </p> + <p> + He persisted in trying to flatter her vanity, unable to realize that her + mind was not worldly. She replied, negligently, that it might be a + pleasant trip. Then he praised the mountains, the ancient cities, the + bazaars, the costumes, the armor. + </p> + <p> + He added: + </p> + <p> + “We shall take some friends with us—Princess Seniavine, General + Lariviere, perhaps Vence or Le Menil.” + </p> + <p> + She replied, with a little dry laugh, that they had time to select their + guests. + </p> + <p> + He became attentive to her wants. + </p> + <p> + “You are not eating. You will injure your health.” + </p> + <p> + Without yet believing in this prompt departure, he felt some anxiety about + it. Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone. He felt + that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he had decided + to give two or three political dinners during the session. He saw his + party growing. This was the moment to assert himself, to make a dazzling + show. He said, mysteriously: + </p> + <p> + “Something might happen requiring the aid of all our friends. You have not + followed the march of events, Therese?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. You have judgment, liberality of mind. If you had followed + the march of events you would have been struck by the current that is + leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of + exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical politics and + religious persecution. Some day or other it will be necessary to make over + a Casimir-Perier ministry with other men, and that day—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped: really she listened too inattentively. + </p> + <p> + She was thinking, sad and disenchanted. It seemed to her that the pretty + woman, who, among the warm shadows of a closed room, placed her bare feet + in the fur of the brown bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses while + she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was not even a + woman that she knew well, or that she desired to know, but a person whose + affairs were of no interest to her. A pin badly set in her hair, one of + the pins from the Bohemian glass cup, fell on her neck. She shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Yet we really must give three or four dinners to our good political + friends,” said M. Martin-Belleme. “We shall invite some of the ancient + radicals to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some + pretty women. We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been no + gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, since I am to go next week—” + </p> + <p> + This filled him with consternation. + </p> + <p> + They went, both silent and moody, into the drawing-room, where Paul Vence + was waiting. He often came in the evening. + </p> + <p> + She extended her hand to him. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town. Paris is cold and + bleak. This weather tires and saddens me. I am going to Florence, for six + weeks, to visit Miss Bell.” + </p> + <p> + M. Martin-Belleme then lifted his eyes to heaven. + </p> + <p> + Vence asked whether she had been in Italy often. + </p> + <p> + “Three times; but I saw nothing. This time I wish to see, to throw myself + into things. From Florence I shall take walks into Tuscany, into Umbria. + And, finally, I shall go to Venice.” + </p> + <p> + “You will do well. Venice suggests the peace of the Sabbath-day in the + grand week of creative and divine Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Your friend Dechartre talked very prettily to me of Venice, of the + atmosphere of Venice, which sows pearls.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at Venice the sky is a colorist. Florence inspires the mind. An old + author has said: ‘The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and feeds the + beautiful ideas of men.’ I have lived delicious days in Tuscany. I wish I + could live them again.” + </p> + <p> + “Come and see me there.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed. + </p> + <p> + The newspaper, books, and his daily work prevented him. + </p> + <p> + M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that + one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M. + Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is + impossible to express one’s self. I know how to talk with my pen as well + as any other person; but, after all, to talk or to write, what futile + occupations! How wretchedly inadequate are the little signs which form + syllables, words, and phrases. What becomes of the idea, the beautiful + idea, which these miserable hieroglyphics hide? What does the reader make + of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and of nonsense. + To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful translations, + perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should I care for the + admiration which they give to my books, since it is what they themselves + see in them that they admire? Every reader substitutes his visions in the + place of ours. We furnish him with the means to quicken his imagination. + It is a horrible thing to be a cause of such exercises. It is an infamous + profession.” + </p> + <p> + “You are jesting,” said M. Martin-Belleme. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so,” said Therese. “He recognizes that one mind is + impenetrable to another mind, and he suffers from this. He feels that he + is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may + do, one is always alone in the world. That is what he wishes to say. He is + right. You may always explain: you never are understood.” + </p> + <p> + “There are signs—” said Paul Vence. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of + hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any + more.” + </p> + <p> + Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of + Saint Francis. + </p> + <p> + “The idea, Madame, came to him in a marvellous fashion one day when he had + gone to call on his Maria in the street where she lives, behind the public + hospital—a street always damp, the houses on which are tottering. + You must know that he considers Maria the saint and martyr who is + responsible for the sins of the people. + </p> + <p> + “He pulled the bell-rope, made greasy by two centuries of visitors. Either + because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly known, or + because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door. Choulette + rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope remained in his + hand. Skilful at understanding symbols and the hidden meaning of things, + he understood at once that this rope had not been detached without the + permission of spiritual powers. He made of it a belt, and realized that he + had been chosen to lead back into its primitive purity the Third Order of + Saint Francis. He renounced the beauty of women, the delights of poetry, + the brightness of glory, and studied the life and the doctrine of Saint + Francis. However, he has sold to his editor a book entitled ‘Les + Blandices’, which contains, he says, the description of all sorts of + loves. He flatters himself that in it he has shown himself a criminal with + some elegance. But far from harming his mystic undertakings, this book + favors them in this sense, that, corrected by his later work, he will + become honest and exemplary; and the gold that he has received in payment, + which would not have been paid to him for a more chaste volume, will serve + for a pilgrimage to Assisi.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin asked how much of this story was really true. Vence replied + that she must not try to learn. + </p> + <p> + He confessed that he was the idealist historian of the poet, and that the + adventures which he related of him were not to be taken in the literal and + Judaic sense. + </p> + <p> + He affirmed that at least Choulette was publishing Les Blandices, and + desired to visit the cell and the grave of St. Francis. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” exclaimed Madame Martin, “I will take him to Italy with me. Find + him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week.” + </p> + <p> + M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had to + finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette. Paul + Vence said that he was a singular specimen of humanity. + </p> + <p> + “He is not very different from the saints of whose extraordinary lives we + read. He is as sincere as they. He has an exquisite delicacy of sentiment + and a terrible violence of mind. If he shocks one by many of his acts, the + reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps less closely + observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just as there are bad + angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems are true + poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops of the seventeenth + century.” + </p> + <p> + She interrupted him: + </p> + <p> + “While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend Dechartre. + He has a charming mind.” + </p> + <p> + She added: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he is a little too timid.” + </p> + <p> + Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre + interesting. + </p> + <p> + “I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood.” + </p> + <p> + “You knew his parents?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre.” + </p> + <p> + “The architect?” + </p> + <p> + “The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and + churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge. + Solitary and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack + Viollet-le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to + reestablish buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or as + they might have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the + contrary, wished that everything which the lapse of centuries had added to + a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish + anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to him + to be a scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He said: + ‘It is a crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone by the + hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false witnesses.’ + He wished to limit the task of the archaeologic architect to that of + supporting and consolidating walls. He was right. Everybody said that he + was wrong. He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival triumphed. + He bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son. Jacques + Dechartre was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do not think + that maternal tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a charming + fellow; but he is a spoiled child.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from + everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Do not rely on this. He has a tormented and tormenting imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he like women?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it isn’t with any idea of match-making.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men + really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison + with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful + with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles. + </p> + <p> + “They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil,” Paul Vence + continued. “I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams, + forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with himself, + pursuing his idea, absolutely incapable of listening to anybody; she, + studying her roles, her complexion burned by rouge, her eyes tender, + pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She complained to me + that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable. She loved him and + deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived him, it was done + on the spur of the moment. Afterward she never thought of it. A typical + woman! But she was imprudent; she smiled upon Joseph Springer in the hope + that he would make her a member of the Comedie Francaise. Dechartre left + her. Now she finds it more practical to live with her managers, and + Jacques finds it more agreeable to travel.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he regret her?” + </p> + <p> + “How can one know the things that agitate a mind anxious and mobile, + selfish and passionate, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in + disengaging itself, liking itself most of all among the beautiful things + that it finds in the world?” + </p> + <p> + Brusquely she changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “And your novel, Monsieur Vence?” + </p> + <p> + “I have reached the last chapter, Madame. My little workingman has been + guillotined. He died with that indifference of virgins without desire, who + never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The journals and the + public approve the act of justice which has just been accomplished. But in + another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and a chemist, swears to + himself that he will commit an expiatory murder.” + </p> + <p> + He rose and said good-night. + </p> + <p> + She called him back. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me.” + </p> + <p> + When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his + red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge’s cap framing his pale and + hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of his + workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue, a + collection of the annual budgets. Before she could reach her room he + motioned that he wished to speak to her. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It does + you a great deal of harm. You intend to leave your home without any + reason, without even a pretext. And you wish to run through Europe with + whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard—that man Choulette.” + </p> + <p> + She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there + could be nothing objectionable. + </p> + <p> + “But you announce your going to everybody, yet you do not even know + whether Madame Marmet can accompany you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Madame Marmet will soon pack her boxes. Nothing keeps her in Paris + except her dog. She will leave it to you; you may take care of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your father know of your project?” + </p> + <p> + It was his last resource to invoke the authority of Montessuy. He knew + that his wife feared to displease her father. He insisted: + </p> + <p> + “Your father is full of sense and tact. I have been happy to find him + agreeing with me several times in the advices which I have permitted + myself to give you. He thinks as I do, that Madame Meillan’s house is not + a fit place for you to visit. The company that meets there is mixed, and + the mistress of the house favors intrigue. You are wrong, I must say, not + to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your father does + not think it singular that you should go away with so much frivolity, and + the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since circumstances have + made me eminent in the course of this legislature. My merit has nothing to + do with the case, surely. But if you had consented to listen to me at + dinner I should have demonstrated to you that the group of politicians to + which I belong has almost reached power. In such a moment you should not + renounce your duties as mistress of the house. You must understand this + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + She replied “You annoy me.” And, turning her back to him, she shut the + door of her room between them. That night in her bed she opened a book, as + she always did before going to sleep. It was a novel. She was turning the + leaves with indifference, when her eyes fell on these lines: + </p> + <p> + “Love is like devotion: it comes late. A woman is hardly in love or devout + at twenty, unless she has a special disposition to be either, a sort of + native sanctity. Women who are predestined to love, themselves struggle a + long time against that grace of love which is more terrible than the + thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest yields to + the passion of love only when age or solitude does not frighten her. + Passion is an arid and burning desert. Passion is profane asceticism, as + harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as rare as great + penitent women. Those who know life well know that women do not easily + bind themselves in the chains of real love. They know that nothing is less + common than sacrifice among them. And consider how much a worldly woman + must sacrifice when she is in love—liberty, quietness, the charming + play of a free mind, coquetry, amusement, pleasure—she loses + everything. + </p> + <p> + “Coquetry is permissible. One may conciliate that with all the exigencies + of fashionable life. Not so love. Love is the least mundane of passions, + the most anti-social, the most savage, the most barbarous. So the world + judges it more severely than mere gallantry or looseness of manners. In + one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays her nature and fails + in her function, which is to be admired by all men, like a work of art. A + woman is a work of art, the most marvellous that man’s industry ever has + produced. A woman is a wonderful artifice, due to the concourse of all the + arts mechanical and of all the arts liberal. She is the work of everybody, + she belongs to the world.” + </p> + <p> + Therese closed the book and thought that these ideas were only the dreams + of novelists who did not know life. She knew very well that there was in + reality neither a Carmel of passion nor a chain of love, nor a beautiful + and terrible vocation against which the predestined one resisted in vain; + she knew very well that love was only a brief intoxication from which one + recovered a little sadder. And yet, perhaps, she did not know everything; + perhaps there were loves in which one was deliciously lost. She put out + her lamp. The dreams of her first youth came back to her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. A DISTINGUISHED RELICT + </h2> + <p> + It was raining. Madame Martin-Belleme saw confusedly through the glass of + her coupe the multitude of passing umbrellas, like black turtles under the + watery skies. She was thinking. Her thoughts were gray and indistinct, + like the aspect of the streets and the squares. + </p> + <p> + She no longer knew why the idea had come to her to spend a month with Miss + Bell. Truly, she never had known. The idea had been like a spring, at + first hidden by leaves, and now forming the current of a deep and rapid + stream. She remembered that Tuesday night at dinner she had said suddenly + that she wished to go, but she could not remember the first flush of that + desire. It was not the wish to act toward Robert Le Menil as he was acting + toward her. Doubtless she thought it excellent to go travelling in Italy + while he went fox-hunting. This seemed to her a fair arrangement. Robert, + who was always pleased to see her when he came back, would not find her on + his return. She thought this would be right. She had not thought of it at + first. And since then she had thought little of it, and really she was not + going for the pleasure of making him grieve. She had against him a thought + less piquant, and more harsh. She did not wish to see him soon. He had + become to her almost a stranger. He seemed to her a man like others—better + than most others—good-looking, estimable, and who did not displease + her; but he did not preoccupy her. Suddenly he had gone out of her life. + She could not remember how he had become mingled with it. The idea of + belonging to him shocked her. The thought that they might meet again in + the small apartment of the Rue Spontini was so painful to her that she + discarded it at once. She preferred to think that an unforeseen event + would prevent their meeting again—the end of the world, for example. + M. Lagrange, member of the Academie des Sciences, had told her the day + before of a comet which some day might meet the earth, envelop it with its + flaming hair, imbue animals and plants with unknown poisons, and make all + men die in a frenzy of laughter. She expected that this, or something + else, would happen next month. It was not inexplicable that she wished to + go. But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy, that she should + feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable to her. + </p> + <p> + Her carriage left her at the corner of a street. + </p> + <p> + There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small, + neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband. + </p> + <p> + Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite M. + Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had + remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet’s + funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech + delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet thought + that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They dined together + often with rich friends. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a + flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes the + good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told her the + day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her whether she + had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth devoured by + flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her with affected + gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were not many books + in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor. It amazed one to + see in this good lady’s house that Etruscan warrior wearing a green bronze + helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of bonbons, vases of gilded + porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin, picked up at Lucerne and on + the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood, had sold the books which her + husband had left. Of all the ancient objects collected by the + archaeologist, she had retained nothing except the Etruscan. Many persons + had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had obtained from the + administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but the good widow + would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost that warrior + with his green bronze helmet she would lose the name that she wore + worthily, and would cease to be the widow of Louis Marmet of the Academie + des Inscriptions. + </p> + <p> + “Do not be afraid, Madame; a comet will not soon strike the earth. Such a + phenomenon is very improbable.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin replied that she knew no serious reason why the earth and + humanity should not be annihilated at once. + </p> + <p> + Old Lagrange exclaimed with profound sincerity that he hoped the cataclysm + would come as late as possible. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. His bald head could boast only a few hairs dyed black. + His eyelids fell like rags over eyes still smiling; his cheeks hung in + loose folds, and one divined that his body was equally withered. She + thought, “And even he likes life!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet hoped, too, that the end of the world was not near at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Lagrange,” said Madame Martin, “you live, do you not, in a + pretty little house, the windows of which overlook the Botanical Gardens? + It seems to me it must be a joy to live in that garden, which makes me + think of the Noah’s Ark of my infancy, and of the terrestrial paradises in + the old Bibles.” + </p> + <p> + But he was not at all charmed with his house. It was small, unimproved, + infested with rats. + </p> + <p> + She acknowledged that one seldom felt at home anywhere, and that rats were + found everywhere, either real or symbolical, legions of pests that torment + us. Yet she liked the Botanical Gardens; she had always wished to go + there, yet never had gone. There was also the museum, which she was + curious to visit. + </p> + <p> + Smiling, happy, he offered to escort her there. He considered it his + house. He would show her rare specimens, some of which were superb. + </p> + <p> + She did not know what a bolide was. She recalled that some one had said to + her that at the museum were bones carved by primitive men, and plaques of + ivory on which were engraved pictures of animals, which were long ago + extinct. She asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to smile. He + replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his colleagues. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Madame Martin, “then they are not in your showcase.” + </p> + <p> + She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is indiscreet + to question them on things that are not in their own showcases. It is true + that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in studying meteors. This had + led him to study comets. But he was wise. For twenty years he had been + preoccupied by nothing except dining out. + </p> + <p> + When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected of + her. + </p> + <p> + “I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming + with me.” + </p> + <p> + The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent + for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. MADAME HAS HER WAY + </h2> + <p> + The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran, and + the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell from + the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came and + went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a small + rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one’s hand. Countess Martin + and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under the rack + loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions. Choulette had + not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer. Yet he had + promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements to go, and had + received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices. Paul Vence had + brought him one evening to Madame Martin’s house. He had been sweet, + polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had promised herself + much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius, original, picturesquely + ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child prematurely old and + abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree of innocence. The + doors closed. She expected him no longer. She should not have counted on + his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment when the engine began to + breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was looking out of the window, said, + quietly: + </p> + <p> + “I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming.” + </p> + <p> + He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his + head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost + repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so + clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been + retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express + the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist. When she saw him, Therese + regretted having invited so strange a companion. He walked along, throwing + a hasty glance into every carriage—a glance which, little by little, + became sullen and distrustful. But when he recognized Madame Martin, he + smiled so sweetly and said good-morning to her in so caressing a voice + that nothing was left of the ferocious old vagabond walking on the quay, + nothing except the old carpet-bag, the handles of which were half broken. + </p> + <p> + He placed it in the rack with great care, among the elegant bags enveloped + with gray cloth, beside which it looked conspicuously sordid. It was + studded with yellow flowers on a blood-colored background. + </p> + <p> + He was soon perfectly at ease, and complimented Madame Martin on the + elegance of her travelling attire. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, ladies,” he added, “I was afraid I should be late. I went to + six o’clock mass at Saint Severin, my parish, in the Virgin Chapel, under + those pretty, but absurd columns that point toward heaven though frail as + reeds-like us, poor sinners that we are.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Madame Martin, “you are pious to-day.” + </p> + <p> + And she asked him whether he wore the cordon of the order which he was + founding. He assumed a grave and penitent air. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, Madame, that Monsieur Paul Vence has told you many absurd + stories about me. I have heard that he goes about circulating rumors that + my ribbon is a bell-rope—and of what a bell! I should be pained if + anybody believed so wretched a story. My ribbon, Madame, is a symbolical + ribbon. It is represented by a simple thread, which one wears under one’s + clothes after a pauper has touched it, as a sign that poverty is holy, and + that it will save the world. There is nothing good except in poverty; and + since I have received the price of Les Blandices, I feel that I am unjust + and harsh. It is a good thing that I have placed in my bag several of + these mystic ribbons.” + </p> + <p> + And, pointing to the horrible carpet-bag: + </p> + <p> + “I have also placed in it a host which a bad priest gave to me, the works + of Monsieur de Maistre, shirts, and several other things:” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin lifted her eyebrows, a little ill at ease. But the good + Madame Marmet retained her habitual placidity. + </p> + <p> + As the train rolled through the homely scenes of the outskirts, that black + fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city, Choulette took from his + pocket an old book which he began to fumble. The writer, hidden under the + vagabond, revealed himself. Choulette, without wishing to appear to be + careful of his papers, was very orderly about them. He assured himself + that he had not lost the pieces of paper on which he noted at the + coffeehouse his ideas for poems, nor the dozen of flattering letters + which, soiled and spotted, he carried with him continually, to read them + to his newly-made companions at night. After assuring himself that nothing + was missing, he took from the book a letter folded in an open envelope. He + waved it for a while, with an air of mysterious impudence, then handed it + to the Countess Martin. It was a letter of introduction from the Marquise + de Rieu to a princess of the House of France, a near relative of the Comte + de Chambord, who, old and a widow, lived in retirement near the gates of + Florence. Having enjoyed the effect which he expected to produce, he said + that he should perhaps visit the Princess; that she was a good person, and + pious. + </p> + <p> + “A truly great lady,” he added, “who does not show her magnificence in + gowns and hats. She wears her chemises for six weeks, and sometimes + longer. The gentlemen of her train have seen her wear very dirty white + stockings, which fell around her heels. The virtues of the great queens of + Spain are revived in her. Oh, those soiled stockings, what real glory + there is in them!” + </p> + <p> + He took the letter and put it back in his book. Then, arming himself with + a horn-handled knife, he began, with its point, to finish a figure + sketched in the handle of his stick. He complimented himself on it: + </p> + <p> + “I am skilful in all the arts of beggars and vagabonds. I know how to open + locks with a nail, and how to carve wood with a bad knife.” + </p> + <p> + The head began to appear. It was the head of a thin woman, weeping. + </p> + <p> + Choulette wished to express in it human misery, not simple and touching, + such as men of other times may have felt it in a world of mingled + harshness and kindness; but hideous, and reflecting the state of ugliness + created by the free-thinking bourgeois and the military patriots of the + French Revolution. According to him the present regime embodied only + hypocrisy and brutality. + </p> + <p> + “Their barracks are a hideous invention of modern times. They date from + the seventeenth century. Before that time there were only guard-houses + where the soldiers played cards and told tales. Louis XIV was a precursor + of Bonaparte. But the evil has attained its plenitude since the monstrous + institution of the obligatory enlistment. The shame of emperors and of + republics is to have made it an obligation for men to kill. In the ages + called barbarous, cities and princes entrusted their defence to + mercenaries, who fought prudently. In a great battle only five or six men + were killed. And when knights went to the wars, at least they were not + forced to do it; they died for their pleasure. They were good for nothing + else. Nobody in the time of Saint Louis would have thought of sending to + battle a man of learning. And the laborer was not torn from the soil to be + killed. Nowadays it is a duty for a poor peasant to be a soldier. He is + exiled from his house, the roof of which smokes in the silence of night; + from the fat prairies where the oxen graze; from the fields and the + paternal woods. He is taught how to kill men; he is threatened, insulted, + put in prison and told that it is an honor; and, if he does not care for + that sort of honor, he is fusilladed. He obeys because he is terrorized, + and is of all domestic animals the gentlest and most docile. We are + warlike in France, and we are citizens. Another reason to be proud, this + being a citizen! For the poor it consists in sustaining and preserving the + wealthy in their power and their laziness. The poor must work for this, in + presence of the majestic quality of the law which prohibits the wealthy as + well as the poor from sleeping under the bridges, from begging in the + streets, and from stealing bread. That is one of the good effects of the + Revolution. As this Revolution was made by fools and idiots for the + benefit of those who acquired national lands, and resulted in nothing but + making the fortune of crafty peasants and financiering bourgeois, the + Revolution only made stronger, under the pretence of making all men equal, + the empire of wealth. It has betrayed France into the hands of the men of + wealth. They are masters and lords. The apparent government, composed of + poor devils, is in the pay of the financiers. For one hundred years, in + this poisoned country, whoever has loved the poor has been considered a + traitor to society. A man is called dangerous when he says that there are + wretched people. There are laws against indignation and pity, and what I + say here could not go into print.” + </p> + <p> + Choulette became excited and waved his knife, while under the wintry + sunlight passed fields of brown earth, trees despoiled by winter, and + curtains of poplars beside silvery rivers. + </p> + <p> + He looked with tenderness at the figure carved on his stick. + </p> + <p> + “Here you are,” he said, “poor humanity, thin and weeping, stupid with + shame and misery, as you were made by your masters—soldiers and men + of wealth.” + </p> + <p> + The good Madame Marmet, whose nephew was a captain in the artillery, was + shocked at the violence with which Choulette attacked the army. Madame + Martin saw in this only an amusing fantasy. Choulette’s ideas did not + frighten her. She was afraid of nothing. But she thought they were a + little absurd. She did not think that the past had ever been better than + the present. + </p> + <p> + “I believe, Monsieur Choulette, that men were always as they are to-day, + selfish, avaricious, and pitiless. I believe that laws and manners were + always harsh and cruel to the unfortunate.” + </p> + <p> + Between La Roche and Dijon they took breakfast in the dining-car, and left + Choulette in it, alone with his pipe, his glass of benedictine, and his + irritation. + </p> + <p> + In the carriage, Madame Marmet talked with peaceful tenderness of the + husband she had lost. He had married her for love; he had written + admirable verses to her, which she had kept, and never shown to any one. + He was lively and very gay. One would not have thought it who had seen him + later, tired by work and weakened by illness. He studied until the last + moment. Two hours before he died he was trying to read again. He was + affectionate and kind. Even in suffering he retained all his sweetness. + Madame Martin said to her: + </p> + <p> + “You have had long years of happiness; you have kept the reminiscence of + them; that is a share of happiness in this world.” + </p> + <p> + But good Madame Marmet sighed; a cloud passed over her quiet brow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “Louis was the best of men and the best of husbands. Yet + he made me very miserable. He had only one fault, but I suffered from it + cruelly. He was jealous. Good, kind, tender, and generous as he was, this + horrible passion made him unjust, ironical, and violent. I can assure you + that my behavior gave not the least cause for suspicion. I was not a + coquette. But I was young, fresh; I passed for beautiful. That was enough. + He would not let me go out alone, and would not let me receive calls in + his absence. Whenever we went to a reception, I trembled in advance with + the fear of the scene which he would make later in the carriage.” + </p> + <p> + And the good Madame Marmet added, with a sigh: + </p> + <p> + “It is true that I liked to dance. But I had to renounce going to balls; + it made him suffer too much.” + </p> + <p> + Countess Martin expressed astonishment. She had always imagined Marmet as + an old man, timid, and absorbed by his thoughts; a little ridiculous, + between his wife, plump, white, and amiable, and the skeleton wearing a + helmet of bronze and gold. But the excellent widow confided to her that, + at fifty-five years of age, when she was fifty-three, Louis was just as + jealous as on the first day of their marriage. + </p> + <p> + And Therese thought that Robert had never tormented her with jealousy. Was + it on his part a proof of tact and good taste, a mark of confidence, or + was it that he did not love her enough to make her suffer? She did not + know, and she did not have the heart to try to know. She would have to + look through recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open. + </p> + <p> + She murmured carelessly: + </p> + <p> + “We long to be loved, and when we are loved we are tormented or worried.” + </p> + <p> + The day was finished in reading and thinking. Choulette did not reappear. + Night covered little by little with its gray clouds the mulberry-trees of + the Dauphine. Madame Marmet went to sleep peacefully, resting on herself + as on a mass of pillows. Therese looked at her and thought: + </p> + <p> + “She is happy, since she likes to remember.” + </p> + <p> + The sadness of night penetrated her heart. And when the moon rose on the + fields of olive-trees, seeing the soft lines of plains and of hills pass, + Therese, in this landscape wherein everything spoke of peace and oblivion, + and nothing spoke of her, regretted the Seine, the Arc de Triomphe with + its radiating avenues, and the alleys of the park where, at least, the + trees and the stones knew her. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Choulette threw himself into the carriage. Armed with his knotty + stick, his face and head enveloped in red wool and a fur cap, he almost + frightened her. It was what he wished to do. His violent attitudes and his + savage dress were studied. Always seeking to produce effects, it pleased + him to seem frightful. + </p> + <p> + He was a coward himself, and was glad to inspire the fears he often felt. + A moment before, as he was smoking his pipe, he had felt, while seeing the + moon swallowed up by the clouds, one of those childish frights that + tormented his light mind. He had come near the Countess to be reassured. + </p> + <p> + “Arles,” he said. “Do you know Arles? It is a place of pure beauty. I have + seen, in the cloister, doves resting on the shoulders of statues, and I + have seen the little gray lizards warming themselves in the sun on the + tombs. The tombs are now in two rows on the road that leads to the church. + They are formed like cisterns, and serve as beds for the poor at night. + One night, when I was walking among them, I met a good old woman who was + placing dried herbs in the tomb of an old maid who had died on her + wedding-day. We said goodnight to her. She replied: ‘May God hear-you! but + fate wills that this tomb should open on the side of the northwest wind. + If only it were open on the other side, I should be lying as comfortably + as Queen Jeanne.’” + </p> + <p> + Therese made no answer. She was dozing. And Choulette shivered in the cold + of the night, in the fear of death. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE LADY OF THE BELLS + </h2> + <p> + In her English cart, which she drove herself, Miss Bell had brought over + the hills, from the railway station at Florence, the Countess + Martin-Belleme and Madame Marmet to her pink-tinted house at Fiesole, + which, crowned with a long balustrade, overlooked the incomparable city. + The maid followed with the luggage. Choulette, lodged, by Miss Bell’s + attention, in the house of a sacristan’s widow, in the shadow of the + cathedral of Fiesole, was not expected until dinner. Plain and gentle, + wearing short hair, a waistcoat, a man’s shirt on a chest like a boy’s, + almost graceful, with small hips, the poetess was doing for her French + friends the honors of the house, which reflected the ardent delicacy of + her taste. On the walls of the drawing-room were pale Virgins, with long + hands, reigning peacefully among angels, patriarchs, and saints in + beautiful gilded frames. On a pedestal stood a Magdalena, clothed only + with her hair, frightful with thinness and old age, some beggar of the + road to Pistoia, burned by the suns and the snows, whom some unknown + precursor of Donatello had moulded. And everywhere were Miss Bell’s chosen + arms-bells and cymbals. The largest lifted their bronze clappers at the + angles of the room; others formed a chain at the foot of the walls. + Smaller ones ran along the cornices. There were bells over the hearth, on + the cabinets, and on the chairs. The shelves were full of silver and + golden bells. There were big bronze bells marked with the Florentine lily; + bells of the Renaissance, representing a lady wearing a white gown; bells + of the dead, decorated with tears and bones; bells covered with symbolical + animals and leaves, which had rung in the churches in the time of St. + Louis; table-bells of the seventeenth century, having a statuette for a + handle; the flat, clear cow-bells of the Ruth Valley; Hindu bells; Chinese + bells formed like cylinders—they had come from all countries and all + times, at the magic call of little Miss Bell. + </p> + <p> + “You look at my speaking arms,” she said to Madame Martin. “I think that + all these Misses Bell are pleased to be here, and I should not be + astonished if some day they all began to sing together. But you must not + admire them all equally. Reserve your purest and most fervent praise for + this one.” + </p> + <p> + And striking with her finger a dark, bare bell which gave a faint sound: + </p> + <p> + “This one,” she said, “is a holy village-bell of the fifth century. She is + a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to make + the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show to you a + gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I bore you, + darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet. It is + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + She escorted them to their rooms. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and + lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her. The humid + air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring. Therese, + resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light. At her feet, the + cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees looked like + sheep on the hills. In the valley, Florence extended its domes, its + towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which the Arno showed + its undulating line. Beyond were the soft blue hills. + </p> + <p> + She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her + first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace. Then + the charming infinity of the sky attracted her. She looked at the forms in + the clouds. + </p> + <p> + After a long silence, Vivian Bell extended her hand toward the horizon. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, I do not know how to say what I wish. But look, darling, look + again. What you see there is unique in the world. Nature is nowhere else + so subtle, elegant, and fine. The god who made the hills of Florence was + an artist. Oh, he was a jeweller, an engraver, a sculptor, a + bronze-founder, and a painter; he was a Florentine. He did nothing else in + the world, darling. The rest was made by a hand less delicate, whose work + was less perfect. How can you think that that violet hill of San Miniato, + so firm and so pure in relief, was made by the author of Mont Blanc? It is + not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an antique medal and of a + precious painting. It is a perfect and measured work of art. And here is + another thing that I do not know how to say, that I can not even + understand, but which is a real thing. In this country I feel—and + you will feel as I do, darling—half alive and half dead; in a + condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look again; you will + realize the melancholy of those hills that surround Florence, and see a + delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead.” + </p> + <p> + The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the mountain-peaks + faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky. Madame Marmet + sneezed. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the + evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly she said: + </p> + <p> + “Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that + he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre is + to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and to the + museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful things, + because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a sculptor. His + figures in medallions are admired more in England than in France. Oh, I am + so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet at Florence, + darling!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND + </h2> + <p> + She next day, as they were traversing the square where are planted, in + imitation of antique amphitheatres, two marble pillars, Madame Marmet said + to the Countess Martin: + </p> + <p> + “I think I see Monsieur Choulette.” + </p> + <p> + Seated in a shoemaker’s shop, his pipe in his hand, Choulette was making + rhythmic gestures, and appeared to be reciting verses. The Florentine + cobbler listened with a kind smile. He was a little, bald man, and + represented one of the types familiar to Flemish painters. On a table, + among wooden lasts, nails, leather, and wax, a basilic plant displayed its + round green head. A sparrow, lacking a leg, which had been replaced by a + match, hopped on the old man’s shoulder and head. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin, amused by this spectacle, called Choulette from the + threshold. He was softly humming a tune, and she asked him why he had not + gone with her to visit the Spanish chapel. + </p> + <p> + He arose and replied: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, you are preoccupied by vain images; but I live in life and in + truth.” + </p> + <p> + He shook the cobbler’s hand and followed the two ladies. + </p> + <p> + “While going to church,” he said, “I saw this old man, who, bending over + his work, and pressing a last between his knees as in a vise, was sewing + coarse shoes. I felt that he was simple and kind. I said to him, in + Italian: ‘My father, will you drink with me a glass of Chianti?’ He + consented. He went for a flagon and some glasses, and I kept the shop.” + </p> + <p> + And Choulette pointed to two glasses and a flagon placed on a stove. + </p> + <p> + “When he came back we drank together; I said vague but kind things to him, + and I charmed him by the sweetness of sounds. I will go again to his shop; + I will learn from him how to make shoes, and how to live without desire. + After which, I shall not be sad again. For desire and idleness alone make + us sad.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess Martin smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Choulette, I desire nothing, and, nevertheless, I am not joyful. + Must I make shoes, too?” + </p> + <p> + Choulette replied, gravely: + </p> + <p> + “It is not yet time for that.” + </p> + <p> + When they reached the gardens of the Oricellari, Madame Marmet sank on a + bench. She had examined at Santa Maria-Novella the frescoes of + Ghirlandajo, the stalls of the choir, the Virgin of Cimabue, the paintings + in the cloister. She had done this carefully, in memory of her husband, + who had greatly liked Italian art. She was tired. Choulette sat by her and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, could you tell me whether it is true that the Pope’s gowns are + made by Worth?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet thought not. Nevertheless, Choulette had heard people say + this in cafes. Madame Marmet was astonished that Choulette, a Catholic and + a socialist, should speak so disrespectfully of a pope friendly to the + republic. But he did not like Leo XIII. + </p> + <p> + “The wisdom of princes is shortsighted,” he said; “the salvation of the + Church must come from the Italian republic, as Leo XIII believes and + wishes; but the Church will not be saved in the manner which this pious + Machiavelli thinks. The revolution will make the Pope lose his last sou, + with the rest of his patrimony. And it will be salvation. The Pope, + destitute and poor, will then become powerful. He will agitate the world. + We shall see again Peter, Lin, Clet, Anaclet, and Clement; the humble, the + ignorant; men like the early saints will change the face of the earth. If + to-morrow, in the chair of Peter, came to sit a real bishop, a real + Christian, I would go to him, and say: ‘Do not be an old man buried alive + in a golden tomb; quit your noble guards and your cardinals; quit your + court and its similacrums of power. Take my arm and come with me to beg + for your bread among the nations. Covered with rags, poor, ill, dying, go + on the highways, showing in yourself the image of Jesus. Say, “I am + begging my bread for the condemnation of the wealthy.” Go into the cities, + and shout from door to door, with a sublime stupidity, “Be humble, be + gentle, be poor!” Announce peace and charity to the cities, to the dens, + and to the barracks. You will be disdained; the mob will throw stones at + you. Policemen will drag you into prison. You shall be for the humble as + for the powerful, for the poor as for the rich, a subject of laughter, an + object of disgust and of pity. Your priests will dethrone you, and elevate + against you an anti-pope, or will say that you are crazy. And it is + necessary that they should tell the truth; it is necessary that you should + be crazy; the lunatics have saved the world. Men will give to you the + crown of thorns and the reed sceptre, and they will spit in your face, and + it is by that sign that you will appear as Christ and true king; and it is + by such means that you will establish Christian socialism, which is the + kingdom of God on earth.’” + </p> + <p> + Having spoken in this way, Choulette lighted one of those long and + tortuous Italian cigars, which are pierced with a straw. He drew from it + several puffs of infectious vapor, then he continued, tranquilly: + </p> + <p> + “And it would be practical. You may refuse to acknowledge any quality in + me except my clear view of situations. Ah, Madame Marmet, you will never + know how true it is that the great works of this world were always + achieved by madmen. Do you think, Madame Martin, that if Saint Francis of + Assisi had been reasonable, he would have poured upon the earth, for the + refreshment of peoples, the living water of charity and all the perfumes + of love?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” replied Madame Martin; “but reasonable people have always + seemed to me to be bores. I can say this to you, Monsieur Choulette.” + </p> + <p> + They returned to Fiesole by the steam tramway which goes up the hill. The + rain fell. Madame Marmet went to sleep and Choulette complained. All his + ills came to attack him at once: the humidity in the air gave him a pain + in the knee, and he could not bend his leg; his carpet-bag, lost the day + before in the trip from the station to Fiesole, had not been found, and it + was an irreparable disaster; a Paris review had just published one of his + poems, with typographical errors as glaring as Aphrodite’s shell. + </p> + <p> + He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile, + absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened, + thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found + Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of + parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses which + she had composed in the night. At her friend’s coming she raised her + little face, plain but illuminated by splendid eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, permit me to introduce to you the Prince Albertinelli.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince possessed a certain youthful, godlike beauty, that his black + beard intensified. He bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, you would make one love France, if that sentiment were not + already in our hearts.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess and Choulette asked Miss Bell to read to them the verses she + was writing. She excused herself from reciting her uncertain cadence to + the French poet, whom she liked best after Francois Villon. Then she + recited in her pretty, hissing, birdlike voice. + </p> + <p> + “That is very pretty,” said Choulette, “and bears the mark of Italy softly + veiled by the mists of Thule.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Countess Martin, “that is pretty. But why, dear Vivian, + did your two beautiful innocents wish to die?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, because they felt as happy as possible, and desired nothing + more. It was discouraging, darling, discouraging. How is it that you do + not understand that?” + </p> + <p> + “And do you think that if we live the reason is that we hope?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. We live in the hope of what to-morrow, tomorrow, king of the + land of fairies, will bring in his black mantle studded with stars, + flowers, and tears. Oh, bright king, To-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 2. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE + </h2> + <p> + They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was sketching + monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know what they + would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express rare ideas in + odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in this way that + she often found her inspiration. + </p> + <p> + Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian ‘O Lola’! His soft + fingers hardly touched the keys. + </p> + <p> + Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles + that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a + needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and which + was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the strength of + the good advice that he had received from it. He thought he had lost it in + the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti Palace; and he blamed + for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian painters. + </p> + <p> + Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my hands. + I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the reason why my + songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the farmers + and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not more + natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than myself. + The sacristan’s widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not permit her + to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work which we can + do ourselves with noble pride.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who for + eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company of + Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which her companion caused + her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances to + persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the frescoes + of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M. Schmoll, the + Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback. She was terrified + at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas back to her little + circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an easy turn, which + irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice the public meetings + at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne, the evening receptions + where shone the worldly and the spiritualist philosophers. As for the + women, they were all charming and irreproachable. She dined with all of + them. And Therese thought: “She is too prudent. She bores me.” And she + thought of leaving her at Fiesole and visiting the churches alone. + Employing a word that Le Menil had taught her, she said to herself: + </p> + <p> + “I will ‘plant’ Madame Marmet.” + </p> + <p> + A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his white + imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed, under + his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and voluptuousness. + He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the Prince, Professor + Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now celebrated in Tuscany for his + studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess Martin at once. She + questioned him on his methods, and on the results he obtained from them. + He said that he worked with prudent energy. “The earth,” he said, “is like + women. The earth does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or + brutality.” The Ave Maria rang in all the campaniles, seeming to make of + the sky an immense instrument of religious music. “Darling,” said Miss + Bell, “do you observe that the air of Florence is made sonorous and + silvery at night by the sound of the bells?” + </p> + <p> + “It is singular,” said Choulette, “we have the air of people who are + waiting for something.” + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a + little late; she feared he had missed the train. + </p> + <p> + Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely “Madame Marmet, is + it possible for you to look at a door—a simple, painted, wooden door + like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like any other—without + being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor who might, at any + moment, come in? The door of one’s room, Madame Marmet, opens on the + infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one ever know the true name + of the man or woman, who, under a human guise, with a known face, in + ordinary clothes, comes into one’s house?” + </p> + <p> + He added that when he was closeted in his room he could not look at the + door without feeling his hair stand on end. But Madame Marmet saw the + doors of her rooms open without fear. She knew the name of every one who + came to see her—charming persons. + </p> + <p> + Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: “Madame Marmet, + those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names which you + do not know, and which are their real names.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to + cross the threshold in order to enter one’s life. + </p> + <p> + “Misfortune is ingenious and subtle. It comes by the window, it goes + through walls. It does not always show itself, but it is always there. The + poor doors are innocent of the coming of that unwelcome visitor.” + </p> + <p> + Choulette warned Madame Martin severely that she should not call + misfortune an unwelcome visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Misfortune is our greatest master and our best friend. Misfortune teaches + us the meaning of life. Madame, when you suffer, you know what you must + know; you believe what you must believe; you do what you must do; you are + what you must be. And you shall have joy, which pleasure expels. True joy + is timid, and does not find pleasure among a multitude.” + </p> + <p> + Prince Albertinelli said that Miss Bell and her French friends did not + need to be unfortunate in order to be perfect, and that the doctrine of + perfection reached by suffering was a barbarous cruelty, held in horror + under the beautiful sky of Italy. When the conversation languished, he + prudently sought again at the piano the phrases of the graceful and banal + Sicilian air, fearing to slip into an air of Trovatore, which was written + in the same manner. + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell questioned the monsters she had created, and complained of + their absurd replies. + </p> + <p> + “At this moment,” she said, “I should like to hear speak only figures on + tapestries which should say tender things, ancient and precious as + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + And the handsome Prince, carried away by the flood of melody, sang. His + voice displayed itself like a peacock’s plumage, and died in spasms of + “ohs” and “ahs.” + </p> + <p> + The good Madame Marmet, her eyes fixed on the door, said: + </p> + <p> + “I think that Monsieur Dechartre is coming.” + </p> + <p> + He came in, animated, with joy on his usually grave face. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell welcomed him with birdlike cries. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Dechartre, we were impatient to see you. Monsieur Choulette was + talking evil of doors—yes, of doors of houses; and he was saying + also that misfortune is a very obliging old gentleman. You have lost all + these beautiful things. You have made us wait very long, Monsieur + Dechartre. Why?” + </p> + <p> + He apologized; he had taken only the time to go to his hotel and change + his dress. He had not even gone to bow to his old friend the bronze San + Marco, so imposing in his niche on the San Michele wall. He praised the + poetess and saluted the Countess Martin with joy hardly concealed. + </p> + <p> + “Before quitting Paris I went to your house, where I was told you had gone + to wait for spring at Fiesole, with Miss Bell. I then had the hope of + finding you in this country, which I love now more than ever.” + </p> + <p> + She asked him whether he had gone to Venice, and whether he had seen again + at Ravenna the empresses wearing aureolas, and the phantoms that had + formerly dazzled him. + </p> + <p> + No, he had not stopped anywhere. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the wall, on + the St. Paulin bell. + </p> + <p> + He said to her: + </p> + <p> + “You are looking at the Nolette.” + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell laid aside her papers and her pencils. + </p> + <p> + “You shall soon see a marvel, Monsieur Dechartre. I have found the queen + of small bells. I found it at Rimini, in an old building in ruins, which + is used as a warehouse. I bought it and packed it myself. I am waiting for + it. You shall see. It bears a Christ on a cross, between the Virgin and + Saint John, the date of 1400, and the arms of Malatesta—Monsieur + Dechartre, you are not listening enough. Listen to me attentively. In 1400 + Lorenzo Ghiberti, fleeing from war and the plague, took refuge at Rimini, + at Paola Malatesta’s house. It was he that modelled the figures of my + bell. And you shall see here, next week, Ghiberti’s work.” + </p> + <p> + The servant announced that dinner was served. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell apologized for serving to them Italian dishes. Her cook was a + poet of Fiesole. + </p> + <p> + At table, before the fiascani enveloped with corn straw, they talked of + the fifteenth century, which they loved. Prince Albertinelli praised the + artists of that epoch for their universality, for the fervent love they + gave to their art, and for the genius that devoured them. He talked with + emphasis, in a caressing voice. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre admired them. But he admired them in another way. + </p> + <p> + “To praise in a becoming manner,” he said, “those men, who worked so + heartily, the praise should be modest and just. They should be placed in + their workshops, in the shops where they worked as artisans. It is there + that one may admire their simplicity and their genius. They were ignorant + and rude. They had read little and seen little. The hills that surround + Florence were the boundary of their horizon. They knew only their city, + the Holy Scriptures, and some fragments of antique sculptures, studied and + caressed lovingly.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” said Professor Arrighi. “They had no other care than to + use the best processes. Their minds bent only on preparing varnish and + mixing colors. The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel, + in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split, + passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae.” + </p> + <p> + “Happy time,” said Dechartre, “when nobody troubled himself about that + originality for which we are so avidly seeking to-day. The apprentice + tried to work like the master. He had no other ambition than to resemble + him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the + others. They worked not for glory, but to live.” + </p> + <p> + “They were right,” said Choulette. “Nothing is better than to work for a + living.” + </p> + <p> + “The desire to attain fame,” continued Dechartre, “did not trouble them. + As they did not know the past, they did not conceive the future; and their + dream did not go beyond their lives. They exercised a powerful will in + working well. Being simple, they made few mistakes, and saw the truth + which our intelligence conceals from us.” + </p> + <p> + Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he had + made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom the + Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction. He liked to + impress upon people the fact that he, the Bohemian and vagabond, had been + received by that royal Princess, at whose house neither Miss Bell nor the + Countess Martin would have been admitted, and whom Prince Albertinelli + prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony. + </p> + <p> + “She devotes herself,” said the Prince, “to the practices of piety.” + </p> + <p> + “She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity,” said Choulette. + “In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes the + most rigorous etiquette to be observed, so that her grandeur is almost a + penance, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the church. It is a + village church, where the chickens roam, while the ‘cure’ plays briscola + with the sacristan.” + </p> + <p> + And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a + servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely: + </p> + <p> + “After waiting in consecutive anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss + her hand.” + </p> + <p> + And he stopped. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin asked, impatiently: + </p> + <p> + “What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility and + her simplicity?” + </p> + <p> + “She said to me: ‘Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently new + and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.’ She said + also ‘We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are not better. + He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous plaster which has not yet + come off.’ Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned to address to me. + O simple grandeur! O Christian virtue! O daughter of Saint Louis! O + marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of Hungary!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he + denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin was + wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people were + always jesting. + </p> + <p> + Then they reverted to the subject of art, which in that country is inhaled + with the air. + </p> + <p> + “As for me,” said the Countess Martin, “I am not learned enough to admire + Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that art of + the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen piety and + purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they are very pretty. + The rest, those figures of Virgins and angels, are voluptuous, caressing, + and at times perversely ingenuous. What is there religious in those young + Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint Sebastian, brilliant with + youth, who seems merely the dolorous Bacchus of Christianity?” + </p> + <p> + Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be right, + she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and, finding no + piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all. + </p> + <p> + “There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half a + Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect of Epicurus, and who sought + for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti disdained the + ignorant folk who believed in the immortality of the soul. The following + phrase by him was quoted: ‘The death of man is exactly similar to that of + brutes.’ Later, when antique beauty was excavated from ruins, the + Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that worked in the + churches and cloisters were neither devout nor chaste. Perugino was an + atheist, and did not conceal it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Miss Bell; “but it was said that his head was hard, and that + celestial truths, could not penetrate his thick cranium. He was harsh and + avaricious, and quite embedded in material interests. He thought only of + buying houses.” + </p> + <p> + Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia. + </p> + <p> + “He was,” he said, “an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of + Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk practised the art of + manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned lapis-lazuli. + Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the prior, who + doubtless had a secret, esteemed it more precious than rubies or + sapphires. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of his + convent, and he expected marvels, less from the skilfulness of the master + than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During all the time + that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history of Jesus Christ, + the prior kept by his side and presented to him the precious powder in a + bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it, under the saintly man’s + eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his brush, loaded with color, in + a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall with it. He used in that manner + a great quantity of the powder. And the good father, seeing his bag + getting thinner, sighed: ‘Jesus! How that lime devours the ultramarine!’ + When the frescoes were finished, and Perugino had received from the monk + the agreed price, he placed in his hand a package of blue powder: ‘This is + for you, father. Your ultramarine which I took with my brush fell to the + bottom of my cup, whence I gathered it every day. I return it to you. + Learn to trust honest people.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Therese, “there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that + Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the + least scrupulous. There are many misers who are honest.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, darling,” said Miss Bell. “Misers do not wish to owe anything, + and prodigal people can bear to have debts. They do not think of the money + they have, and they think less of the money they owe. I did not say that + Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property. I said that he had a + hard business head and that he bought houses. I am very glad to hear that + he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the Gesuati.” + </p> + <p> + “Since your Pietro was rich,” said Choulette, “it was his duty to return + the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are + not.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver + bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase which + Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage, after + meals. + </p> + <p> + “I wash my hands,” he said, “of the evil that Madame Martin does or may do + by her speech, or otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor + Arrighi. + </p> + <p> + In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn us to the savage sadness of + equality? Why, Daphnis’s flute would not be melodious if it were made of + seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between + masters and servants, aristocrats and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad + barbarian, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in + need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this + world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate her, nude and + in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor + little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to + abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in + society, the humble with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor + and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race.” + </p> + <p> + “Enemies of the human race!” replied Choulette, while stirring his coffee. + “That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied to the Christians who talked + of divine love to him.” + </p> + <p> + Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes about + art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times + prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he had + seen, to love all that he loved. + </p> + <p> + He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of spring. + He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw already the + light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow of laurel-trees + falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of Florence had nothing + more to do than to serve as an adornment to this young woman. + </p> + <p> + He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics of + her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which every + one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and living, + subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never forgets. + </p> + <p> + Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which had + pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure taste. But + no man except her father had made to her on the subject the compliments of + an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling only the effect of + a gown, without understanding the ingenious details of it. Some men who + knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air. She was resigned to the + appreciation of women only, and these had in their appreciation narrowness + of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic admiration of Dechartre + astonished and pleased her. She received agreeably the praise he gave her, + without thinking that perhaps it was too intimate and almost indiscreet. + </p> + <p> + “So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?” + </p> + <p> + No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, even + now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He found no + pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a woman having + rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her. + </p> + <p> + He continued, in a tone a little more elevated: + </p> + <p> + “I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day, + without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She + dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We must, + like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. To paint, carve, + or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Dechartre,” asked Prince Albertinelli, “how do you think a mauve + waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Choulette, “so little of a terrestrial future, that I have + written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, leaving + to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence.” + </p> + <p> + He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never lost + a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not desirous of + immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put + into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be + accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are to + come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what is, and + in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur Dechartre? + Beware, for God may hear you.” + </p> + <p> + Dechartre replied: + </p> + <p> + “It would be enough for me to live one moment more.” + </p> + <p> + And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort Madame + Martin to the Brancacci chapel. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon + citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her + head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was + thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life: + Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows, + ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad, + and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince + Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas, + and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face. + </p> + <p> + She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those + that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer tried + to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She discovered + now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful to her; she + closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered. She had felt + a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being. She had a sudden + vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. He walked with firm + and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could not see his face, and + that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She was not discontented with + him, but with herself. Robert went straight on, without turning his head, + far, and still farther, until he was only a black point in the desolate + wood. She thought that perhaps she had been capricious and harsh in + leaving him without a word of farewell, without even a letter. He was her + lover and her only friend. She never had had another. “I do not wish him + to be unfortunate because of me,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was + not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said + to herself: + </p> + <p> + “He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he + admires.” She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety of + Florence. She had seen casually, at the Offices, a picture that Dechartre + liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein Leonardo, + the sculptor said, had expressed the minute profundity and tragic + refinement of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting that she + had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and went to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + She dreamed that she met in a deserted church Robert Le Menil enveloped in + furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a + crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of + him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and + heard at the open window a sad, monotonous cry, and saw a humming-bird + darting about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began + to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. “THE DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE” + </h2> + <p> + She took pleasure in dressing early, with delicate and subtle taste. Her + dressing-room, an aesthetic fantasy of Vivian Bell, with its coarsely + varnished pottery, its tall copper pitchers, and its faience pavement, + like a chess-board, resembled a fairy’s kitchen. It was rustic and + marvellous, and the Countess Martin could have in it the agreeable + surprise of mistaking herself for a fairy. While her maid was dressing her + hair, she heard Dechartre and Choulette talking under her windows. She + rearranged all the work Pauline had done, and uncovered the line of her + nape, which was fine and pure. She looked at herself in the glass, and + went into the garden. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre was there, reciting verses of Dante, and looking at Florence: + “At the hour when our mind, a greater stranger to the flesh...” + </p> + <p> + Near him, Choulette, seated on the balustrade of the terrace, his legs + hanging, and his nose in his beard, was still at work on the figure of + Misery on his stick. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre resumed the rhymes of the canticle: “At the hour when our mind, + a greater stranger to the flesh; and less under the obsession of thoughts, + is almost divine in its visions,...” + </p> + <p> + She approached beside the boxwood hedge, holding a parasol and dressed in + a straw-colored gown. The faint sunlight of winter enveloped her in pale + gold. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre greeted her joyfully. + </p> + <p> + She said: + </p> + <p> + “You are reciting verses that I do not know. I know only Metastasio. My + teacher liked only Metastasio. What is the hour when the mind has divine + visions?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, that hour is the dawn of the day. It may be also the dawn of + faith and of love.” + </p> + <p> + Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave + at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether + strangers to the flesh. But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the + pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the golden + hills. He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images that one + sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not related to the + object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the contrary, to ideas + abandoned during the day. + </p> + <p> + Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Dechartre, “the things we see at night are unfortunate remains + of what we have neglected the day before. Dreams avenge things one has + disdained. They are reproaches of abandoned friends. Hence their sadness.” + </p> + <p> + She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said: + </p> + <p> + “That is perhaps true.” + </p> + <p> + Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait of + Misery on his stick. Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and + Choulette recognized the Virgin in it. He had even composed a quatrain + which he was to write on it in spiral form—a didactic and moral + quatrain. He would cease to write, except in the style of the commandments + of God rendered into French verses. The four lines expressed simplicity + and goodness. He consented to recite them. + </p> + <p> + Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the + distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa, + almost as blue as the sky. Jacques Dechartre looked at her. It seemed to + him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he + discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested + with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace. The daylight + which she liked, was indulgent to her. And truly she was pretty, bathed in + that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms and feeds noble + thoughts. A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded cheeks; her eyes, + bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the brilliancy of her teeth set + off her lips of ardent sweetness. His look embraced her supple bust, her + full hips, and the bold attitude of her waist. She held her parasol with + her left hand, the other hand played with violets. Dechartre had a mania + for beautiful hands. Hands presented to his eyes a physiognomy as striking + as the face—a character, a soul. These hands enchanted him. They + were exquisite. He adored their slender fingers, their pink nails, their + palms soft and tender, traversed by lines as elegant as arabesques, and + rising at the base of the fingers in harmonious mounts. He examined them + with charmed attention until she closed them on the handle of her + umbrella. Then, standing behind her, he looked at her again. Her bust and + arms, graceful and pure in line, her beautiful form, which was like that + of a living amphora, pleased him. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens, is + it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many flowers in + them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees.” + </p> + <p> + It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of + her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it. + </p> + <p> + He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but + felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened, + seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things: + </p> + <p> + “That view is beautiful, The weather is fine.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. HEARTS AWAKENED + </h2> + <p> + In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking + of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of the + innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy, who + sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the illustrious + chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and resplendent as a + divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in language so vivid that + it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the adolescent master of the + masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark and blue, dying, enchanted. + And she had liked these marvels of a morning more charming than a day. + Dechartre was for her the soul of those magnificent forms, the mind of + those noble things. It was by him, it was through him, that she understood + art and life. She took no interest in things that did not interest him. + How had this affection come to her? She had no precise remembrance of it. + In the first place, when Paul Vence wished to introduce him to her, she + had no desire to know him, no presentiment that he would please her. She + recalled elegant bronze statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, + that she had remarked at the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel’s. But + she did not imagine that he could be agreeable to her, or more seductive + than many artists and lovers of art at whom she laughed with her friends. + When she saw him, he pleased her; she had a desire to attract him, to see + him often. The night he dined at her house she realized that she had for + him a noble and elevating affection. But soon after he irritated her a + little; it made her impatient to see him closeted within himself and too + little preoccupied by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in + that state of impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the + grille of the Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and of + the Empress seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him serious + and charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the night, + but too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had felt a + sort of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along the + boxwood bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every day or + never to see him again. + </p> + <p> + Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near + her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new. + He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened in + her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was determined + never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her lucid mind + and her temperament presented them all to her. For a moment she tried to + deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer, exalted, lost + in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without being exacting. But + she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea. If Dechartre were not + a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare to think of the future. + She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and closing her eyes. + </p> + <p> + She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when + Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope + marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the + handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only + astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, when + the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson. + </p> + <p> + In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without + saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to + Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was + happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two or three + times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he regretted not + being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her house. + </p> + <p> + “I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He + said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at + Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale + and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not wished + to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in persuading you. + </p> + <p> + “I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary, + that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter resort. + I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it. Reassure me + at once, I pray you. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your husband + and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it annoys + him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in Paris. I + heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister. This + astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among fashionable + people.” + </p> + <p> + Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three + fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal + which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand. + </p> + <p> + In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He + feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under these + conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be taking too + great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be very + disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return soon. + </p> + <p> + Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire, and + calmly watched it burn. + </p> + <p> + Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had + complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer? Should + she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so indifferent to + her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she had no desire to + be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle toward him! Seeing + that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn tranquillity, she became + sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was the same man he had been + before. She was not the same woman. They were separated now by + imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in the air that make + one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she had not begun to + write an answer. + </p> + <p> + Anxious, she thought: “He trusts me. He suspects nothing.” This made her + more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were + simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others. + </p> + <p> + She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The latter + said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you? + Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls + naturally expressed.” + </p> + <p> + Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “May I look?” + </p> + <p> + “Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the popular + songs of your country.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several meanings. + The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very clear meaning + in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly disengage one’s + self from what one has taken into the heart.” + </p> + <p> + The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the + Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was + to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along + the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism. As + they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and terraces + ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend the villa, + hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers of the + Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and diverted + one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then she confessed + the thought which had come to her the day before. + </p> + <p> + “You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had + left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate and + polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of distinction who + live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my cook Pompaloni does + when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them, but he puts the + salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet’s tongue is very sweet, but the + salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like Pompaloni’s dish, + my love—each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like Madame Marmet a + great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found her alone and sad in a + corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking mournfully of her husband. I + said to her: ‘Do you wish me to think of your husband, too? I will think + of him with you. I have been told that he was a learned man, a member of + the Royal Society of Paris. Madame Marmet, talk to me of him.’ She replied + that he had devoted himself to the Etruscans, and that he had given to + them his entire life. Oh, darling, I cherished at once the memory of that + Monsieur Marmet, who lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to + me. I said to Madame Marmet, ‘We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, + a modest little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?’ She + replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to the + Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze figures, + grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were a seriously gay + people. They made bronze caricatures. But the monkeys—some afflicted + with big stomachs, others astonished to show their bones—Madame + Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration. She contemplated them + like—there is a beautiful French word that escapes me—like the + monuments and the trophies of Monsieur Marmet.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull, the + streets ugly, the passers-by common. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his palace.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, darling, why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I do not please him much.” + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great admirer + of the Countess Martin. + </p> + <p> + The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade + were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held + rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the + most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The + Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons into + the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not an + attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio + Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now fallen, + had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering the works + of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin several + paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a Mantegna. + </p> + <p> + The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection; + she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the + darkness a bit of armor and a white horse. + </p> + <p> + A valet presented a card. + </p> + <p> + The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he was + turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression of + cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors. + Dechartre was on the staircase. + </p> + <p> + The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero, + but Antinous. + </p> + <p> + “I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace,” said + Miss Bell. “I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery.” + </p> + <p> + And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. + Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell babbled to the Prince—her usual prattle about those old + men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable + tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to her, + in a low tone: + </p> + <p> + “This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world + hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that + Jews could not sell.” + </p> + <p> + He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green + velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London, + of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that + it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to sell + it for fifty thousand francs.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully. + </p> + <p> + “There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm that + this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old + inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about + it.” + </p> + <p> + And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures by + the pre-Raphaelites. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese. He + had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again, + delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had + imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and + also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed + cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her; that + he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He + murmured bitterly in her ear: “I have reflected. I did not wish to come. + Why did I come?” She understood at once what he meant, that he feared her + now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her that he + was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the desires he + inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to understand + that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and look at bad + paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not interesting. + Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt reassured, and + believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived the accent nor + the significance of what he had said. He said “No, nothing interesting.” + The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to breakfast, asked their + friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused himself. He was about to + depart when, in the large empty salon, he found himself alone with Madame + Martin. He had had the idea of running away from her. He had no other wish + now than to see her again. He recalled to her that she was the next + morning to visit the Bargello. “You have permitted me to accompany you.” + She asked him if he had not found her moody and tiresome. Oh, no; he had + not thought her tiresome, but he feared she was sad. + </p> + <p> + “Alas,” he added, “your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know + them.” She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. “You do not think that + I shall take you for a confidante, do you?” And she walked away brusquely. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. “YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!” + </h2> + <p> + After dinner, in the salon of the bells, under the lamps from which the + great shades permitted only an obscure light to filter, good Madame Marmet + was warming herself by the hearth, with a white cat on her knees. The + evening was cool. Madame Martin, her eyes reminiscent of the golden light, + the violet peaks, and the ancient trees of Florence, smiled with happy + fatigue. She had gone with Miss Bell, Dechartre, and Madame Marmet to the + Chartrist convent of Ema. And now, in the intoxication of her visions, she + forgot the care of the day before, the importunate letters, the distant + reproaches, and thought of nothing in the world but cloisters chiselled + and painted, villages with red roofs, and roads where she saw the first + blush of spring. Dechartre had modelled for Miss Bell a waxen figure of + Beatrice. Vivian was painting angels. Softly bent over her, Prince + Albertinelli caressed his beard and threw around him glances that appeared + to seek admiration. + </p> + <p> + Replying to a reflection of Vivian Bell on marriage and love: + </p> + <p> + “A woman must choose,” he said. “With a man whom women love her heart is + not quiet. With a man whom the women do not love she is not happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Darling,” asked Miss Bell, “what would you wish for a friend dear to + you?” + </p> + <p> + “I should wish, Vivian, that my friend were happy. I should wish also that + she were quiet. She should be quiet in hatred of treason, humiliating + suspicions, and mistrust.” + </p> + <p> + “But, darling, since the Prince has said that a woman can not have at the + same time happiness and security, tell me what your friend should choose.” + </p> + <p> + “One never chooses, Vivian; one never chooses. Do not make me say what I + think of marriage.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Choulette appeared, wearing the magnificent air of those + beggars of whom small towns are proud. He had played briscola with + peasants in a coffeehouse of Fiesole. + </p> + <p> + “Here is Monsieur Choulette,” said Miss Bell. “He will teach what we are + to think of marriage. I am inclined to listen to him as to an oracle. He + does not see the things that we see, and he sees things that we do not + see. Monsieur Choulette, what do you think of marriage?” + </p> + <p> + He took a seat and lifted in the air a Socratic finger: + </p> + <p> + “Are you speaking, Mademoiselle, of the solemn union between man and + woman? In this sense, marriage is a sacrament. But sometimes, alas! it is + almost a sacrilege. As for civil marriage, it is a formality. The + importance given to it in our society is an idiotic thing which would have + made the women of other times laugh. We owe this prejudice, like many + others, to the bourgeois, to the mad performances of a lot of financiers + which have been called the Revolution, and which seem admirable to those + that have profited by it. Civil marriage is, in reality, only registry, + like many others which the State exacts in order to be sure of the + condition of persons: in every well organized state everybody must be + indexed. Morally, this registry in a big ledger has not even the virtue of + inducing a wife to take a lover. Who ever thinks of betraying an oath + taken before a mayor? In order to find joy in adultery, one must be + pious.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Monsieur,” said Therese, “we were married at the church.” + </p> + <p> + Then, with an accent of sincerity: + </p> + <p> + “I can not understand how a man ever makes up his mind to marry; nor how a + woman, after she has reached an age when she knows what she is doing, can + commit that folly.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince looked at her with distrust. He was clever, but he was + incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object, + disinterestedly, and to express general ideas. He imagined that Countess + Martin-Belleme was suggesting to him projects that she wished him to + consider. And as he was thinking of defending himself and also avenging + himself, he made velvet eyes at her and talked with tender gallantry: + </p> + <p> + “You display, Madame, the pride of the beautiful and intelligent French + women whom subjection irritates. French women love liberty, and none of + them is as worthy of liberty as you. I have lived in France a little. I + have known and admired the elegant society of Paris, the salons, the + festivals, the conversations, the plays. But in our mountains, under our + olive-trees, we become rustic again. We assume golden-age manners, and + marriage is for us an idyl full of freshness.” + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell examined the statuette which Dechartre had left on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it was thus that Beatrice looked, I am sure. And do you know, + Monsieur Dechartre, there are wicked men who say that Beatrice never + existed?” + </p> + <p> + Choulette declared he wished to be counted among those wicked men. He did + not believe that Beatrice had any more reality than other ladies through + whom ancient poets who sang of love represented some scholastic idea, + ridiculously subtle. + </p> + <p> + Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself, jealous of Dante + as of the universe, a refined man of letters, Choulette continued: + </p> + <p> + “I suspect that the little sister of the angels never lived, except in the + imagination of the poet. It seems a pure allegory, or, rather, an exercise + in arithmetic or a theme of astrology. Dante, who was a good doctor of + Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his pointed cap—Dante + believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed mathematician dreamed of + figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of arithmetic, that is all.” + </p> + <p> + And he lighted his pipe. + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much, and + if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased with + you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the canticle in + which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the Divine Comedy, + Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table. Open it and read + it.” + </p> + <p> + During the Prince’s reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near Countess + Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor among the + poets. He recalled to Therese the painting they had seen together two days + before, on the door of the Servi, a fresco almost obliterated, where one + hardly divined the presence of the poet wearing a laurel wreath, Florence, + and the seven circles. This was enough to exalt the artist. But she had + distinguished nothing, she had not been moved. And then she confessed that + Dante did not attract her. Dechartre, accustomed to her sharing all his + ideas of art and poetry, felt astonishment and some discontent. He said, + aloud: + </p> + <p> + “There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell, lifting her head, asked what were these things that “darling” + did not feel; and when she learned that it was the genius of Dante, she + exclaimed, in mock anger: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do you not honor the father, the master worthy of all praise, the + god? I do not love you any more, darling. I detest you.” + </p> + <p> + And, as a reproach to Choulette and to the Countess Martin, she recalled + the piety of that citizen of Florence who took from the altar the candles + that had been lighted in honor of Christ, and placed them before the bust + of Dante. + </p> + <p> + The Prince resumed his interrupted reading. Dechartre persisted in trying + to make Therese admire what she did not know. Certainly he would have + easily sacrificed Dante and all the poets of the universe for her. But + near him, tranquil, and an object of desire, she irritated him, almost + without his realizing it, by the charm of her laughing beauty. He + persisted in imposing on her his ideas, his artistic passions, even his + fantasy, and his capriciousness. He insisted in a low tone, in phrases + concise and quarrelsome. She said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how violent you are!” + </p> + <p> + Then he bent to her ear, and in an ardent voice, which he tried to soften: + </p> + <p> + “You must take me with my own soul!” + </p> + <p> + Therese felt a shiver of fear mingled with joy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE AVOWAL + </h2> + <p> + She next day she said to herself that she would reply to Robert. It was + raining. She listened languidly to the drops falling on the terrace. + Vivian Bell, careful and refined, had placed on the table artistic + stationery, sheets imitating the vellum of missals, others of pale violet + powdered with silver dust; celluloid pens, white and light, which one had + to manage like brushes; an iris ink which, on a page, spread a mist of + azure and gold. Therese did not like such delicacy. It seemed to her not + appropriate for letters which she wished to make simple and modest. When + she saw that the name of “friend,” given to Robert on the first line, + placed on the silvery paper, tinted itself like mother-of-pearl, a half + smile came to her lips. The first phrases were hard to write. She hurried + the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell and of Prince Albertinelli, a + little of Choulette, and that she had seen Dechartre at Florence. She + praised some pictures of the museums, but without discrimination, and only + to fill the pages. She knew that Robert had no appreciation of painting; + that he admired nothing except a little cuirassier by Detaille, bought at + Goupil’s. + </p> + <p> + She saw again in her mind this cuirassier, which he had shown to her one + day, with pride, in his bedroom, near the mirror, under family portraits. + All this, at a distance, seemed to her petty and tiresome. She finished + her letter with words of friendship, the sweetness of which was not + feigned. Truly, she had never felt more peaceful and gentle toward her + lover. In four pages she had said little and explained less. She announced + only that she should stay a month in Florence, the air of which did her + good. Then she wrote to her father, to her husband, and to Princess + Seniavine. She went down the stairway with the letters in her hand. In the + hall she threw three of them on the silver tray destined to receive papers + for the post-office. Mistrusting Madame Marmet, she slipped into her + pocket the letter to Le Menil, counting on chance to throw it into a + post-box. + </p> + <p> + Almost at the same time Dechartre came to accompany the three friends in a + walk through the city. As he was waiting he saw the letters on the tray. + </p> + <p> + Without believing that characters could be divined through penmanship, he + was susceptible to the form of letters as to elegance of drawing. The + writing of Therese charmed him, and he liked its openness, the bold and + simple turn of its lines. He looked at the addresses without reading them, + with an artist’s admiration. + </p> + <p> + They visited, that morning, Santa Maria Novella, where the Countess Martin + had already gone with Madame Marmet. But Miss Bell had reproached them for + not observing the beautiful Ginevra of Benci on a fresco of the choir. + “You must visit that figure of the morning in a morning light,” said + Vivian. While the poetess and Therese were talking together, Dechartre + listened patiently to Madame Marmet’s conversation, filled with anecdotes, + wherein academicians dined with elegant women, and shared the anxiety of + that lady, much preoccupied for several days by the necessity to buy a + tulle veil. She could find none to her taste in the shops of Florence. + </p> + <p> + As they came out of the church they passed the cobbler’s shop. The good + man was mending rustic shoes. Madame Martin asked the old man whether he + was well, whether he had enough work for a living, whether he was happy. + To all these questions he replied with the charming affirmative of Italy, + the musical si, which sounded melodious even in his toothless mouth. She + made him tell his sparrow’s story. The poor bird had once dipped its leg + in burning wax. + </p> + <p> + “I have made for my little companion a wooden leg out of a match, and he + hops upon my shoulder as formerly,” said the cobbler. + </p> + <p> + “It is this good old man,” said Miss Bell, “who teaches wisdom to Monsieur + Choulette. There was at Athens a cobbler named Simon, who wrote books on + philosophy, and who was the friend of Socrates. I have always thought that + Monsieur Choulette resembled Socrates.” + </p> + <p> + Therese asked the cobbler to tell his name and his history. His name was + Serafino Stoppini, and he was a native of Stia. He was old. He had had + much trouble in his life. + </p> + <p> + He lifted his spectacles to his forehead, uncovering blue eyes, very soft, + and almost extinguished under their red lids. + </p> + <p> + “I have had a wife and children; I have none now. I have known things + which I know no more.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell and Madame Marmet went to look for a veil. + </p> + <p> + “He has nothing in the world,” thought Therese, “but his tools, a handful + of nails, the tub wherein he dips his leather, and a pot of basilick, yet + he is happy.” + </p> + <p> + She said to him: + </p> + <p> + “This plant is fragrant, and it will soon be in bloom.” + </p> + <p> + He replied: + </p> + <p> + “If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die.” + </p> + <p> + Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her: + </p> + <p> + “You know...” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him and waited. + </p> + <p> + He finished his phrase: + </p> + <p> + “... that I love you?” + </p> + <p> + She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the + lids of which were trembling. Then she made a motion with her head that + meant Yes. And, without his trying to stop her, she rejoined Miss Bell and + Madame Marmet, who were waiting for her at the corner. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER + </h2> + <p> + Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend and + Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor Emmanuel + had loved when he was Duke of Savoy. For thirty years she had not once + gone out of her palace on the Arno, where, she painted, and wearing a wig, + she played the guitar in her spacious white salon. She received the best + society of Florence, and Miss Bell often called on her. At table this + recluse, eighty-seven years of age, questioned the Countess Martin on the + fashionable world of Paris, whose movement was familiar to her through the + journals. Solitary, she retained respect and a sort of devotion for the + world of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was + blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets with + black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in the pure + air, stands a hill with three slender trees. They walked; and Vivian + showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging, some marble + masterpiece—a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine. They walked through + these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or San Michele, where it + had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them. Therese was thinking of + him now with deepest interest. Madame Marmet was thinking of buying a + veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso. This affair recalled to her M. + Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day, took from his pocket a veil + with gold dots and wiped his forehead with it, thinking it was his + handkerchief. The audience was astonished, and whispered to one another. + It was a veil that had been confided to him the day before by his niece, + Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had accompanied to the theatre, and + Madame Marmet explained how, finding it in the pocket of his overcoat, he + had taken it to return it to his niece. + </p> + <p> + At Lagrange’s name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the + savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for + that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble. But + above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared of + clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold. Miss Bell + showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled niches, + ornament the facade of the church. + </p> + <p> + “See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George. Saint George was + formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed.” + </p> + <p> + But “darling” said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn. At this + moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre,” said the good Madame Marmet. + </p> + <p> + He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should + have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello’s St. George + held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained a + particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could see + in his niche at the left. + </p> + <p> + When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she + saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint. + Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his St. + Mark with abundant friendship. + </p> + <p> + “It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to + do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is not + appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take pleasure + in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that Donatello, after + giving a soul to him, exclaimed: ‘Mark, why do you not speak?’” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the + burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a + veil. + </p> + <p> + Therese and Dechartre remained. + </p> + <p> + “I like him,” continued the sculptor; “I like Saint Mark because I feel in + him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of Donatello, + who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because he recalls to + me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler to whom you were + speaking so kindly this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” she said, “I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur + Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men of + that painter.” + </p> + <p> + As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she found + herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it seemed + as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it under the + ingenuous gaze of St. Mark. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at his + heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had dropped + the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in the + morning Therese’s letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put that one + with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained immovable, + dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured; perhaps it was + an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from the tiresome + curiosity of Madame Marmet. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the + dressmaker’s.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of Madame + Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish. + </p> + <p> + All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she was + saying to him: “I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in love + with me.” But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a lover. + He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another made him + suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the letter, + remained in his eyes and made them burn. + </p> + <p> + She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she saw + him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the reason. + She thought it odd that he should be jealous without having the right to + be jealous; but this did not displease her. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the Corso, they saw Miss Bell and Madame Marmet coming + out of the dressmaker’s shop. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre said to Therese, in an imperious and supplicating voice: + </p> + <p> + “I must speak to you. I must see you alone tomorrow; meet me at six + o’clock at the Lungarno Acciaoli.” + </p> + <p> + She made no reply. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. “TO-MORROW?” + </h2> + <p> + When, in her Carmelite mantle, she came to the Lungarno Acciaoli, at about + half-past six, Dechartre greeted her with a humble look that moved her. + The setting sun made the Arno purple. They remained silent for a moment. + While they were walking past the monotonous line of palaces to the old + bridge, she was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “You see, I have come. I thought I ought to come. I do not think I am + altogether innocent of what has happened. I know: I have done what was my + fate in order that you should be to me what you are now. My attitude has + put thoughts into your head which you would not have had otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + He looked as if he did not understand. She continued: + </p> + <p> + “I was selfish, I was imprudent. You were agreeable to me; I liked your + wit; I could not get along without you. I have done what I could to + attract you, to retain you. I was a coquette—not coldly, nor + perfidiously, but a coquette.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, denying that he ever had seen a sign of this. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was a coquette. Yet it was not my habit. But I was a coquette with + you. I do not say that you have tried to take advantage of it, as you had + the right to do, nor that you are vain about it. I have not remarked + vanity in you. It may be possible that you had not noticed. Superior men + sometimes lack cleverness. But I know very well that I was not as I should + have been, and I beg your pardon. That is the reason why I came. Let us be + good friends, since there is yet time.” + </p> + <p> + He repeated, with sombre softness, that he loved her. The first hours of + that love had been easy and delightful. He had only desired to see her, + and to see her again. But soon she had troubled him. The evil had come + suddenly and violently one day on the terrace of Fiesole. And now he had + not the courage to suffer and say nothing. He had not come with a fixed + design. If he spoke of his passion he spoke by force and in spite of + himself; in the strong necessity of talking of her to herself, since she + was for him the only being in the world. His life was no longer in + himself, it was in her. She should know it, then, that he was in love with + her, not with vague tenderness, but with cruel ardor. Alas! his + imagination was exact and precise. He saw her continually, and she + tortured him. + </p> + <p> + And then it seemed to him that they might have joys which should make life + worth living. Their existence might be a work of art, beautiful and + hidden. They would think, comprehend, and feel together. It would be a + marvellous world of emotions and ideas. + </p> + <p> + “We could make of life a delightful garden.” + </p> + <p> + She feigned to think that the dream was innocent. + </p> + <p> + “You know very well that I am susceptible to the charm of your mind. It + has become a necessity to see you and hear you. I have allowed this to be + only too plain to you. Count upon my friendship and do not torment + yourself.” She extended her hand to him. He did not take it, but replied, + brusquely: + </p> + <p> + “I do not desire your friendship. I will not have it. I must have you + entirely or never see you again. You know that very well. Why do you + extend your hand to me with derisive phrases? Whether you wished it or + not, you have made me desperately in love with you. You have become my + evil, my suffering, my torture, and you ask me to be an agreeable friend. + Now you are coquettish and cruel. If you can not love me, let me go; I + will go, I do not know where, to forget and hate you. For I have against + you a latent feeling of hatred and anger. Oh, I love you, I love you!” + </p> + <p> + She believed what he was saying, feared that he might go, and feared the + sadness of living without him. She replied: + </p> + <p> + “I found you in my path. I do not wish to lose you. No, I do not wish to + lose you.” + </p> + <p> + Timid yet violent, he stammered; the words were stifled in his throat. + Twilight descended from the far-off mountains, and the last reflections of + the sun became pallid in the east. She said: + </p> + <p> + “If you knew my life, if you had seen how empty it was before I knew you, + you would know what you are to me, and would not think of abandoning me.” + </p> + <p> + But, with the tranquil tone of her voice and with the rustle of her skirts + on the pavement, she irritated him. + </p> + <p> + He told her how he suffered. He knew now the divine malady of love. + </p> + <p> + “The grace of your thoughts, your magnificent courage, your superb pride, + I inhale them like a perfume. It seems to me when you speak that your mind + is floating on your lips. Your mind is for me only the odor of your + beauty. I have retained the instincts of a primitive man; you have + reawakened them. I feel that I love you with savage simplicity.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him softly and said nothing. They saw the lights of evening, + and heard lugubrious songs coming toward them. And then, like spectres + chased by the wind, appeared the black penitents. The crucifix was before + them. They were Brothers of Mercy, holding torches, singing psalms on the + way to the cemetery. In accordance with the Italian custom, the cortege + marched quickly. The crosses, the coffin, the banners, seemed to leap on + the deserted quay. Jacques and Therese stood against the wall in order + that the funeral train might pass. + </p> + <p> + The black avalanche had disappeared. There were women weeping behind the + coffin carried by the black phantoms, who wore heavy shoes. + </p> + <p> + Therese sighed: + </p> + <p> + “What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world?” + </p> + <p> + He looked as if he had not heard, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Before I knew you I was not unhappy. I liked life. I was retained in it + by dreams. I liked forms, and the mind in forms, the appearances that + caress and flatter. I had the joy of seeing and of dreaming. I enjoyed + everything and depended upon nothing. My desires, abundant and light, I + gratified without fatigue. I was interested in everything and wished for + nothing. One suffers only through the will. Without knowing it, I was + happy. Oh, it was not much, it was only enough to live. Now I have no joy + in life. My pleasures, the interest that I took in the images of life and + of art, the vivid amusement of creating with my hands the figures of my + dreams—you have made me lose everything and have not left me even + regret. I do not want my liberty and tranquillity again. It seems to me + that before I knew you I did not live; and now that I feel that I am + living, I can not live either far from you or near you. I am more wretched + than the beggars we saw on the road to Ema. They had air to breathe, and I + can breathe only you, whom I have not. Yet I am glad to have known you. + That alone counts in my existence. A moment ago I thought I hated you. I + was wrong; I adore you, and I bless you for the harm you have done me. I + love all that comes to me from you.” + </p> + <p> + They were nearing the black trees at the entrance to San Niccola bridge. + On the other side of the river the vague fields displayed their sadness, + intensified by night. Seeing that he was calm and full of a soft languor, + she thought that his love, all imagination, had fled in words, and that + his desires had become only a reverie. She had not expected so prompt a + resignation. It almost disappointed her to escape the danger she had + feared. + </p> + <p> + She extended her hand to him, more boldly this time than before. + </p> + <p> + “Then, let us be friends. It is late. Let us return. Take me to my + carriage. I shall be what I have been to you, an excellent friend. You + have not displeased me.” + </p> + <p> + But he led her to the fields, in the growing solitude of the shore. + </p> + <p> + “No, I will not let you go without having told you what I wish to say. But + I know no longer how to speak; I can not find the words. I love you. I + wish to know that you are mine. I swear to you that I will not live + another night in the horror of doubting it.” + </p> + <p> + He pressed her in his arms; and seeking the light of her eyes through the + obscurity of her veil, said “You must love me. I desire you to love me, + and it is your fault, for you have desired it too. Say that you are mine. + Say it.” + </p> + <p> + Having gently disengaged herself, she replied, faintly and slowly “I can + not! I can not! You see I am acting frankly with you. I said to you a + moment ago that you had not displeased me. But I can not do as you wish.” + </p> + <p> + And recalling to her thought the absent one who was waiting for her, she + repeated: “I can not!” Bending over her he anxiously questioned her eyes, + the double stars that trembled and veiled themselves. “Why? You love me, I + feel it, I see it. You love me. Why will you do me this wrong?” + </p> + <p> + He drew her to him, wishing to lay his soul, with his lips, on her veiled + lips. She escaped him swiftly, saying: “I can not. Do not ask more. I can + not be yours.” + </p> + <p> + His lips trembled, his face was convulsed. He exclaimed “You have a lover, + and you love him. Why do you mock me?” + </p> + <p> + “I swear to you I have no desire to mock you, and that if I loved any one + in the world it would be you.” But he was not listening to her. + </p> + <p> + “Leave me, leave me!” And he ran toward the dark fields. The Arno formed + lagoons, upon which the moon, half veiled, shone fitfully. He walked + through the water and the mud, with a step rapid, blind, like that of one + intoxicated. She took fright and shouted. She called him. But he did not + turn his head and made no answer. He fled with alarming recklessness. She + ran after him. Her feet were hurt by the stones, and her skirt was heavy + with water, but soon she overtook him. + </p> + <p> + “What were you about to do?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, and saw her fright in her eyes. “Do not be afraid,” he + said. “I did not see where I was going. I assure you I did not intend to + kill myself. I am desperate, but I am calm. I was only trying to escape + from you. I beg your pardon. But I could not see you any longer. Leave me, + I pray you. Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + She replied, agitated and trembling: “Come! We shall do what we can.” + </p> + <p> + He remained sombre and made no reply. She repeated “Come!” + </p> + <p> + She took his arm. The living warmth of her hand animated him. He said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish it?” + </p> + <p> + “I can not leave you.” + </p> + <p> + “You promise?” + </p> + <p> + “I must.” + </p> + <p> + And, in her anxiety and anguish, she almost smiled, in thinking that he + had succeeded so quickly by his folly. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow?” said he, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + She replied quickly, with a defensive instinct: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; not to-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + “You do not love me; you regret that you have promised.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I do not regret, but—” + </p> + <p> + He implored, he supplicated her. She looked at him for a moment, turned + her head, hesitated, and said, in a low tone: + </p> + <p> + “Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION + </h2> + <p> + After dinner, Miss Bell was sketching in the drawing-room. She was + tracing, on canvas, profiles of bearded Etruscans for a cushion which + Madame Marmet was to embroider. Prince Albertinelli was selecting the wool + with an almost feminine knowledge of shades. It was late when Choulette, + having, as was his habit, played briscola with the cook at the caterer’s, + appeared, as joyful as if he possessed the mind of a god. He took a seat + on a sofa, beside Madame Martin, and looked at her tenderly. + Voluptuousness shone in his green eyes. He enveloped her, while talking to + her, with poetic and picturesque phrases. It was like the sketch of a + lovesong that he was improvising for her. In oddly involved sentences, he + told her of the charm that she exhaled. + </p> + <p> + “He, too!” said she to herself. + </p> + <p> + She amused herself by teasing him. She asked whether he had not found in + Florence, in the low quarters, one of the kind of women whom he liked to + visit. His preferences were known. He could deny it as much as he wished: + no one was ignorant of the door where he had found the cordon of his Third + Order. His friends had met him on the boulevard. His taste for unfortunate + women was evident in his most beautiful poems. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur Choulette, so far as I am able to judge, you like very bad + women.” + </p> + <p> + He replied with solemnity: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, you may collect the grain of calumny sown by Monsieur Paul Vence + and throw handfuls of it at me. I will not try to avoid it. It is not + necessary you should know that I am chaste and that my mind is pure. But + do not judge lightly those whom you call unfortunate, and who should be + sacred to you, since they are unfortunate. The disdained and lost girl is + the docile clay under the finger of the Divine Potter: she is the victim + and the altar of the holocaust. The unfortunates are nearer God than the + honest women: they have lost conceit. They do not glorify themselves with + the untried virtue the matron prides herself on. They possess humility, + which is the cornerstone of virtues agreeable to heaven. A short + repentance will be sufficient for them to be the first in heaven; for + their sins, without malice and without joy, contain their own forgiveness. + Their faults, which are pains, participate in the merits attached to pain; + slaves to brutal passion, they are deprived of all voluptuousness, and in + this they are like the men who practise continence for the kingdom of God. + They are like us, culprits; but shame falls on their crime like a balm, + suffering purifies it like fire. That is the reason why God will listen to + the first voice which they shall send to him. A throne is prepared for + them at the right hand of the Father. In the kingdom of God, the queen and + the empress will be happy to sit at the feet of the unfortunate; for you + must not think that the celestial house is built on a human plan. Far from + it, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, he conceded that more than one road led to salvation. One + could follow the road of love. + </p> + <p> + “Man’s love is earthly,” he said, “but it rises by painful degrees, and + finally leads to God.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince had risen. Kissing Miss Bell’s hand, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the day after to-morrow, Saturday,” replied Vivian. + </p> + <p> + Therese started. Saturday! They were talking of Saturday quietly, as of an + ordinary day. Until then she had not wished to think that Saturday would + come so soon or so naturally. + </p> + <p> + The guests had been gone for half an hour. Therese, tired, was thinking in + her bed, when she heard a knock at the door of her room. The panel opened, + and Vivian’s little head appeared. + </p> + <p> + “I am not intruding, darling? You are not sleepy?” + </p> + <p> + No, Therese had no desire to sleep. She rose on her elbow. Vivian sat on + the bed, so light that she made no impression on it. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, I am sure you have a great deal of reason. Oh, I am sure of it. + You are reasonable in the same way that Monsieur Sadler is a violinist. He + plays a little out of tune when he wishes. And you, too, when you are not + quite logical, it is for your own pleasure. Oh, darling, you have a great + deal of reason and of judgment, and I come to ask your advice.” + </p> + <p> + Astonished, and a little anxious, Therese denied that she was logical. She + denied this very sincerely. But Vivian would not listen to her. + </p> + <p> + “I have read Francois Rabelais a great deal, my love. It is in Rabelais + and in Villon that I studied French. They are good old masters of + language. But, darling, do you know the ‘Pantagruel?’ ‘Pantagruel’ is like + a beautiful and noble city, full of palaces, in the resplendent dawn, + before the street-sweepers of Paris have come. The sweepers have not taken + out the dirt, and the maids have not washed the marble steps. And I have + seen that French women do not read the ‘Pantagruel.’ You do not know it? + Well, it is not necessary. In the ‘Pantagruel,’ Panurge asks whether he + must marry, and he covers himself with ridicule, my love. Well, I am quite + as laughable as he, since I am asking the same question of you.” + </p> + <p> + Therese replied with an uneasiness she did not try to conceal: + </p> + <p> + “As for that, my dear, do not ask me. I have already told you my opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “But, darling, you have said that only men are wrong to marry. I can not + take that advice for myself.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin looked at the little boyish face and head of Miss Bell, + which oddly expressed tenderness and modesty. + </p> + <p> + Then she embraced her, saying: + </p> + <p> + “Dear, there is not a man in the world exquisite and delicate enough for + you.” + </p> + <p> + She added, with an expression of affectionate gravity: + </p> + <p> + “You are not a child. If some one loves you, and you love him, do what you + think you ought to do, without mingling interests and combinations that + have nothing to do with sentiment. This is the advice of a friend.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell hesitated a moment. Then she blushed and arose. She had been a + little shocked. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. “I KISS YOUR FEET BECAUSE THEY HAVE COME!” + </h2> + <p> + Saturday, at four o’clock, Therese went, as she had promised, to the gate + of the English cemetery. There she found Dechartre. He was serious and + agitated; he spoke little. She was glad he did not display his joy. He led + her by the deserted walls of the gardens to a narrow street which she did + not know. She read on a signboard: Via Alfieri. After they had taken fifty + steps, he stopped before a sombre alley: + </p> + <p> + “It is in there,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with infinite sadness. + </p> + <p> + “You wish me to go in?” + </p> + <p> + She saw he was resolute, and followed him without saying a word, into the + humid shadow of the alley. He traversed a courtyard where the grass grew + among the stones. In the back was a pavilion with three windows, with + columns and a front ornamented with goats and nymphs. On the moss-covered + steps he turned in the lock a key that creaked and resisted. He murmured, + </p> + <p> + “It is rusty.” + </p> + <p> + She replied, without thought “All the keys are rusty in this country.” + </p> + <p> + They went up a stairway so silent that it seemed to have forgotten the + sound of footsteps. He pushed open a door and made Therese enter the room. + She went straight to a window opening on the cemetery. Above the wall rose + the tops of pine-trees, which are not funereal in this land where mourning + is mingled with joy without troubling it, where the sweetness of living + extends to the city of the dead. He took her hand and led her to an + armchair. He remained standing, and looked at the room which he had + prepared so that she would not find herself lost in it. Panels of old + print cloth, with figures of Comedy, gave to the walls the sadness of past + gayeties. He had placed in a corner a dim pastel which they had seen + together at an antiquary’s, and which, for its shadowy grace, she called + the shade of Rosalba. There was a grandmother’s armchair; white chairs; + and on the table painted cups and Venetian glasses. In all the corners + were screens of colored paper, whereon were masks, grotesque figures, the + light soul of Florence, of Bologna, and of Venice in the time of the Grand + Dukes and of the last Doges. A mirror and a carpet completed the + furnishings. + </p> + <p> + He closed the window and lighted the fire. She sat in the armchair, and as + she remained in it erect, he knelt before her, took her hands, kissed + them, and looked at her with a wondering expression, timorous and proud. + Then he pressed his lips to the tip of her boot. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” + </p> + <p> + “I kiss your feet because they have come.” + </p> + <p> + He rose, drew her to him softly, and placed a long kiss on her lips. She + remained inert, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her toque fell, her + hair dropped on her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Two hours later, when the setting sun made immeasurably longer the shadows + on the stones, Therese, who had wished to walk alone in the city, found + herself in front of the two obelisks of Santa Maria Novella without + knowing how she had reached there. She saw at the corner of the square the + old cobbler drawing his string with his eternal gesture. He smiled, + bearing his sparrow on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + She went into the shop, and sat on a chair. She said in French: + </p> + <p> + “Quentin Matsys, my friend, what have I done, and what will become of me?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her quietly, with laughing kindness, not understanding nor + caring. Nothing astonished him. She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “What I did, my good Quentin, I did because he was suffering, and because + I loved him. I regret nothing.” + </p> + <p> + He replied, as was his habit, with the sonorous syllable of Italy: + </p> + <p> + “Si! si!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it not so, Quentin? I have not done wrong? But, my God! what will + happen now?” + </p> + <p> + She prepared to go. He made her understand that he wished her to wait. He + culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her. + </p> + <p> + “For its fragrance, signora!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. CHOULETTE TAKES A JOURNEY + </h2> + <h3> + It was the next day. + </h3> + <p> + Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty stick, his + pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who + was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin + coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity. + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, Madame. I am quitting Fiesole, you, Dechartre, the too handsome + Prince Albertinelli, and that gentle ogress, Miss Bell. I am going to + visit the Assisi mountain, which the poet says must be named no longer + Assisi, but the Orient, because it is there that the sun of love rose. I + am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is resting in + a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not even take out + of this world a shroud—out of this world where he left the + revelation of all joy and of all kindness.” + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like + Saint Clara a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right, Madame; she was a woman of strength and prudence. When + Saint Francis, ill and almost blind, came to spend a few days at Saint + Damien, near his friend, she built with her own hands a hut for him in the + garden. Pain, languor, and burning eyelids deprived him of sleep. Enormous + rats came to attack him at night. Then he composed a joyous canticle in + praise of our splendid brother the Sun, and our sister the Water, chaste, + useful, and pure. My most beautiful verses have less charm and splendor. + And it is just that it should be thus, for Saint Francis’s soul was more + beautiful than his mind. I am better than all my contemporaries whom I + have known, yet I am worth nothing. When Saint Francis had composed his + Song of the Sun he rejoiced. He thought: ‘We shall go, my brothers and I, + into the cities, and stand in the public squares, with a lute, on the + market-day. Good people will come near us, and we shall say to them: “We + are the jugglers of God, and we shall sing a lay to you. If you are + pleased, you will reward us.” They will promise, and when we shall have + sung, we shall recall their promise to them. We shall say to them: “You + owe a reward to us. And the one that we ask of you is that you love one + another.” Doubtless, to keep their word and not injure God’s poor + jugglers, they will avoid doing ill to others.’” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin thought St. Francis was the most amiable of the saints. + </p> + <p> + “His work,” replied Choulette, “was destroyed while he lived. Yet he died + happy, because in him was joy with humility. He was, in fact, God’s sweet + singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his task and + teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that poet, Madame, + if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit. For all moral beauty is + achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom that comes from + God and resembles folly.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about + the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You + will imprison them all in convents.” + </p> + <p> + “I confess,” replied Choulette, “that they embarrass me a great deal in my + project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh and + injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead to + joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable crimes + of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to supper, + Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels.” He took his pipe, his + carpet-bag, and his stick: + </p> + <p> + “The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do evil + when one loves purely. But sensual love is formed of hatred, selfishness, + and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you beautiful one night, + on this sofa, I was assailed by a cloud of violent thoughts. I had come + from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell’s cook improvise + magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was inundated by a + celestial joy which the sight of you made me lose. It must be that a + profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. For, near you, I felt + reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. They were lies. I felt + that I was your adversary and your enemy; I hated you. When I saw you + smile, I felt a desire to kill you.” + </p> + <p> + “Truly?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have inspired + more than once. But common people feel it without being conscious of it, + while my vivid imagination represents me to myself incessantly. I + contemplate my mind, at times splendid, often hideous. If you had been + able to read my mind that night you would have screamed with fright.” + </p> + <p> + Therese smiled: + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara.” + </p> + <p> + He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger: + </p> + <p> + “You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and who + will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form disappear + behind the bushes of the garden. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for + her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an + anguish which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased. She did not + feel the stupor of the first time that she had yielded for love; she did + not feel the brusque vision of the irreparable. She was under influences + slower, more vague, and more powerful. This time a charming reverie bathed + the reminiscence of the caresses which she had received. She was full of + trouble and anxiety, but she felt no regret. She had acted less through + her will than through a force which she divined to be higher. She absolved + herself because of her disinterestedness. She counted on nothing, having + calculated nothing. + </p> + <p> + Doubtless, she had been wrong to yield, since she was not free; but she + had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice. She + did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that surpass + immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went away from her + and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; at least, she thought + not. She would keep the reminiscence and the imprint of the rarest and + most precious thing one may find in the world. Perhaps he was incapable of + real attachment. He thought he loved her. He had loved her for an hour. + She dared not wish for more, in the embarrassment of the false situation + which irritated her frankness and her pride, and which troubled the + lucidity of her intelligence. While the carriage was carrying her to San + Marco, she persuaded herself that he would say nothing to her of the day + before, and that the room from which one could see the pines rise to the + sky would leave to them only the dream of a dream. + </p> + <p> + He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look that + he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same time + that she wished him to be thus. + </p> + <p> + “You—” he said, “I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing + that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place where + I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you still love me?” + </p> + <p> + “It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a + phantom. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It is + true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the only, + good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered think + they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to obtain you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly. If we have + reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always + confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I never + will reproach you for anything.” + </p> + <p> + An agile troupe of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them + with an importunity wherein was mingled the gracefulness which Italians + never lose. Their subtlety made them divine that these were lovers, and + they knew that lovers are prodigal. Dechartre threw coin to them, and they + all returned to their happy laziness. + </p> + <p> + A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that + there was no monk. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautiful under + the arcades of the cloister! + </p> + <p> + They visited the cells where, on the bare plaster, Fra Angelico, aided by + his brother Benedetto, painted innocent pictures for his companions. + </p> + <p> + “Do you recall the winter night when, meeting you before the Guimet + Museum, I accompanied you to the narrow street bordered by small gardens + which leads to the Billy Quay? Before separating we stopped a moment on + the parapet along which runs a thin boxwood hedge. You looked at that + boxwood, dried by winter. And when you went away I looked at it for a long + time.” + </p> + <p> + They were in the cell wherein Savonarola lived. The guide showed to them + the portrait and the relics of the martyr. + </p> + <p> + “What could there have been in me that you liked that day? It was dark.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw you walk. It is in movements that forms speak. Each one of your + steps told me the secrets of your charming beauty. Oh! my imagination was + never discreet in anything that concerned you. I did not dare to speak to + you. When I saw you, it frightened me. It frightened me because you could + do everything for me. When you were present, I adored you tremblingly. + When you were far from me, I felt all the impieties of desire.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not suspect this. But do you recall the first time we saw each + other, when Paul Vence introduced you? You were seated near a screen. You + were looking at the miniatures. You said to me: ‘This lady, painted by + Siccardi, resembles Andre Chenier’s mother.’ I replied to you: ‘She is my + husband’s great-grandmother. How did Andre Chenier’s mother look?’ And you + said: ‘There is a portrait of her: a faded Levantine.’” + </p> + <p> + He excused himself and thought that he had not spoken so impertinently. + </p> + <p> + “You did. My memory is better than yours.” + </p> + <p> + They were walking in the white silence of the convent. They saw the cell + which Angelico had ornamented with the loveliest painting. And there, + before the Virgin who, in the pale sky, receives from God the Father the + immortal crown, he took Therese in his arms and placed a kiss on her lips, + almost in view of two Englishwomen who were walking through the corridors, + consulting their Baedeker. She said to him: + </p> + <p> + “We must not forget Saint Anthony’s cell.” + </p> + <p> + “Therese, I am suffering in my happiness from everything that is yours and + that escapes me. I am suffering because you do not live for me alone. I + wish to have you wholly, and to have had you in the past.” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders a little. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the past!” + </p> + <p> + “The past is the only human reality. Everything that is, is past.” + </p> + <p> + She raised toward him her eyes, which resembled bits of blue sky full of + mingled sun and rain. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I may say this to you: I never have felt that I lived except with + you.” + </p> + <p> + When she returned to Fiesole, she found a brief and threatening letter + from Le Menil. He could not understand, her prolonged absence, her + silence. If she did not announce at once her return, he would go to + Florence for her. + </p> + <p> + She read without astonishment, but was annoyed to see that everything + disagreeable that could happen was happening, and that nothing would be + spared to her of what she had feared. She could still calm him and + reassure him: she had only to say to him that she loved him; that she + would soon return to Paris; that he should renounce the foolish idea of + rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be + watched at once. But she would have to write: “I love you.” She must quiet + him with caressing phrases. + </p> + <p> + She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth. She + accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls carried away + by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving ocean of + events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of her a fond + reminiscence in a corner of his soul. + </p> + <p> + She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square. Children + were playing in the twilight. She looked from the top of the hill to the + beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel. And the peace + of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the box. Then only + she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what the result would + be. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. WHAT IS FRANKNESS? + </h2> + <p> + In the square, where the spring sun scattered its yellow roses, the bells + at noon dispersed the rustic crowd of grain-merchants assembled to sell + their wares. At the foot of the Lanzi, before the statues, the venders of + ices had placed, on tables covered with red cotton, small castles bearing + the inscription: ‘Bibite ghiacciate’. And joy descended from heaven to + earth. Therese and Jacques, returning from an early promenade in the + Boboli Gardens, were passing before the illustrious loggia. Therese looked + at the Sabine by John of Bologna with that interested curiosity of a woman + examining another woman. But Dechartre looked at Therese only. He said to + her: + </p> + <p> + “It is marvellous how the vivid light of day flatters your beauty, loves + you, and caresses the mother-of-pearl on your cheeks.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “Candle-light hardens my features. I have observed this. + I am not an evening woman, unfortunately. It is at night that women have a + chance to show themselves and to please. At night, Princess Seniavine has + a fine blond complexion; in the sun she is as yellow as a lemon. It must + be owned that she does not care. She is not a coquette.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Formerly I was a coquette for myself, now I am a coquette for + you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the Sabine woman, who with her waving arms, long and robust, + tried to avoid the Roman’s embraces. + </p> + <p> + “To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form and that length of + limb? I am not shaped in that way.” + </p> + <p> + He took pains to reassure her. But she was not disturbed about it. She was + looking now at the little castle of the ice-vender. A sudden desire had + come to her to eat an ice standing there, as the working-girls of the city + stood. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment,” said Dechartre. + </p> + <p> + He ran toward the street that follows the left side of the Lanzi, and + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + After a moment he came back, and gave her a little gold spoon, the handle + of which was finished in a lily of Florence, with its chalice enamelled in + red. + </p> + <p> + “You must eat your ice with this. The man does not give a spoon with his + ices. You would have had to put out your tongue. It would have been + pretty, but you are not accustomed to it.” + </p> + <p> + She recognized the spoon, a jewel which she had remarked the day before in + the showcase of an antiquarian. + </p> + <p> + They were happy; they disseminated their joy, which was full and simple, + in light words which had no sense. And they laughed when the Florentine + repeated to them passages of the old Italian writers. She enjoyed the play + of his face, which was antique in style and jovial in expression. But she + did not always understand what he said. She asked Jacques: + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really wish to know?” + </p> + <p> + Yes, she wished to know. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he said he should be happy if the fleas in his bed were shaped like + you!” + </p> + <p> + When she had eaten the ice, he asked her to return to San Michele. It was + so near! They would cross the square and at once discover the masterpiece + in stone. They went. They looked at the St. George and at the bronze St. + Mark. Dechartre saw again on the wall the post-box, and he recalled with + painful exactitude the little gloved hand that had dropped the letter. He + thought it hideous, that copper mouth which had swallowed Therese’s + secret. He could not turn his eyes away from it. All his gayety had fled. + She admired the rude statue of the Evangelist. + </p> + <p> + “It is true that he looks honest and frank, and it seems that, if he + spoke, nothing but words of truth would come out of his mouth.” + </p> + <p> + He replied bitterly: + </p> + <p> + “It is not a woman’s mouth.” + </p> + <p> + She understood his thought, and said, in her soft tone: + </p> + <p> + “My friend, why do you say this to me? I am frank.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you call frank? You know that a woman is obliged to lie.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. “I NEVER HAVE LOVED ANY ONE BUT YOU!” + </h2> + <p> + Therese was dressed in sombre gray. The bushes on the border of the + terrace were covered with silver stars and on the hillsides the + laurel-trees threw their odoriferous flame. The cup of Florence was in + bloom. + </p> + <p> + Vivian Bell walked, arrayed in white, in the fragrant garden. + </p> + <p> + “You see, darling, Florence is truly the city of flowers, and it is not + inappropriate that she should have a red lily for her emblem. It is a + festival to-day, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “A festival, to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, do you not know this is the first day of May? You did not wake + this morning in a charming fairy spectacle? Do you not celebrate the + Festival of Flowers? Do you not feel joyful, you who love flowers? For you + love them, my love, I know it: you are very good to them. You said to me + that they feel joy and pain; that they suffer as we do.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I said that they suffer as we do?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you said it. It is their festival to-day. We must celebrate it with + the rites consecrated by old painters.” + </p> + <p> + Therese heard without understanding. She was crumpling under her glove a + letter which she had just received, bearing the Italian postage-stamp, and + containing only these two lines: + </p> + <p> + “I am staying at the Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli. I shall + expect you to-morrow morning. No. 18.” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, do you not know it is the custom of Florence to celebrate spring + on the first day of May every year? Then you did not understand the + meaning of Botticelli’s picture consecrated to the Festival of Flowers. + Formerly, darling, on the first day of May the entire city gave itself up + to joy. Young girls, crowned with sweetbrier and other flowers, made a + long cortege through the Corso, under arches, and sang choruses on the new + grass. We shall do as they did. We shall dance in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, we shall dance in the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling; and I will teach you Tuscan steps of the fifteenth century + which have been found in a manuscript by Mr. Morrison, the oldest + librarian in London. Come back soon, my love; we shall put on flower hats + and dance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, we shall dance,” said Therese. + </p> + <p> + And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its + stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she + found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of + his whip: + </p> + <p> + “Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli.” + </p> + <p> + She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli. She had gone there at sunset, + and she had seen the rays of the sun on the agitated surface of the river. + Then night had come, the murmur of the waters in the silence, the words + and the looks that had troubled her, the first kiss of her lover, the + beginning of incomparable love. Oh, yes, she recalled Lungarno Acciaoli + and the river-side beyond the old bridge—Great Britain Hotel—she + knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was fortunate, since he would + come, that he had gone there. He might as easily have gone to the Hotel de + la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was fortunate they were not side by side + in the same corridor. Lungarno Acciaoli! The dead body which they had seen + pass was at peace somewhere in the little flowery cemetery. + </p> + <p> + “Number 18.” + </p> + <p> + It was a bare hotel room, with a stove in the Italian fashion, a set of + brushes displayed on the table, and a time-table. Not a book, not a + journal. He was there; she saw suffering on his bony face, a look of + fever. This produced on her a sad impression. He waited a moment for a + word, a gesture; but she dared do nothing. He offered a chair. She refused + it and remained standing. + </p> + <p> + “Therese, something has happened of which I do not know. Speak.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of silence, she replied, with painful slowness: + </p> + <p> + “My friend, when I was in Paris, why did you go away from me?” + </p> + <p> + By the sadness of her accent he believed, he wished to believe, in the + expression of an affectionate reproach. His face colored. He replied, + ardently: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if I could have foreseen! That hunting party—I cared little for + it, as you may think! But you—your letter, that of the + twenty-seventh”—he had a gift for dates—“has thrown me into a + horrible anxiety. Something has happened. Tell me everything.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, I believed you had ceased to love me.” + </p> + <p> + “But now that you know the contrary?” + </p> + <p> + “Now—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, her arms fell before her and her hands were joined. + </p> + <p> + Then, with affected tranquillity, she continued: + </p> + <p> + “Well, my friend, we took each other without knowing. One never knows. You + are young; younger than I, since we are of the same age. You have, + doubtless, projects for the future.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her proudly. She continued: + </p> + <p> + “Your family, your mother, your aunts, your uncle the General, have + projects for you. That is natural. I might have become an obstacle. It is + better that I should disappear from your life. We shall keep a fond + remembrance of each other.” + </p> + <p> + She extended her gloved hand. He folded his arms: + </p> + <p> + “Then, you do not want me? You have made me happy, as no other man ever + was, and you think now to brush me aside? Truly, you seem to think you + have finished with me. What have you come to say to me? That it was a + liaison, which is easily broken? That people take each other, quit each + other—well, no! You are not a person whom one can easily quit.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Therese, “you had perhaps given me more of your heart than one + does ordinarily in such 180 cases. I was more than an amusement for you. + But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived you, if I + am frivolous—you know people have said so—well, if I have not + been to you what I should have been—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she + said: + </p> + <p> + “If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious; if + I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment—” + </p> + <p> + He interrupted her: + </p> + <p> + “You are not telling the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I am not telling the truth. And I do not know how to lie. I wished to + spoil our past. I was wrong. It was—you know what it was. But—” + </p> + <p> + “But?” + </p> + <p> + “I have always told you I was not sure of myself. There are women, it is + said, who are sure of themselves. I warned you that I was not like them.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head violently, like an irritated animal. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? I do not understand. I understand nothing. Speak + clearly. There is something between us. I do not know what. I demand to + know what it is. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “There is the fact that I am not a woman sure of herself, and that you + should not rely on me. No, you should not rely on me. I had promised + nothing—and then, if I had promised, what are words?” + </p> + <p> + “You do not love me. Oh, you love me no more! I can see it. But it is so + much the worse for you! I love you. You should not have given yourself to + me. Do not think that you can take yourself back. I love you and I shall + keep you. So you thought you could get out of it very quietly? Listen a + moment. You have done everything to make me love you, to attach me to you, + to make it impossible for me to live without you. + </p> + <p> + “Six weeks ago you asked for nothing better. You were everything for me, I + was everything for you. And now you desire suddenly that I should know you + no longer; that you should be to me a stranger, a lady whom one meets in + society. Ah, you have a fine audacity! Have I dreamed? All the past is a + dream? I invented it all? Oh, there can be no doubt of it. You loved me. I + feel it still. Well, I have not changed. I am what I was; you have nothing + to complain of. I have not betrayed you for other women. It isn’t credit + that I claim. I could not have done it. When one has known you, one finds + the prettiest women insipid. I never have had the idea of deceiving you. I + have always acted well toward you. Why should you not love me? Answer! + Speak! Say you love me still. Say it, since it is true. Come, Therese, you + will feel at once that you love as you loved me formerly in the little + nest where we were so happy. Come!” + </p> + <p> + He approached her ardently. She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him away + with a kind of horror. + </p> + <p> + He understood, stopped, and said: + </p> + <p> + “You have a lover.” + </p> + <p> + She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb. + </p> + <p> + Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in shame. + He lowered his eyes and was silent. His fingers to his lips, and biting + his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on her waist, + and bled. He threw himself in an armchair, drew his handkerchief to wipe + off the blood, and remained indifferent and without thought. + </p> + <p> + She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look vague, + arranged her hat with instinctive care. At the noise, formerly delicious, + that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at her, and asked + furiously: + </p> + <p> + “Who is he? I will know.” + </p> + <p> + She did not move. She replied with soft firmness: + </p> + <p> + “I have told you all I can. Do not ask more; it would be useless.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen before. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do not tell me his name. It will not be difficult for me to find it.” + </p> + <p> + She said not a word, saddened for him, anxious for another, full of + anguish and fear, and yet without regret, without bitterness, because her + real soul was elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + He had a vague sensation of what passed in her mind. In his anger to see + her so sweet and so serene, to find her beautiful, and beautiful for + another, he felt a desire to kill her, and he shouted at her: + </p> + <p> + “Go!” + </p> + <p> + Then, weakened by this effort of hatred, which was not natural to him, he + buried his head in his hands and sobbed. + </p> + <p> + His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him. She thought she + might perhaps console him for her loss. Amicably and comfortably she + seated herself beside him. + </p> + <p> + “My friend, blame me. I am to blame, but more to be pitied. Disdain me, if + you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the plaything + of life. In fine, judge me as you wish. But keep for me a little + friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence, something + like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong wind. That is + what I deserve. Do not be harsh to the agreeable but frivolous visitor who + passed through your life. Bid good-by to me as to a traveller who goes one + knows not where, and who is sad. There is so much sadness in separation! + You were irritated against me a moment ago. Oh, I do not reproach you for + it. I only suffer for it. Reserve a little sympathy for me. Who knows? The + future is always unknown. It is very gray and obscure before me. Let me + say to myself that I have been kind, simple, frank with you, and that you + have not forgotten it. In time you will understand, you will forgive; + to-day have a little pity.” + </p> + <p> + He was not listening to her words. He was appeased simply by the caress of + her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear. He exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “You do not love him. I am the one whom you love. Then—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, to say whom one loves or loves not is not an easy thing for a woman, + or at least for me. I do not know how other women do. But life is not good + to me. I am tossed to and fro by force of circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her calmly. An idea came to him. He had taken a resolution; + he forgave, he forgot, provided she returned to him at once. + </p> + <p> + “Therese, you do not love him. It was an error, a moment of forgetfulness, + a horrible and stupid thing that you did through weakness, through + surprise, perhaps in spite. Swear to me that you never will see him + again.” + </p> + <p> + He took her arm: + </p> + <p> + “Swear to me!” + </p> + <p> + She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He wrenched + her wrist. She exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “You hurt me!” + </p> + <p> + However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near the + brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper ornamented + with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the hotel, with + innumerable windows. + </p> + <p> + “Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take the + letter.” + </p> + <p> + And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and determined, + she said: + </p> + <p> + “I can not, I will not.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—do you wish to know?—because I love him.” + </p> + <p> + Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps he + would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by + sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die. + </p> + <p> + “Is what you say true? Is it possible?” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know? Can I say? Do I understand? Have I an idea, a sentiment, + about anything?” + </p> + <p> + With an effort she added: + </p> + <p> + “Am I at this moment aware of anything except my sadness and your + despair?” + </p> + <p> + “You love him, you love him! What is he, who is he, that you should love + him?” + </p> + <p> + His surprise made him stupid; he was in an abyss of astonishment. But what + she had said separated them. He dared not complain. He only repeated: + </p> + <p> + “You love him, you love him! But what has he done to you, what has he + said, to make you love him? I know you. I have not told you every time + your ideas shocked me. I would wager he is not even a man in society. And + you believe he loves you? You believe it? Well, you are deceiving + yourself. He does not love you. You flatter him, simply. He will quit you + at the first opportunity. When he shall have compromised you, he will + abandon you. Next year people will say of you: ‘She is not at all + exclusive.’ I am sorry for your father; he is one of my friends, and will + know of your behavior. You can not expect to deceive him.” + </p> + <p> + She listened, humiliated but consoled, thinking how she would have + suffered had she found him generous. + </p> + <p> + In his simplicity he sincerely disdained her. This disdain relieved him. + </p> + <p> + “How did the thing happen? You can tell me.” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders with so much pity that he dared not continue. + He became contemptuous again. + </p> + <p> + “Do you imagine that I shall aid you in saving appearances, that I shall + return to your house, that I shall continue to call on your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you will continue to do what a gentleman should. I ask nothing of + you. I should have liked to preserve of you the reminiscence of an + excellent friend. I thought you might be indulgent and kind to, me, but it + is not possible. I see that lovers never separate kindly. Later, you will + judge me better. Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her. Now his face expressed more pain than anger. She never + had seen his eyes so dry and so black. It seemed as if he had grown old in + an hour. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to tell you in advance. It will be impossible for me to see you + again. You are not a woman whom one may meet after one has been loved by + her. You are not like others. You have a poison of your own, which you + have given to me, and which I feel in me, in my veins. Why have I known + you?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him kindly. + </p> + <p> + “Farewell! Say to yourself that I am not worthy of being regretted so + much.” + </p> + <p> + Then, when he saw that she placed her hand on the latch of the door, when + he felt at that gesture that he was to lose her, that he should never have + her again, he shouted. He forgot everything. There remained in him only + the dazed feeling of a great misfortune accomplished, of an irreparable + calamity. And from the depth of his stupor a desire ascended. He desired + to possess again the woman who was leaving him and who would never return. + He drew her to him. He desired her, with all the strength of his animal + nature. She resisted with all the force of her will, which was free and on + the alert. She disengaged herself, crumpled, torn, without even having + been afraid. + </p> + <p> + He understood that everything was useless; he realized she was no longer + for him, because she belonged to another. As his suffering returned, he + pushed her out of the door. + </p> + <p> + She remained a moment in the corridor, proudly waiting for a word. + </p> + <p> + But he shouted again, “Go!” and shut the door violently. + </p> + <p> + On the Via Alfieri, she saw again the pavilion in the rear of the + courtyard where pale grasses grew. She found it silent and tranquil, + faithful, with its goats and nymphs, to the lovers of the time of the + Grand Duchess Eliza. She felt at once freed from the painful, brutal + world, and transported to ages wherein she had not known the sadness of + life. At the foot of the stairs, the steps of which were covered with + roses, Dechartre was waiting. She threw herself in his arms. He carried + her inert, like a precious trophy before which he had become pallid and + trembling. She enjoyed, her eyelids half closed, the superb humiliation of + being a beautiful prey. Her fatigue, her sadness, her disgust with the + day, the reminiscence of violence, her regained liberty, the need of + forgetting, remains of fright, everything vivified, awakened her + tenderness. She threw her arms around the neck of her lover. + </p> + <p> + They were as gay as children. They laughed, said tender nothings, played, + ate lemons, oranges, and other fruits piled up near-them on painted + plates. Her lips, half-open, showed her brilliant teeth. She asked, with + coquettish anxiety, if he were not disillusioned after the beautiful dream + he had made of her. + </p> + <p> + In the caressing light of the day, for the enjoyment of which he had + arranged, he contemplated her with youthful joy. He lavished praise and + kisses upon her. They forgot themselves in caresses, in friendly quarrels, + in happy glances. + </p> + <p> + He asked her how a little red mark on her temple had come there. She + replied that she had forgotten; that it was nothing. She hardly lied; she + had really forgotten. + </p> + <p> + They recalled to each other their short but beautiful history, all their + life, which began upon the day when they had met. + </p> + <p> + “You know, on the terrace, the day after your arrival, you said vague + things to me. I guessed that you loved me.” + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid to seem stupid to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You were, a little. It was my triumph. It made me impatient to see you so + little troubled near me. I loved you before you loved me. Oh, I do not + blush for it!” + </p> + <p> + He gave her a glass of Asti. But there was a bottle of Trasimene. She + wished to taste it, in memory of the lake which she had seen silent and + beautiful at night in its opal cup. That was when she had first visited + Italy, six years before. + </p> + <p> + He chided her for having discovered the beauty of things without his aid. + </p> + <p> + She said: + </p> + <p> + “Without you, I did not know how to see anything. Why did you not come to + me before?” + </p> + <p> + He closed her lips with a kiss. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I love you! Yes, I never have loved any one but you!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. A MEETING AT THE STATION + </h2> + <p> + Le Menil had written: “I leave tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Meet me + at the station.” + </p> + <p> + She had gone to meet him. She saw him in long coat and cape, precise and + calm, in front of the hotel stages. He said only: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you have come.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my friend, you called me.” + </p> + <p> + He did not confess that he had written in the absurd hope that she would + love him again and that the rest would be forgotten, or that she would say + to him: “It was only a trial of your love.” + </p> + <p> + If she had said so he would have believed her, however. + </p> + <p> + Astonished because she did not speak, he said, dryly: + </p> + <p> + “What have you to say to me? It is not for me to speak, but for you. I + have no explanations to give you. I have not to justify a betrayal.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, do not be cruel, do not be ungrateful. This is what I had to + say to you. And I must repeat that I leave you with the sadness of a real + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all? Go and say this to the other man. It will interest him more + than it interests me.” + </p> + <p> + “You called me, and I came; do not make me regret it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to have disturbed you. You could doubtless find a better + employment for your time. I will not detain you. Rejoin him, since you are + longing to do so.” + </p> + <p> + At the thought that his unhappy words expressed a moment of eternal human + pain, and that tragedy had illustrated many similar griefs, she felt all + the sadness and irony of the situation, which a curl of her lips betrayed. + He thought she was laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Do not laugh; listen to me. The other day, at the hotel, I wanted to kill + you. I came so near doing it that now I know what I escaped. I will not do + it. You may rest secure. What would be the use? As I wish to keep up + appearances, I shall call on you in Paris. It will grieve me to learn that + you can not receive me. I shall see your husband, I shall see your father + also. It will be to say good-by to them, as I intend to go on a long + voyage. Farewell, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + At the moment when he turned his back to her, Therese saw Miss Bell and + Prince Albertinelli coming out of the freight-station toward her. The + Prince was very handsome. Vivian was walking by his side with the + lightness of chaste joy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! The Prince, and I + have seen, at the customhouse, the new bell, which has just come.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the bell has come?” + </p> + <p> + “It is here, darling, the Ghiberti bell. I saw it in its wooden cage. It + did not ring, because it was a prisoner. But it will have a campanile in + my Fiesole house. + </p> + <p> + “When it feels the air of Florence, it will be happy to let its silvery + voice be heard. Visited by the doves, it will ring for all our joys and + all our sufferings. It will ring for you, for me, for the Prince, for good + Madame Marmet, for Monsieur Choulette, for all our friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, bells never ring for real joys and for real sufferings. Bells are + honest functionaries, who know only official sentiments.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, you are much mistaken. Bells know the secrets of souls; they + know everything. But I am very glad to find you here. I know, my love, why + you came to the station. Your maid betrayed you. She told me you were + waiting for a pink gown which was delayed in coming and that you were very + impatient. But do not let that trouble you. You are always beautiful, my + love.” + </p> + <p> + She made Madame Martin enter her wagon. + </p> + <p> + “Come, quick, darling; Monsieur Jacques Dechartre dines at the house + to-night, and I should not like to make him wait.” + </p> + <p> + And while they were driving through the silence of the night, through the + pathways full of the fresh perfume of wildflowers, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you see over there, darling, the black distaffs of the Fates, the + cypresses of the cemetery? It is there I wish to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + But Therese thought anxiously: “They saw him. Did they recognize him? I + think not. The place was dark, and had only little blinding lights. Did + she know him? I do not recall whether she saw him at my house last year.” + </p> + <p> + What made her anxious was a sly smile on the Prince’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, do you wish a place near me in that rustic cemetery? Shall we + rest side by side under a little earth and a great deal of sky? But I do + wrong to extend to you an invitation which you can not accept. It will not + be permitted to you to sleep your eternal sleep at the foot of the hill of + Fiesole, my love. You must rest in Paris, in a handsome tomb, by the side + of Count Martin-Belleme.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Do you think, dear, that the wife must be united to her husband even + after death?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly she must, darling. Marriage is for time and for eternity. Do + you not know the history of a young pair who loved each other in the + province of Auvergne? They died almost at the same time, and were placed + in two tombs separated by a road. But every night a sweetbrier bush threw + from one tomb to the other its flowery branches. The two coffins had to be + buried together.” + </p> + <p> + When they had passed the Badia, they saw a procession coming up the side + of the hill. The wind blew on the candles borne in gilded wooden + candlesticks. The girls of the societies, dressed in white and blue, + carried painted banners. Then came a little St. John, blond, curly-haired, + nude, under a lamb’s fleece which showed his arms and shoulders; and a St. + Mary Magdalene, seven years old, crowned only with her waving golden hair. + The people of Fiesole followed. Countess Martin recognized Choulette among + them. With a candle in one hand, a book in the other, and blue spectacles + on the end of his nose, he was singing. His unkempt beard moved up and + down with the rhythm of the song. In the harshness of light and shade that + worked in his face, he had an air that suggested a solitary monk capable + of accomplishing a century of penance. + </p> + <p> + “How amusing he is!” said Therese. “He is making a spectacle of himself + for himself. He is a great artist.” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious man? + Why? There is much joy and much beauty in faith. Poets know this. If + Monsieur Choulette had not faith, he could not write the admirable verses + that he does.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, dear, have you faith?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I believe in God and in the word of Christ.” + </p> + <p> + Now the banners and the white veils had disappeared down the road. But one + could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle + reflected in rays of gold. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden. Therese found him + resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first + sufferings of love. While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix upon + a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under the + trees. + </p> + <p> + “You promised me that you would be in the garden when I came. I have been + waiting for you an hour, which seemed eternal. You were not to go out. + Your absence has surprised and grieved me.” + </p> + <p> + She replied vaguely that she had been compelled to go to the station, and + that Miss Bell had brought her back in the wagon. + </p> + <p> + He begged her pardon for his anxiety, but everything alarmed him. His + happiness made him afraid. + </p> + <p> + They were already at table when Choulette appeared, with the face of an + antique satyr. A terrible joy shone in his phosphorous eyes. Since his + return from Assisi, he lived only among paupers, drank chianti all day + with girls and artisans to whom he taught the beauty of joy and innocence, + the advent of Jesus Christ, and the imminent abolition of taxes and + military service. At the beginning of the procession he had gathered + vagabonds in the ruins of the Roman theatre, and had delivered to them in + a macaronic language, half French and half Tuscan, a sermon, which he took + pleasure in repeating: + </p> + <p> + “Kings, senators, and judges have said: ‘The life of nations is in us.’ + Well, they lie; and they are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle.’ + </p> + <p> + “The life of nations is in the crops of the fields yellowing under the eye + of the Lord. It is in the vines, and in the smiles and tears with which + the sky bathes the fruits on the trees. + </p> + <p> + “The life of nations is not in the laws, which were made by the rich and + powerful for the preservation of riches and power. + </p> + <p> + “The chiefs of kingdoms and of republics have said in their books that the + right of peoples is the right of war, and they have glorified violence. + And they render honors unto conquerors, and they raise in the public + squares statues to the victorious man and horse. But one has not the right + to kill; that is the reason why the just man will not draw from the urn a + number that will send him to the war. The right is not to pamper the folly + and crimes of a prince raised over a kingdom or over a republic; and that + is the reason why the just man will not pay taxes and will not give money + to the publicans. He will enjoy in peace the fruit of his work, and he + will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and he will eat the + fruits of the trees that he has cut.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Monsieur Choulette,” said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, “you are + right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which taxes + exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three per + cent. of its net income? The master and the servants are the prey of the + publicans.” + </p> + <p> + Dechartre and Madame Martin were struck by the unexpected sincerity of his + accent. + </p> + <p> + He added: + </p> + <p> + “I like the King. I am sure of my loyalty, but the misfortunes of the + peasants move me.” + </p> + <p> + The truth was, he pursued with obstinacy a single aim: to reestablish the + domain of Casentino that his father, Prince Carlo, an officer of Victor + Emmanuel, had left devoured by usurers. His affected gentleness concealed + his stubbornness. He had only useful vices. It was to become a great + Tuscan landowner that he had dealt in pictures, sold the famous ceilings + of his palace, made love to rich old women, and, finally, sought the hand + of Miss Bell, whom he knew to be skilful at earning money and practised in + the art of housekeeping. He really liked peasants. The ardent praises of + Choulette, which he understood vaguely, awakened this affection in him. He + forgot himself enough to express his mind: + </p> + <p> + “In a country where master and servants form one family, the fate of the + one depends on that of the others. Taxes despoil us. How good are our + farmers! They are the best men in the world to till the soil.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin confessed that she should not have believed it. The country + of Lombardy alone seemed to her to be well cultivated. Tuscany appeared a + beautiful, wild orchard. + </p> + <p> + The Prince replied, smilingly, that perhaps she would not speak in that + way if she had done him the honor of visiting his farms of Casentino, + although these had suffered from long and ruinous lawsuits. She would have + seen there what an Italian landscape really is. + </p> + <p> + “I take a great deal of care of my domain. I was coming from it to-night + when I had the double pleasure of finding at the station Miss Bell, who + had gone there to find her Ghiberti bell, and you, Madame, who were + talking with a friend from Paris.” + </p> + <p> + He had the idea that it would be disagreeable to her to hear him speak of + that meeting. He looked around the table, and saw the expression of + anxious surprise which Dechartre could not restrain. He insisted: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive, Madame, in a rustic, a certain pretension to knowing something + about the world. In the man who was talking to you I recognized a + Parisian, because he had an English air; and while he affected stiffness, + he showed perfect ease and particular vivacity.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Therese, negligently, “I have not seen him for a long time. I + was much surprised to meet him at Florence at the moment of his + departure.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at Dechartre, who affected not to listen. + </p> + <p> + “I know that gentleman,” said Miss Bell. “It is Monsieur Le Menil. I dined + with him twice at Madame Martin’s, and he talked to me very well. He said + he liked football; that he introduced the game in France, and that now + football is quite the fashion. He also related to me his hunting + adventures. He likes animals. I have observed that hunters like animals. I + assure you, darling, that Monsieur Le Menil talks admirably about hares. + He knows their habits. He said to me it was a pleasure to look at them + dancing in the moonlight on the plains. He assured me that they were very + intelligent, and that he had seen an old hare, pursued by dogs, force + another hare to get out of the trail so as to deceive the hunters. + Darling, did Monsieur Le Menil ever talk to you about hares?” + </p> + <p> + Therese replied she did not know, and that she thought hunters were + tiresome. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell exclaimed. She did not think M. Le Menil was ever tiresome when + talking of the hares that danced in the moonlight on the plains and among + the vines. She would like to raise a hare, like Phanion. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, you do not know Phanion. Oh, I am sure that Monsieur Dechartre + knows her. She was beautiful, and dear to poets. She lived in the Island + of Cos, beside a dell which, covered with lemon-trees, descended to the + blue sea. And they say that she looked at the blue waves. I related + Phanion’s history to Monsieur Le Menil, and he was very glad to hear it. + She had received from some hunter a little hare with long ears. She held + it on her knees and fed it on spring flowers. It loved Phanion and forgot + its mother. It died before having eaten too many flowers. Phanion lamented + over its loss. She buried it in the lemon-grove, in a grave which she + could see from her bed. And the shade of the little hare was consoled by + the songs of the poets.” + </p> + <p> + The good Madame Marmet said that M. Le Menil pleased by his elegant and + discreet manners, which young men no longer practise. She would have liked + to see him. She wanted him to do something for her. + </p> + <p> + “Or, rather, for my nephew,” she said. “He is a captain in the artillery, + and his chiefs like him. His colonel was for a long time under orders of + Monsieur Le Menil’s uncle, General La Briche. If Monsieur Le Menil would + ask his uncle to write to Colonel Faure in favor of my nephew I should be + grateful to him. My nephew is not a stranger to Monsieur Le Menil. They + met last year at the masked ball which Captain de Lassay gave at the hotel + at Caen.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marmet cast down her eyes and added: + </p> + <p> + “The invited guests, naturally, were not society women. But it is said + some of them were very pretty. They came from Paris. My nephew, who gave + these details to me, was dressed as a coachman. Monsieur Le Menil was + dressed as a Hussar of Death, and he had much success.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell said that she was sorry not to have known that M. Le Menil was + in Florence. Certainly, she should have invited him to come to Fiesole. + </p> + <p> + Dechartre remained sombre and distant during the rest of the dinner: and + when, at the moment of leaving, Therese extended her hand to him, she felt + that he avoided pressing it in his. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 3. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. “ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS IN LOVE” + </h2> + <p> + The next day, in the hidden pavilion of the Via Alfieri, she found him + preoccupied. She tried to distract him with ardent gayety, with the + sweetness of pressing intimacy, with superb humility. But he remained + sombre. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then, as he replied only in sentences sad and evasive, she said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of what are you thinking?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She thought she must tell an untruth. + </p> + <p> + “You mean some one whom I met at the station yesterday? I assure you it + was the most ordinary meeting in the world.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She replied resolutely: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman can not be jealous in the same manner as a man, nor feel what + makes us suffer.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know that. Why can not she?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My love, you are absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She knelt before him, took his hands, and drew him to her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her forehead. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, common-sense, common wisdom!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Repeat it all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish me to say it to you: ‘Kissed lips do not lose their freshness.’” + </p> + <p> + And he added: + </p> + <p> + “It is true that love preserves beauty, and that the beauty of women is + fed on caresses as bees are fed on flowers.” + </p> + <p> + She placed on his lips a pledge in a kiss. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + But he still remembered the letter dropped in the post-box, and the + unknown person met at the station. + </p> + <p> + “If you loved me truly, you would love only me.” + </p> + <p> + She rose, indignant: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “True, I am insane.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She asked him why he was sad. + </p> + <p> + “You were happy a moment ago. Why are you not happy now?” + </p> + <p> + And as he shook his head and said nothing: + </p> + <p> + “Speak! I like your complaints better than your silence.” + </p> + <p> + Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “You wish to know? Do not be angry. I suffer now more than ever, because I + know now what you are capable of giving.” + </p> + <p> + She withdrew brusquely from his arms and, with eyes full of pain and + reproach, said: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Therese, one is never kind when one is in love.” + </p> + <p> + She remained for a long time immovable and dreamy. Her face flushed, and a + tear rose to her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Therese, you are weeping!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, my heart, it is the first time that I have loved and that I + have been really loved. I am afraid.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. CHOULETTE’S AMBITION + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have, then, to say farewell to you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And he added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell came down the steps, putting on her gloves: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But Choulette, whom the dryness of the Tuscan climate tired, regretted + green Umbria and its humid sky. He recalled Assisi. He said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The poet accepted this praise, persuaded that he had unwittingly deserved + it. + </p> + <p> + “You have faith, Monsieur Choulette,” said Therese. “Of what use is it to + you if not to write beautiful verses?” + </p> + <p> + “Faith serves me to commit sin, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we commit sins without that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell escorted her friends to the station in her carriage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. “WE ARE ROBBING LIFE” + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + They traversed the court where fiacres rolled away loaded with boxes. She + asked whether they were to take a carriage. + </p> + <p> + He made no answer. He seemed not to hear. She said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half-past + seven. We are mad.” + </p> + <p> + When they left the house, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Jacques, my darling, we are too happy; we are robbing life.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. IN DECHARTRE’S STUDIO + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You had not told me that one had lost all charm when one had no more + secrets.” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm around her waist. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He took her in his arms and, lifting her veil, kissed her on the lips. + </p> + <p> + A little frightened in that vast, unknown hall, embarrassed by the look of + strange things, she drew the black tulle to her chin. + </p> + <p> + “Here! You can not think of it.” + </p> + <p> + He said they were alone. + </p> + <p> + “Alone? And the man with terrible moustaches who opened the door?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, why has Monsieur Fusellier, a janitor, moustaches like a + Tartar?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Seated on the corner of the divan, he drew her to his knees and gave to + her kisses which she returned. + </p> + <p> + She rose quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Show me the other rooms. I am curious. I wish to see everything.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My poor mother’s room is like me,” said Jacques; “it remembers.” + </p> + <p> + “You resemble your mother,” said Therese; “you have her eyes. Paul Vence + told me she adored you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Therese looked at a bronze figure by Carpeaux, placed on the chiffonier. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It was to make you shine. I was already conceited for you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked around the room, and at the furniture with familiar tenderness. + He opened a drawer: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She is doing what Madame Mundanity does on the portal of the cathedral at + Basle.” + </p> + <p> + But Therese, who had been at Basle, did not know Madame Mundanity. She + looked at the figure again, did not understand, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Is it something very bad? How can a thing shown on the portal of a church + be so difficult to tell here?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly an anxiety came to her: + </p> + <p> + “What will Monsieur and Madame Fusellier think of me?” + </p> + <p> + Then, discovering on the wall a medallion wherein Dechartre had modelled + the profile of a girl, amusing and vicious: + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it looks very well in that corner. I am not jealous of Clara.” + </p> + <p> + It was time to return home, and she could not decide to go. She put her + arms around her lover’s neck. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. THE PRIMROSE PATH + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I like the water,” said Therese. “How happy I am!” + </p> + <p> + Their lips met. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It is true I was made for love. I love myself because you love me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She exclaimed, joyfully: + </p> + <p> + “I never shall be forsaken?” + </p> + <p> + She asked why he did not make her bust, since he thought her beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him astonished. + </p> + <p> + He continued: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, is that the way in which you see me? Is that the way in which you + love me?” + </p> + <p> + He closed the album. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He added, with a sort of gayety: + </p> + <p> + “In that sense one may say one woman never belonged to two men. That is + one of Paul Vence’s ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is true,” said Therese. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then she fell into a dream. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands and looked at him with a sadness infinitely tender. + But he, more sombre, said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She asked him what those ideas were. + </p> + <p> + He replied: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. NEWS OF LE MENIL + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + She stopped; a veil came over her eyes. She thought: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She read further. And seeing that he was full of jealousy, she felt + discouraged. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately,” said Madame Raymond, seated on the box by Montessuy’s + side, “old costumes are dying out. The fault is with the railways.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter?” replied Madame Raymond. “We could imagine them.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” asked the Princess Seniavine, “do you ever see interesting things? + I never do.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Without looking at Madame Berthier-d’Eyzelles, seated at her right, the + Countess Martin murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, people see only their ideas; they follow only their ideas. They + go along, blind and deaf. One can not stop them.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the Guerric?” asked the Princess Seniavine. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Montessuy, “it is the Guerric.” + </p> + <p> + And, addressing Therese: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The thought that you belong to another burns me. And then, I did not wish + that man to be the one.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. JEALOUSY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “That is enough for to-day.” + </p> + <p> + She rose, picked up awkwardly her clothing, a handful of dark wool and + soiled linen, and went to dress behind the screen. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They passed under the tree which studded the sand of the courtyard with + the shells of its flayed bark. She said: + </p> + <p> + “You have no more faith, have you?” + </p> + <p> + He led her to his room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the room where everything spoke of her, where the furniture, the + curtains, and the carpets told of their love, she murmured soft words: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But before?” + </p> + <p> + “Before, I was waiting for you.” + </p> + <p> + “And he did not attend the races at Dinard?” + </p> + <p> + She did not think he had, and it was very certain she did not attend them + herself. Horses and horsey men bored her. + </p> + <p> + “Jacques, fear no one, since you are not comparable to any one.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Therese said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Why are you not conceited?” + </p> + <p> + She added few words, but she spoke with her eyes, her arms, the breath + that made her bosom rise. + </p> + <p> + In the happy surprise of seeing and hearing her, he permitted himself to + be convinced. + </p> + <p> + She asked who had said so odious a thing. + </p> + <p> + He had no reason to conceal his name from her. It was Daniel Salomon. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + For fear of disquieting him, she turned to other thoughts: + </p> + <p> + “I have not told you how much I like your sketch. It is Florence on the + Arno. Then it is we?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is true,” he said, “that Paris is good to us in its confused + immensity.” + </p> + <p> + And he added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She asked: + </p> + <p> + “The Arabian Nights-does that amuse you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She said, with a little bitterness: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My husband expects you to breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So,” he said, “I was, in a fashion, a Moses.” + </p> + <p> + He fumbled in his pocket and drew from a book a letter, worn and spotted. + </p> + <p> + “This is what Madame Raymond, the Academician’s wife, writes me. I publish + what she says, because it is creditable to her.” + </p> + <p> + And, unfolding the thin leaves, he read: + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + Choulette relished these phrases, mingled in his mouth with the perfume of + whiskey, and replaced carefully the letter in its book. + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin congratulated the poet on being Madame Raymond’s candidate. + </p> + <p> + “You should be mine, Monsieur Choulette, if I were interested in Academic + elections. But does the Institute excite your envy?” + </p> + <p> + He kept for a few moments a solemn silence, then: + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his stick and pointed toward Neuilly: + </p> + <p> + “Dechartre, my friend, do you not think the Bineau Boulevard is the dusty + one over there, at the right?” + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, Monsieur Choulette,” said Therese. “Remember me when you are a + senator.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And he went erect, and dragging his leg, along the populous avenue. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. A LETTER FROM ROBERT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This green geometry is beautiful,” said Dechartre. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is the Joinville crown,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She pointed to a pathway which, starting from the basin, lost itself in + the fields, in the direction of the rising sun. + </p> + <p> + “This is my pathway. How often I walked in it sadly! I was sad when I did + not know you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then she said to Dechartre, who was looking at her silently: + </p> + <p> + “That is amazing! I understand now why the Princess Seniavine, this + winter, asked my father to advise her about buying horses.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Therese exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “I have hardly time to dress for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + And she passed swiftly between the stone lions, leaving her lover under + the impression of a fairy-tale vision. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Princess asked whether she found what she was reading amusing. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. I was reading and thinking. Paul Vence is right: ‘We find + only ourselves in books.’” + </p> + <p> + Through the hangings came from the billiard-room the voices of the players + and the click of the balls. + </p> + <p> + “I have it!” exclaimed the Princess, throwing down the cards. + </p> + <p> + She had wagered a big sum on a horse which was running that day at the + Chantilly races. + </p> + <p> + Therese said she had received a letter from Fiesole. Miss Bell announced + her forthcoming marriage with Prince Eusebia Albertinelli della Spina. + </p> + <p> + The Princess laughed: + </p> + <p> + “There’s a man who will render a service to her.” + </p> + <p> + “What service?” asked Therese. + </p> + <p> + “He will disgust her with men, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Montessuy came into the parlor joyfully. He had won the game. + </p> + <p> + He sat beside Berthier-d’Eyzelles, and, taking a newspaper from the sofa, + said: + </p> + <p> + “The Minister of Finance announces that he will propose, when the Chamber + reassembles, his savings-bank bill.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Berthier,” asked the financier, “are you resolutely hostile to that + bill?” + </p> + <p> + Berthier nodded. + </p> + <p> + Montessuy rose, placed his hand on the Deputy’s shoulder, and said: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Berthier, I have an idea that the Cabinet will fall at the + beginning of the session.” + </p> + <p> + He approached his daughter. + </p> + <p> + “I have received an odd letter from Le Menil.” + </p> + <p> + Therese rose and closed the door that separated the parlor from the + billiard-room. + </p> + <p> + She was afraid of draughts, she said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. AN UNWELCOME APPARITION + </h2> + <p> + A pale winter sun piercing the mists of the Seine, illuminated the dogs + painted by Oudry on the doors of the dining room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had returned to Paris with Count Martin at the opening of the + parliamentary session, and since that moment had led an enchanted life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He was uneasy. He saw himself surrounded by as many snares as those which + he had laid. Even his collaborators became hostile to him. + </p> + <p> + Count Martin wished the new ministry to satisfy the aspirations of the new + men. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles kept silence. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Garain, who was not cynical, made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Garain, do you not yet know,” asked Count Martin, “whether with the + Premiership you are to take the Seals or the Interior?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles, calm and grave, caressed his handsome white beard. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is evident,” said Count Martin, “that we must be sure of a majority.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles, to whom Garain offered Commerce and + Agriculture, reserved his decision. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not think,” asked Count Martin, “that the President might object + to some names?” + </p> + <p> + “The President,” replied Garain, “will be inspired by the necessities of + the situation.” + </p> + <p> + He had already gone out of the door when he struck his forehead with his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “We have forgotten the Ministry of War.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall easily find somebody for it among the generals,” said Count + Martin. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then she thought: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She recognized Robert Le Menil, who, having followed her from the quay, + was stopping her at the most quiet and secure place. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I must speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + She slackened her pace. He walked by her side. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She made a sign that she knew. + </p> + <p> + He continued: + </p> + <p> + “The Rosebud, a beautiful yacht. There were six men in the crew. I + manoeuvred with them. It was a pastime.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He continued: + </p> + <p> + “What I suffered on that boat I should be ashamed to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + She felt he spoke the truth. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. He insisted. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “My friend, I never had reason to complain of you.” + </p> + <p> + He continued: + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + He continued, with a sigh: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She extended her hand to him. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you. I knew I should not regret the trust I have placed in you.” + </p> + <p> + Alarmed, impatient, fearing what more he might say, she tried to escape + him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped her with a look. His face had changed to the violent and + resolute expression which she knew. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you I must speak to you. Listen to me for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He said: + </p> + <p> + “I forgive you and forget everything. Take me back. I will promise never + to say a word of the past.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered, and made a movement of surprise and distaste so natural + that he stopped. Then, after a moment of reflection: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be wrong to deceive you. I can not, I will not do what you say; + and you know the reason why.” + </p> + <p> + A cab was passing slowly near them. She made a sign to the coachman to + stop. Le Menil kept her a moment longer. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you would say this to me, and that is the reason why I say to you, + do not reply at once.” + </p> + <p> + Her fingers on the handle of the door, she turned on him the glance of her + gray eyes. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Listen; I can not live without you. I love you. It is now that I love + you. Formerly I did not know.” + </p> + <p> + And while she gave to the coachman, haphazard, the address of a tailor, Le + Menil went away. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “To the Ternes.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. THE RED LILY + </h2> + <p> + 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 Berthier d’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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will do as you do, my old comrade, I will go and plant cabbages in + Touraine.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true, it is very true,” sighed General de La Briche, with tears in + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Montessuy passed before them; Lariviere extended his hand to him. + </p> + <p> + “They say, Montessuy, that you are the one who checked Garain. Accept my + compliments.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “See, Lariviere, in that box at the right, a very beautiful woman, a + brunette.” + </p> + <p> + And he took his seat quietly, relishing the sweets of power. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the movement and the noise of the kermess she said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell them,” said Therese, “that I have of Fiesole a delightful + reminiscence, which I shall always keep.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And Miss Bell said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Therese replied M. Jacques Dechartre was doubtless in the theatre, and + that he would not fail to come and salute Miss Bell. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “They say your husband is appointed Minister. Is it true?” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Sensitive to literal truths only, Schmoll said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Were you in Italy this year, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + And, without giving her time to answer: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And he went through the crowd of visitors, crushing hats as he passed. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you not think Madame Martin is extraordinarily beautiful this year?” + </p> + <p> + In the lobby, full of light and gold, General de La Briche asked + Lariviere: + </p> + <p> + “Did you see my nephew?” + </p> + <p> + “Your nephew, Le Menil?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Robert. He was in the theatre a moment ago.” + </p> + <p> + La Briche remained pensive for a moment. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had + hushed. In the foyer the two old men were walking alone. + </p> + <p> + “An aim in life,” repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his + companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a + scene. + </p> + <p> + Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had + finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I come from the Elysee,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He had the gallantry to announce to Madame Martin, first, the good news he + was bringing: + </p> + <p> + “The decrees are signed. Your husband has the Finances. It is a good + portfolio.” + </p> + <p> + “The President of the Republic,” inquired M. Martin—Belleme, “made + no objection when my name was pronounced?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + On Count Martin’s yellowed face two or three wrinkles appeared. He was + smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And Loyer threw himself on a chair. There, enjoying the view of Madame + Martin, he continued: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Marguerite, looking at herself in the mirror, with her necklace and + earrings, was singing the jewel song. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Loyer shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Martin, we have nothing essential to change in the declaration of + the preceding Cabinet; the situation is unchanged.” + </p> + <p> + He struck his forehead with his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I had forgotten. We have made your friend, old Lariviere, Minister of + War, without consulting him. I have to warn him.” + </p> + <p> + He thought he could find him in the boulevard cafe, where military men go. + But Count Martin knew the General was in the theatre. + </p> + <p> + “I must find him,” said Loyer. + </p> + <p> + Bowing to Therese, he said: + </p> + <p> + “You permit me, Countess, to take your husband?” + </p> + <p> + They had just gone out when Jacques Dechartre and Paul Vence came into the + box. + </p> + <p> + “I congratulate you, Madame,” said Paul Vence. + </p> + <p> + But she turned toward Dechartre: + </p> + <p> + “I hope you have not come to congratulate me, too.” + </p> + <p> + Paul Vence asked her if she would move into the apartments of the + Ministry. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Changes in cabinets,” said Madame Martin, “inspire you, Monsieur Vence, + with very frivolous reflections.” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “But, Monsieur Vence,” said Madame Martin, laughingly, “you are the man + who wrote that. I read it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She held in her hand a gilt pasteboard cup. When they were near her, they + heard her say to the General: + </p> + <p> + “You are old, to be sure, but I think you do as much as he does.” + </p> + <p> + And she was pointing disdainfully to a grinning young man, with a gardenia + in his button-hole, who stood near them. + </p> + <p> + Loyer motioned to the General that he wished to speak to him, and, pushing + him against the bar, said: + </p> + <p> + “I have the pleasure to announce to you that you have been appointed + Minister of War.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Loyer is Keeper of the Seals,” said Count Martin. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear colleague, you exaggerate,” said Count Martin; “but Garain, + perhaps, is lacking a little in frankness. And the General’s support is + urgent.” + </p> + <p> + “The Fatherland before everything,” replied Lariviere with emotion. + </p> + <p> + “You know, General,” continued Loyer, “the existing laws are to be applied + with moderation.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at the two dancers who were extending their short and muscular + legs on the bar. + </p> + <p> + Lariviere murmured: + </p> + <p> + “The army’s patriotism is excellent; the good-will of the chiefs is at the + height of the most critical circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + Loyer tapped his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “My dear colleague, there is some use in having big armies.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe as you do,” replied Lariviere; “the present army fills the + superior necessities of national defence.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + General Lariviere winked. + </p> + <p> + “The situation,” he said, “exacts circumspection. We are facing a perilous + unknown.” + </p> + <p> + Then Loyer, looking at his war colleague with cynical contempt, said: + </p> + <p> + “In the very improbable case of a war, don’t you think, my dear colleague, + that the real generals would be the station-masters?” + </p> + <p> + The three Ministers went out by the private stairway. The President of the + Council was waiting for them. + </p> + <p> + The last act had begun; Madame Martin had in her box only Dechartre and + Miss Bell. Miss Bell was saying: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “My jeweller,” said Therese, “is here, and you have named him; it is + Monsieur Dechartre who designed this jewel.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Transmit, I pray you, Madame, my congratulations to your husband.” + </p> + <p> + He complimented her on her fine appearance. He spoke to Miss Bell a few + courteous and precise words. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur Le Menil,” said Miss Bell, “you have wandered on the blue + sea. Have you seen sirens?” + </p> + <p> + No, he had not seen sirens, but for three days a dolphin had swum in the + yacht’s wake. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bell asked him if that dolphin liked music. + </p> + <p> + He thought not. + </p> + <p> + “Dolphins,” he said, “are very ordinary fish that sailors call sea-geese, + because they have goose-shaped heads.” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Bell would not believe that the monster which had earned the poet + Arion had a goose-shaped head. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer the woods.” + </p> + <p> + Self-contained, simple, he talked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur Le Menil, I know you like woods where the hares dance in the + moonlight.” + </p> + <p> + Dechartre, pale, rose and went out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Therese did not hear. Her soul had followed Dechartre through the door of + her box. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Le Menil,” asked Miss Bell, “shall you go yachting next year?” + </p> + <p> + Le Menil thought not. He did not intend to keep the Rosebud. The water was + tiresome. + </p> + <p> + And calm, energetic, determined, he looked at Therese. + </p> + <p> + On the stage, in Marguerite’s prison, Mephistopheles sang, and the + orchestra imitated the gallop of horses. Therese murmured: + </p> + <p> + “I have a headache. It is too warm here.” + </p> + <p> + Le Menil opened the door. + </p> + <p> + The clear phrase of Marguerite calling the angels ascended to heaven in + white sparks. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You were waiting for me?” said Montessuy. “You are left alone to-day. I + will escort you and Miss Bell.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. A WHITE NIGHT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She pressed her heart with her hands; she was smothering. + </p> + <p> + Pauline uttered a cry. She saw drops of blood on the white corsage of her + mistress. + </p> + <p> + Therese, without knowing it, had pricked her hand with the red lily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had dismissed her maid. In her bed she thought of only one thing. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + M. Martin-Belleme half opened the bedroom door. Seeing a light he went in. + </p> + <p> + “You are not asleep, Therese?” + </p> + <p> + He had been at a conference with his colleagues. He wanted advice from his + wife on certain points. He needed to hear sincere words. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He consulted her on the choice of a Chief of Cabinet. + </p> + <p> + She advised him as best she could. She thought he was sensible, calm, and + not sillier than many others. + </p> + <p> + He lost himself in reflections. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if the people only knew the little that we can do when we are + powerful!” + </p> + <p> + He told her his impressions. Berthier was reserved. The others were + impenetrable. Loyer alone was excessively authoritative. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, a little astonished. + </p> + <p> + “There is no hurry, my dear. We shall see later.” + </p> + <p> + He was tired. He said good-night and advised her to sleep. She was ruining + her health by reading all night. He left her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She said to herself: “He, too, is suffering. He looked at me with so much + despair and anger.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And when silence returned, she fell again into her reverie. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. “I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU ALWAYS!” + </h2> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Jacques has not yet come home.” + </p> + <p> + “I will wait for him,” said Therese. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is the rain,” she said, “which causes the smoke.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Martin said it was not worth while to make a fire, that she did not + feel cold. + </p> + <p> + She saw herself in the glass. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Jacques will come soon. Let Madame warm herself while waiting + for him.” + </p> + <p> + A dim light fell with the rain on the glass ceiling. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He said to her: + </p> + <p> + “What do you want of me? You have done me all the harm you could do me.” + </p> + <p> + Fatigue gave him an air of gentleness. It frightened her. + </p> + <p> + “Jacques, listen to me!” + </p> + <p> + He motioned to her that he wished to hear nothing from her. + </p> + <p> + “Jacques, listen to me. I have not deceived you. Oh, no, I have not + deceived you. Was it possible? Was it—” + </p> + <p> + He interrupted her: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He replied slowly, with cruel heaviness: + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + She straightened herself, and with painful gravity said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She fell on her knees. + </p> + <p> + “I was wrong. I should have waited for you. But if you knew how slight a + matter that was in my life!” + </p> + <p> + And with her voice modulated to a soft and singing complaint she said: + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not come sooner, why?” + </p> + <p> + She dragged herself to him, tried to take his hands. He repelled her. + </p> + <p> + “I was stupid. I did not think. I did not know. I did not wish to know.” + </p> + <p> + He rose and exclaimed, in an explosion of hatred: + </p> + <p> + “I did not wish him to be that man.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He walked about the room madly. He laughed painfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but while you loved me, the other woman—the one who was not + you?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him indignantly: + </p> + <p> + “Can you believe—” + </p> + <p> + “Did you not see him again at Florence? Did you not accompany him to the + station?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My beloved, I see, I know, only you in the world.” He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe you.” + </p> + <p> + She revolted. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you everything. Accuse me, condemn me, but do not offend me + in my love for you.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She stood erect. + </p> + <p> + “I have come. It is my happiness, it is my life, I am fighting for. I will + not go.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe you.” + </p> + <p> + She only repeated her declarations. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly, instinctively, she looked at her watch: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it is noon!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do not forget, my dear friend, to call on Madame Berthier d’Eyzelles. You + know how sensitive she is.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He threw down his napkin. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + He went out. + </p> + <p> + She tried to eat, but could swallow nothing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She said to him: + </p> + <p> + “You see I have returned. I could not do otherwise. And then it was + natural, since I love you. And you know it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with sadness. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe you.” + </p> + <p> + And he added: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. + </p> + <p> + She said: + </p> + <p> + “You know very well that since then nothing has happened.” + </p> + <p> + He replied, with violence: + </p> + <p> + “Since then I have seen him.” + </p> + <p> + They remained silent for a long time. Then she said, surprised and + plaintive: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you can give. One can not forgive to you what one may forgive + to another.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my friend, I am like others.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you are not like others. To you one can not forgive anything.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He sighed: + </p> + <p> + “Why did I ever know you?” + </p> + <p> + She replied, weeping: + </p> + <p> + “I do not regret having known you. I am dying of it, and I do not regret + it. I have loved.” + </p> + <p> + He stubbornly continued to make her suffer. He felt that he was playing an + odious part, but he could not stop. + </p> + <p> + “It is possible, after all, that you have loved me too.” + </p> + <p> + She answered, with soft bitterness: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him without force and without courage. + </p> + <p> + “It is true that you do not believe me.” + </p> + <p> + She added softly: + </p> + <p> + “If I killed myself would you believe me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I would not believe you.” + </p> + <p> + She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief; then, lifting her eyes, + shining through her tears, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Then, all is at an end!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She repeated: + </p> + <p> + “Then all is at an end?” + </p> + <p> + He remained silent. + </p> + <p> + The twilight made the room dim. + </p> + <p> + “What will become of me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “And what will become of me?” he replied. + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other with sympathy, because each was moved with + self-pity. + </p> + <p> + Therese said again: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Her arms fell, and clasping her hands she lifted her eyes; her wet glance + threw a light in the shadows. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head sadly. “I do not know you.” + </p> + <p> + She questioned once more with her eyes all the objects in the room. + </p> + <p> + “But then, what we have been to each other was vain, useless. Men and + women break themselves against one another; they do not mingle.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly + A hero must be human. Napoleon was human + Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere + Brilliancy of a fortune too new + Curious to know her face of that day + Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared + Do you think that people have not talked about us? + Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality + Does one ever possess what one loves? + Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone + Each was moved with self-pity + Everybody knows about that + Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city + Gave value to her affability by not squandering it + He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions + He studied until the last moment + He is not intelligent enough to doubt + He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes + He knew now the divine malady of love + Her husband had become quite bearable + His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth + (Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder + I love myself because you love me + I can forget you only when I am with you + I wished to spoil our past + I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness + I have to pay for the happiness you give me + I gave myself to him because he loved me + I haven’t a taste, I have tastes + I have known things which I know no more + I do not desire your friendship + Ideas they think superior to love—faith, habits, interests + Immobility of time + Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself + Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object + It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him + It is an error to be in the right too soon + It was too late: she did not wish to win + Jealous without having the right to be jealous + Kisses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair + Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope + Laughing in every wrinkle of his face + Learn to live without desire + Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges + Life as a whole is too vast and too remote + Life is made up of just such trifles + Life is not a great thing + Little that we can do when we are powerful + Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty + Love was only a brief intoxication + Lovers never separate kindly + Made life give all it could yield + Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud + Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past + Nobody troubled himself about that originality + None but fools resisted the current + Not everything is known, but everything is said + Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain + One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars + One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel + One is never kind when one is in love + One should never leave the one whom one loves + Picturesquely ugly + Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open + Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her + Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill + She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it + She is happy, since she likes to remember + Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one + Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others + Since she was in love, she had lost prudence + So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice + Superior men sometimes lack cleverness + That sort of cold charity which is called altruism + That if we live the reason is that we hope + That absurd and generous fury for ownership + The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne + The door of one’s room opens on the infinite + The past is the only human reality—Everything that is, is past + The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you + The violent pleasure of losing + The discouragement which the irreparable gives + The real support of a government is the Opposition + The politician never should be in advance of circumstances + There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget + There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel + They are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle’ + To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form + Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know + Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies + Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life + Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? + We are too happy; we are robbing life + What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world + Whether they know or do not know, they talk + Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault + You must take me with my own soul! +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 3922-h.htm or 3922-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/2/3922/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Red Lily, Complete + +Author: Anatole France + +Last Updated: March 2, 2009 +Release Date: October 4, 2006 [EBook #3922] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE RED LILY + +By Anatole France + + + +The real name of the subject of this preface is Jacques-Anatole +Thibault. He was born in Paris, April 16, 1844, the son of a bookseller +of the Quai Malaquais, in the shadow of the Institute. He was educated +at the College Stanislas and published in 1868 an essay upon Alfred de +Vigny. This was followed by two volumes of poetry: 'Les Poemes Dores' +(1873), and 'Les Noces Corinthiennes' (1876). With the last mentioned +book his reputation became established. + +Anatole France belongs to the class of poets known as "Les Parnassiens." +Yet a book like 'Les Noces Corinthiennes' ought to be classified among +a group of earlier lyrics, inasmuch as it shows to a large degree the +influence of Andre Chenier and Alfred de Vigny. France was, and is, also +a diligent contributor to many journals and reviews, among others, 'Le +Globe, Les Debats, Le Journal Officiel, L'Echo de Paris, La Revue de +Famille, and Le Temps'. On the last mentioned journal he succeeded Jules +Claretie. He is likewise Librarian to the Senate, and has been a member +of the French Academy since 1896. + +The above mentioned two volumes of poetry were followed by many works in +prose, which we shall notice. France's critical writings are collected +in four volumes, under the title, 'La Vie Litteraire' (1888-1892); his +political articles in 'Opinions Sociales' (2 vols., 1902). He combines +in his style traces of Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, and Renan, and, +indeed, some of his novels, especially 'Thais' (1890), 'Jerome Coignard' +(1893), and Lys Rouge (1894), which was crowned by the Academy, are +romances of the first rank. + +Criticism appears to Anatole France the most recent and possibly the +ultimate evolution of literary expression, "admirably suited to a +highly civilized society, rich in souvenirs and old traditions.... It +proceeds," in his opinion, "from philosophy and history, and demands for +its development an absolute intellectual liberty..... It is the last in +date of all literary forms, and it will end by absorbing them all .... +To be perfectly frank the critic should say: 'Gentlemen, I propose to +enlarge upon my own thoughts concerning Shakespeare, Racine, Pascal, +Goethe, or any other writer.'" + +It is hardly necessary to say much concerning a critic with such +pronounced ideas as Anatole France. He gives us, indeed, the full flower +of critical Renanism, but so individualized as to become perfection in +grace, the extreme flowering of the Latin genius. It is not too much to +say that the critical writings of Anatole France recall the Causeries du +Lundi, the golden age of Sainte-Beuve! + +As a writer of fiction, Anatole France made his debut in 1879 with +'Jocaste', and 'Le Chat Maigre'. Success in this field was yet decidedly +doubtful when 'Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard' appeared in 1881. It at +once established his reputation; 'Sylvestre Bonnard', as 'Le Lys Rouge' +later, was crowned by the French Academy. These novels are replete with +fine irony, benevolent scepticism and piquant turns, and will survive +the greater part of romances now read in France. The list of Anatole +France's works in fiction is a large one. The titles of nearly all of +them, arranged in chronological order, are as follows: 'Les Desirs de +Jean Seyvien (1882); Abeille (1883); Le Livre de mon Ami (1885); Nos +Enfants (1886); Balthazar (1889); Thais (1890); L'Etui de Naire (1892); +Jerome Coignard, and La Rotisserie de la Reine Pedanque (1893); and +Histoire Contemporaine (1897-1900), the latter consisting of four +separate works: 'L'Orme du Mail, Le Mannequin d'Osier, L'Anneau +d'Amethyste, and Monsieur Bergeret a Paris'. All of his writings show +his delicately critical analysis of passion, at first playfully tender +in its irony, but later, under the influence of his critical antagonism +to Brunetiere, growing keener, stronger, and more bitter. In 'Thais' he +has undertaken to show the bond of sympathy that unites the pessimistic +sceptic to the Christian ascetic, since both despise the world. In 'Lys +Rouge', his greatest novel, he traces the perilously narrow line that +separates love from hate; in 'Opinions de M. l'Abbe Jerome Coignard' he +has given us the most radical breviary of scepticism that has appeared +since Montaigne. 'Le Livre de mon Ami' is mostly autobiographical; +'Clio' (1900) contains historical sketches. + +To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature +would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the +stature and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive +qualities: delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of +writers who are more read and probably will ever exercise greater +influence than some of greater name. The latter show us life as a whole; +but life as a whole is too vast and too remote to excite in most of +us more than a somewhat languid curiosity. France confines himself to +themes of the keenest personal interest, the life of the world we live +in. It is herein that he excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies +are many-sided, his power of exposition is unsurpassed. No one has +set before us the mind of our time, with its half-lights, its shadowy +vistas, its indefiniteness, its haze on the horizon, so vividly as he. + +In Octave Mirbeau's notorious novel, a novel which it would be +complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by +her director against the works of Anatole France, "Ne lisez jamais du +Voltaire... C'est un peche mortel... ni de Renan... ni de l'Anatole +France. Voila qui est dangereux." The names are appropriately united; a +real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession exists between the three +writers. + + JULES LEMAITRE + de l'Academie Francais + + + + +BOOK 1. + + + + +CHAPTER I. "I NEED LOVE" + +She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the +tea-table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of +flowers ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the +flowery branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls +quiver. Then she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention. +She held herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow +with her eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin +gown, around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein +sombre lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face +of that day. The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this +amiable woman whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her, +lived without either acute joy or profound sadness. + +On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures +of the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique +games and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender +columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke of +past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the marble +bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly +out of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night, +powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers. +Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light +rattle of Therese's pearls could be heard. + +Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw +through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine +spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water +was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the 'Hirondelle', +emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble travellers +toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let +the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book +from the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in +gold: 'Yseult la Blonde', by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French +verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read +indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry +than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable +friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their +meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her "darling," +and babbled; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly +exquisite, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated +her as her most beloved poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson, +she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without +even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in +Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French +poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent her 'Yseult la Blonde' +to "Darling," with a letter inviting her to spend a month with her at +Fiesole. She had written: "Come; you will see the most beautiful things +in the world, and you will embellish them." + +And "darling" was saying to herself that she would not go, that she +must remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not +indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by +chance at this line: + + Love and gentle heart are one. + +And she asked herself, with gentle irony, whether Miss Bell had ever +been in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell. +The poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was +very handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please +an aesthete who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an +Annunciation. + +"Good-evening, Therese. I am positively worn out." + +The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple in her furs, which almost +seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely, +and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing, said: + +"This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met +him in an alley and made him go with me to the bridge, where he wished +to buy from the guardian a learned magpie which performs the manual of +arms with a gun. Oh! I am so tired!" + +"But why did you drag the General to the bridge?" + +"Because he had gout in his toe." + +Therese shrugged her shoulders, smiling: + +"You squander your wickedness. You spoil things." + +"And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a +serious investment?" + +Therese made her drink some Tokay. + +Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere +approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking +stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face. + +"How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?" + +Therese thought he was at the Chamber, and even that he was making a +speech there. + +Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame +Martin why she had not gone to Madame Meillan's the day before. They had +played a comedy there. + +"A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?" + +"Yes--I don't know. I was in the little green room, under the portrait +of the Duc d'Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one of +those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur +Garain." + +The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful +information, pricked up his ears. + +"Garain," he asked, "the minister who was in the Cabinet when the +princes were exiled?" + +"Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the +yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness. +And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc +d'Orleans. I said to him: 'Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake. +It is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.' At this moment +Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet. He paid great +compliments--to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so beautiful +as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed me." + +The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the +day before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself and +his saddle. + +He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good +horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys. + +"It is the same with fencing," he added. "Formerly--" + +Princess Seniavine interrupted him: + +"General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always +charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because +she is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we +have been here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead +clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous. Behold a victim!" + +She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General +astonished. + +Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had +said. + +He collected himself and asked: + +"And how are your poets, Madame?" + +It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for +people who lived by writing and were not of his circle. + +"Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits +you wrapped in a red muffler?" + +"My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on +anybody. Men and women--nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal. +Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to me from +Florence and sent her book." + +"Miss Bell? Isn't she that young person who looks, with her yellow +waving hair, like a little lapdog?" + +He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least +thirty. + +An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a +little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly--Madame Marmet +and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a square +monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of elegance. +The General hurried out. + +They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often with +the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the book +tiresome. + +"Oh," sighed Madame Martin, "all books are tiresome. But men are more +tiresome than books, and they are more exacting." + +Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had +retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was the +widow of a member of the 'Academie des Inscriptions', and plumed herself +upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in her black +gown and her beautiful white hair. + +Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult him +particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children. + +"You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion, +Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain such trifles." + +M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with disdain. +Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room. + +"You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you have +only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty." + +She did not conceal her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She +regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She +had appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His +ill-health, his dark humor, his assiduous labor, separated him from +society. The little bilious man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted +her. She held in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his +talent ripened in solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an +excellent writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life. + +Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the +large circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told +frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered +scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old +Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries; +Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife +of the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against the +mantelpiece, M. Berthier d'Eyzelles, editor of the 'Journal des Debats', +a deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted +at him: + +"Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of +it." + +Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped +among themselves: + +"What did he do to get the button from the Prince?" + +"He, nothing. His wife, everything." + +They had their own cynical philosophy. One of them had no faith in +promises of men. + +"They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their +hands and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a club. +They say, 'I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster +ball--a snowball! They vote. It's a black ball. Life seems a vile affair +when I think of it." + +"Then don't think of it." + +Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy +stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning +Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added, +negligently: + +"Everybody knows it." + +Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame +Marmet and Paul Vence remained. + +The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked: + +"When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?" + +It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see +new faces. She replied, unconcernedly: + +"Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions +made by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an +amateur, is he not?" + +"He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He +caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about +him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did not +live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that he +is solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he lacks, what +he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity +of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions. +In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or +philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the +wealth of his mind." + +Madame Marmet approved. + +She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened +a great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her +affability by not squandering it. Either because she liked Madame +Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in +every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative, +in a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She +lacked only her dog. + +"How is Toby?" asked Madame Martin. "Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby? +He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose." + +Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink +and blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden +spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to +empty armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked nose +before Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly. + +It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions. He smiled +and turned a madrigal for the Countess Martin with that hereditary +harsh, coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their +creditors, the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea. He +dragged his phrases heavily. This great philologist knew all languages +except French. And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and +rusty like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried +leaves of anthology. M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit. + +Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning +his bow. + +When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre +and pitiful. He complained piteously. He was not decorated enough, not +provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State--he, +Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some +grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. + +Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he +discovered Vivian Bell's book. + +"Oh, 'Yseult La Blonde'," he exclaimed, bitterly. "You are reading that +book, Madame? Well, learn that Mademoiselle Vivian Bell has stolen an +inscription from me, and that she has altered it, moreover, by putting +it into verse. You will find it on page 109 of her book: 'A shade may +weep over a shade.' You hear, Madame? 'A shade may weep over a shade.' +Well, those words are translated literally from a funeral inscription +which I was the first to publish and to illustrate. Last year, one +day, when I was dining at your house, being placed by the side of +Mademoiselle Bell, I quoted this phrase to her, and it pleased her a +great deal. At her request, the next day I translated into French the +entire inscription and sent it to her. And now I find it changed in this +volume of verses under this title: 'On the Sacred Way'--the sacred way, +that is I." + +And he repeated, in his bad humor: + +"I, Madame, am the sacred way." + +He was annoyed that the poet had not spoken to him about this +inscription. He would have liked to see his name at the top of the poem, +in the verses, in the rhymes. He wished to see his name everywhere, +and always looked for it in the journals with which his pockets were +stuffed. But he had no rancor. He was not really angry with Miss Bell. +He admitted gracefully that she was a distinguished person, and a poet +that did great honor to England. + +When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if +he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such +marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know. + +"I never know anything," she said. + +"But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at +the death of Marmet. + +"The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling. We were wet and +frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read +under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, +which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An +indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it +possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious +quarrel? + +"The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique +study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else +knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost. +Schmoll said continually to Marmet: 'You do not know Etruscan, my dear +colleague; that is the reason why you are an honorable savant and +a fair-minded man.' Piqued by his ironic praise, Marmet thought of +learning a little Etruscan. He read to his colleague a memoir on the +part played by flexions in the idiom of the ancient Tuscans." + +Madame Martin asked what a flexion was. + +"Oh, Madame, if I explain anything to you, it will mix up everything. Be +content with knowing that in that memoir poor Marmet quoted Latin texts +and quoted them wrong. Schmoll is a Latinist of great learning, and, +after Mommsen, the chief epigraphist of the world. + +"He reproached his young colleague--Marmet was not fifty years old--with +reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time +Marmet had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, +finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without +rancor. It is a virtue of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those +whom he persecutes. One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute +with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him. +Marmet refused to take it, and said 'I do not know you.'--'Do you take +me for a Latin inscription?' Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried +because of that satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his +enemy with horror." + +"And I have made them dine together, side by side." + +"Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel." + +"My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I +should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one." + +A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed +with brusque suppleness. + +"Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil." + +They had met before at Madame Martin's, and saw each other often at the +Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan's. + +"Madame Meillan's--there's a house where one is bored," said Paul Vence. + +"Yet Academicians go there," said M. Robert Le Menil. "I do not +exaggerate their value, but they are the elite." + +Madame Martin smiled. + +"We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan's you are +preoccupied by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted +Princess Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves." + +"What wolves?" + +"Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty +a woman your conversation was rather savage!" + +Paul Vence rose. + +"So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has +a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you. There +is life in his mind. He is full of ideas." + +"Oh, I do not ask for so much," Madame Martin said. "People that are +natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes +they amuse me." + +When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps +had vanished; then, coming nearer: + +"To-morrow, at three o'clock? Do you still love me?" + +He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was +late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her +husband would come. + +He entreated. Then she said: + +"I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o'clock." + +He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other +side of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished +introduced to her. + +"I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me. +He is a sculptor." + +He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding: + +"A sculptor? They are usually brutal." + +"Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I +should meet him, I will not do so." + +"I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give +to me." + +"My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame +Meillan's yesterday." + +"You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a +house for you." + +He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure +which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored +intrigue. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended +on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, +looked at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown. +Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her +languid body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind. +She kept for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal +attraction the charm of things that art had created. + +He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze +in the ashes, she said: + +"We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd +districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where +misery dwells." + +He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he +thought it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and +he thought them dangerous. People might see them. + +"And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip--" + +She shook her head. + +"Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know +or do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is +said." + +She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for +some reason which she would not tell. He bent upon her beautiful, grave +eyes which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured him. + +"I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care? +Nothing matters." + +He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was +waiting for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy. +Then she began again to read in the ashes. + +She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had +passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where +slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and +the bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still +ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of +her imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears. +When she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is +not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary +thing. She should have known this. She thought: + +"I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed +of a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid +taste of life, and seemed to inhale the future like a salt and pungent +aroma. Why? What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned +enough of the sadness of everything?" + +She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was +a daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank, +founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them +the resources of a brilliant mind, invincible force of character, a rare +alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as +if he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of +Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father. +Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive and powerful +atheist, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable +things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and +precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women +of the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with +the brutality of his temperament and the shrewdness of his mind. + +Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished at Joinville, +delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which +held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter. +There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died +one night of sadness and exhaustion, never having loved anything +on earth except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue +Maubeuge. + +She never had had any intimacy with her daughter, whom she felt +instinctively too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart; +and she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong +Montessuy blood, the ardor which had made her suffer so much, and which +she forgave in her husband, but not in her daughter. + +But Montessuy recognized his daughter and loved her. Like most hearty, +full-blooded men, he had hours of charming gayety. Although he lived out +of his house a great deal, he breakfasted with her almost every day, and +sometimes took her out walking. He understood gowns and furbelows. He +instructed and formed Therese. He amused her. Near her, his instinct for +conquest inspired him still. He desired to win always, and he won his +daughter. He separated her from her mother. Therese admired him, she +adored him. + +In her dream she saw him as the unique joy of her childhood. She was +persuaded that no man in the world was as amiable as her father. + +At her entrance in life, she despaired at once of finding elsewhere +so rich a nature, such a plenitude of active and thinking forces. This +discouragement had followed her in the choice of a husband, and perhaps +later in a secret and freer choice. + +She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had +permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower, +embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and +well. He considered the exterior advantages, estimated the eighty years +of imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came to +him that she might wish to find love in marriage. + +He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of +the luxurious desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a +display of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which +were for him all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject +of the happiness of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter +would remain virtuous. + +While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded +so badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled +with melancholy irony. And she admired her father the more. + +After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as any +other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in the +ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences, +that of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated +traits of it, some absurd images, a fleeting and fastidious impression. +The time had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years had +passed, and she did not even remember how she had regained her liberty, +so prompt and easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold, sickly, +selfish, and polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by business and +politics, laborious, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked women only +through vanity, and he never had loved his wife. The separation had been +frank and complete. And since then, strangers to each other, they felt +a tacit, mutual gratitude for their freedom. She would have had some +affection for him if she had not found him hypocritical and too +subtle in the art of obtaining her signature when he needed money for +enterprises that were more for ostentation than real benefit. The man +with whom she dined and talked every day had no significance for her. + +With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned +a sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so +precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented +to her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and +dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories. +His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three +generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had +loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance, and +his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary +term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin. +The homage of this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with +pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused her. +She let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic +frivolity, to finish worthily his happy life by the subjugation of this +young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who evidently +admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned stratagems. +But she escaped him very easily. + +She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her +ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of +his mind. She said to herself: "I gave myself to him because he loved +me." It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful +instinct had impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of +her being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened her +nature at last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity of his +sentiment. She had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved. +She had given herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded +easily. He was mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the +irreparable gives, and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly +something to conceal. Everything that had been whispered before +her about other women resounded in her burning ears. But, proud and +delicate, she took care to hide the value of the gift she was making. He +never suspected her moral uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and +was replaced by perfect tranquillity. After three years she defended her +conduct as innocent and natural. + +Having done harm to no one, she had no regrets. She was content. She was +in love, she was loved. Doubtless she had not felt the intoxication she +had expected, but does one ever feel it? She was the friend of the good +and honest fellow, much liked by women who passed for disdainful and +hard to please, and he had a true affection for her. The pleasure she +gave him and the joy of being beautiful for him attached her to this +friend. He made life for her not continually delightful, but easy to +bear, and at times agreeable. + +That which she had not divined in her solitude, notwithstanding vague +yearnings and apparently causeless sadness, he had revealed to her. +She knew herself when she knew him. It was a happy astonishment. Their +sympathies were not in their minds. Her inclination toward him was +simple and frank, and at this moment she found pleasure in the idea of +meeting him the next day in the little apartment where they had met +for three years. With a shake of the head and a shrug of her shoulders, +coarser than one would have expected from this exquisite woman, sitting +alone by the dying fire, she said to herself: "There! I need love!" + + + + +CHAPTER II. "ONE CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE YOUNG!" + +It was no longer daylight when they came out of the little apartment in +the Rue Spontini. Robert Le Menil made a sign to a coachman, and entered +the carriage with Therese. Close together, they rolled among the vague +shadows, cut by sudden lights, through the ghostly city, having in their +minds only sweet and vanishing impressions while everything around them +seemed confused and fleeting. + +The carriage approached the Pont-Neuf. They stepped out. A dry cold +made vivid the sombre January weather. Under her veil Therese joyfully +inhaled the wind which swept on the hardened soil a dust white as salt. +She was glad to wander freely among unknown things. She liked to see the +stony landscape which the clearness of the air made distinct; to walk +quickly and firmly on the quay where the trees displayed the black +tracery of their branches on the horizon reddened by the smoke of the +city; to look at the Seine. In the sky the first stars appeared. + +"One would think that the wind would put them out," she said. + +He observed, too, that they scintillated a great deal. He did not think +it was a sign of rain, as the peasants believe. He had observed, on +the contrary, that nine times in ten the scintillation of stars was an +augury of fine weather. + +Near the little bridge they found old iron-shops lighted by smoky lamps. +She ran into them. She turned a corner and went into a shop in which +queer stuffs were hanging. Behind the dirty panes a lighted candle +showed pots, porcelain vases, a clarinet, and a bride's wreath. + +He did not understand what pleasure she found in her search. + +"These shops are full of vermin. What can you find interesting in them?" + +"Everything. I think of the poor bride whose wreath is under that globe. +The dinner occurred at Maillot. There was a policeman in the procession. +There is one in almost all the bridal processions one sees in the +park on Saturdays. Don't they move you, my friend, all these poor, +ridiculous, miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the +past?" + +Among cups decorated with flowers she discovered a little knife, the +ivory handle of which represented a tall, thin woman with her hair +arranged a la Maintenon. She bought it for a few sous. It pleased her, +because she already had a fork like it. Le Menil confessed that he had +no taste for such things, but said that his aunt knew a great deal about +them. At Caen all the merchants knew her. She had restored and furnished +her house in proper style. This house was noted as early as 1690. In one +of its halls were white cases full of books. His aunt had wished to put +them in order. She had found frivolous books in them, ornamented with +engravings so unconventional that she had burned them. + +"Is she silly, your aunt?" asked Therese. + +For a long time his anecdotes about his aunt had made her impatient. +Her friend had in the country a mother, sisters, aunts, and numerous +relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her. He talked of them +with admiration. It annoyed her that he often visited them. When he came +back, she imagined that he carried with him the odor of things that had +been packed up for years. He was astonished, naively, and he suffered +from her antipathy to them. + +He said nothing. The sight of a public-house, the panes of which were +flaming, recalled to him the poet Choulette, who passed for a drunkard. +He asked her if she still saw that Choulette, who called on her wearing +a mackintosh and a red muffler. + +It annoyed her that he spoke like General Lariviere. She did not say +that she had not seen Choulette since autumn, and that he neglected her +with the capriciousness of a man not in society. + +"He has wit," she said, "fantasy, and an original temperament. He +pleases me." + +And as he reproached her for having an odd taste, she replied: + +"I haven't a taste, I have tastes. You do not disapprove of them all, I +suppose." + +He replied that he did not criticise her. He was only afraid that she +might do herself harm by receiving a Bohemian who was not welcome in +respectable houses. + +She exclaimed: + +"Not welcome in respectable houses--Choulette? Don't you know that +he goes every year for a month to the Marquise de Rieu? Yes, to the +Marquise de Rieu, the Catholic, the royalist. But since Choulette +interests you, listen to his latest adventure. Paul Vence related it to +me. I understand it better in this street, where there are shirts and +flowerpots at the windows. + +"This winter, one night when it was raining, Choulette went into a +public-house in a street the name of which I have forgotten, but which +must resemble this one, and met there an unfortunate girl whom the +waiters would not have noticed, and whom he liked for her humility. Her +name was Maria. The name was not hers. She found it nailed on her +door at the top of the stairway where she went to lodge. Choulette was +touched by this perfection of poverty and infamy. He called her his +sister, and kissed her hands. Since then he has not quitted her a +moment. He takes her to the coffee-houses of the Latin Quarter where the +rich students read their reviews. He says sweet things to her. He weeps, +she weeps. They drink; and when they are drunk, they fight. He loves +her. He calls her his chaste one, his cross and his salvation. She was +barefooted; he gave her yarn and knitting-needles that she might make +stockings. And he made shoes for this unfortunate girl himself, with +enormous nails. He teaches her verses that are easy to understand. He is +afraid of altering her moral beauty by taking her out of the shame where +she lives in perfect simplicity and admirable destitution." + +Le Menil shrugged his shoulders. + +"But that Choulette is crazy, and Paul Vence has no right to tell you +such stories. I am not austere, assuredly; but there are immoralities +that disgust me." They were walking at random. She fell into a dream. + +"Yes, morality, I know--duty! But duty--it takes the devil to discover +it. I can assure you that I do not know where duty is. It's like a young +lady's turtle at Joinville. We spent all the evening looking for it +under the furniture, and when we had found it, we went to bed." + +He thought there was some truth in what she said. He would think about +it when alone. + +"I regret sometimes that I did not remain in the army. I know what you +are going to say--one becomes a brute in that profession. Doubtless, but +one knows exactly what one has to do, and that is a great deal in life. +I think that my uncle's life is very beautiful and very agreeable. +But now that everybody is in the army, there are neither officers nor +soldiers. It all looks like a railway station on Sunday. My uncle +knew personally all the officers and all the soldiers of his brigade. +Nowadays, how can you expect an officer to know his men?" + +She had ceased to listen. She was looking at a woman selling fried +potatoes. She realized that she was hungry and wished to eat fried +potatoes. + +He remonstrated: + +"Nobody knows how they are cooked." + +But he had to buy two sous' worth of fried potatoes, and to see that the +woman put salt on them. + +While Therese was eating them, he led her into deserted streets far from +the gaslights. Soon they found themselves in front of the cathedral. The +moon silvered the roofs. + +"Notre Dame," she said. "See, it is as heavy as an elephant yet as +delicate as an insect. The moon climbs over it and looks at it with +a monkey's maliciousness. She does not look like the country moon at +Joinville. At Joinville I have a path--a flat path--with the moon at +the end of it. She is not there every night; but she returns faithfully, +full, red, familiar. She is a country neighbor. I go seriously to +meet her. But this moon of Paris I should not like to know. She is not +respectable company. Oh, the things that she has seen during the time +she has been roaming around the roofs!" + +He smiled a tender smile. + +"Oh, your little path where you walked alone and that you liked because +the sky was at the end of it! I see it as if I were there." + +It was at the Joinville castle that he had seen her for the first time, +and had at once loved her. It was there, one night, that he had told her +of his love, to which she had listened, dumb, with a pained expression +on her mouth and a vague look in her eyes. + +The reminiscence of this little path where she walked alone moved him, +troubled him, made him live again the enchanted hours of his first +desires and hopes. He tried to find her hand in her muff and pressed her +slim wrist under the fur. + +A little girl carrying violets saw that they were lovers, and offered +flowers to them. He bought a two-sous' bouquet and offered it to +Therese. + +She was walking toward the cathedral. She was thinking: "It is like an +enormous beast--a beast of the Apocalypse." + +At the other end of the bridge a flower-woman, wrinkled, bearded, gray +with years and dust, followed them with her basket full of mimosas and +roses. Therese, who held her violets and was trying to slip them into +her waist, said, joyfully: + +"Thank you, I have some." + +"One can see that you are young," the old woman shouted with a wicked +air, as she went away. + +Therese understood at once, and a smile came to her lips and eyes. They +were passing near the porch, before the stone figures that wear sceptres +and crowns. + +"Let us go in," she said. + +He did not wish to go in. He declared that the door was closed. She +pushed it, and slipped into the immense nave, where the inanimate trees +of the columns ascended in darkness. In the rear, candles were moving +in front of spectre-like priests, under the last reverberations of the +organs. She trembled in the silence, and said: + +"The sadness of churches at night moves me; I feel in them the grandeur +of nothingness." + +He replied: + +"We must believe in something. If there were no God, if our souls were +not immortal, it would be too sad." + +She remained for a while immovable under the curtains of shadow hanging +from the arches. Then she said: + +"My poor friend, we do not know what to do with this life, which is so +short, and yet you desire another life which shall never finish." + +In the carriage that took them back he said gayly that he had passed a +fine afternoon. He kissed her, satisfied with her and with himself. But +his good-humor was not communicated to her. The last moments they passed +together were spoiled for her always by the presentiment that he would +not say at parting the thing that he should say. Ordinarily, he quitted +her brusquely, as if what had happened were not to last. At every one +of their partings she had a confused feeling that they were parting +forever. She suffered from this in advance and became irritable. + +Under the trees he took her hand and kissed her. + +"Is it not rare, Therese, to love as we love each other?" + +"Rare? I don't know; but I think that you love me." + +"And you?" + +"I, too, love you." + +"And you will love me always?" + +"What does one ever know?" + +And seeing the face of her lover darken: + +"Would you be more content with a woman who would swear to love only you +for all time?" + +He remained anxious, with a wretched air. She was kind and she reassured +him: + +"You know very well, my friend, that I am not fickle." + +Almost at the end of the lane they said good-by. He kept the carriage +to return to the Rue Royale. He was to dine at the club and go to the +theatre, and had no time to lose. + +Therese returned home on foot. Opposite the Trocadero she remembered +what the old flower-woman had said: "One can see that you are young." +The words came back to her with a significance not immoral but sad. "One +can see that you are young!" Yes, she was young, she was loved, and she +was bored to death. + + + + +CHAPTER III. A DISCUSSION ON THE LITTLE CORPORAL + +In the centre of the table flowers were disposed in a basket of gilded +bronze, decorated with eagles, stars, and bees, and handles formed like +horns of plenty. On its sides winged Victorys supported the branches +of candelabra. This centrepiece of the Empire style had been given +by Napoleon, in 1812, to Count Martin de l'Aisne, grandfather of +the present Count Martin-Belleme. Martin de l'Aisne, a deputy to the +Legislative Corps in 1809, was appointed the following year member of +the Committee on Finance, the assiduous and secret works of which suited +his laborious temperament. Although a Liberal, he pleased the Emperor by +his application and his exact honesty. For two years he was under a +rain of favors. In 1813 he formed part of the moderate majority which +approved the report in which Laine censured power and misfortune, by +giving to the Empire tardy advice. January 1, 1814, he went with his +colleagues to the Tuileries. The Emperor received them in a terrifying +manner. He charged on their ranks. Violent and sombre, in the horror of +his present strength and of his coming fall, he stunned them with his +anger and his contempt. + +He came and went through their lines, and suddenly took Count Martin by +the shoulders, shook him and dragged him, exclaiming: "A throne is four +pieces of wood covered with velvet? No! A throne is a man, and that man +is I. You have tried to throw mud at me. Is this the time to remonstrate +with me when there are two hundred thousand Cossacks at the frontiers? +Your Laine is a wicked man. One should wash one's dirty linen at home." +And while in his anger he twisted in his hand the embroidered collar of +the deputy, he said: "The people know me. They do not know you. I am the +elect of the nation. You are the obscure delegates of a department." +He predicted to them the fate of the Girondins. The noise of his spurs +accompanied the sound of his voice. Count Martin remained trembling the +rest of his life, and tremblingly recalled the Bourbons after the defeat +of the Emperor. The two restorations were in vain; the July government +and the Second Empire covered his oppressed breast with crosses and +cordons. Raised to the highest functions, loaded with honors by three +kings and one emperor, he felt forever on his shoulder the hand of the +Corsican. He died a senator of Napoleon III, and left a son agitated by +the same fear. + +This son had married Mademoiselle Belleme, daughter of the first +president of the court of Bourges, and with her the political glories +of a family which gave three ministers to the moderate monarch. The +Bellemes, advocates in the time of Louis XV, elevated the Jacobin +origins of the Martins. The second Count Martin was a member of all the +Assemblies until his death in 1881. His son took without trouble his +seat in the Chamber of Deputies. Having married Mademoiselle Therese +Montessuy, whose dowry supported his political fortune, he appeared +discreetly among the four or five bourgeois, titled and wealthy, who +rallied to democracy, and were received without much bad grace by the +republicans, whom aristocracy flattered. + +In the dining-room, Count Martin-Belleme was doing the honors of his +table with the good grace, the sad politeness, recently prescribed at +the Elysee to represent isolated France at a great northern court. From +time to time he addressed vapid phrases to Madame Garain at his right; +to the Princess Seniavine at his left, who, loaded with diamonds, felt +bored. Opposite him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin, +having by her side General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the +Academie des Inscriptions, caressed with her fan her smooth white +shoulders. At the two semicircles, whereby the dinner-table was +prolonged, were M. Montessuy, robust, with blue eyes and ruddy +complexion; a young cousin, Madame Belleme de Saint-Nom, embarrassed by +her long, thin arms; the painter Duviquet; M. Daniel Salomon; then Paul +Vence and Garain the deputy; Belleme de Saint-Nom; an unknown senator; +and Dechartre, who was dining at the house for the first time. The +conversation, at first trivial and insignificant, was prolonged into a +confused murmur, above which rose Garain's voice: + +"Every false idea is dangerous. People think that dreamers do no harm. +They are mistaken: dreamers do a great heal of harm. Even apparently +inoffensive utopian ideas really exercise a noxious influence. They tend +to inspire disgust at reality." + +"It is, perhaps, because reality is not beautiful," said Paul Vence. + +M. Garain said that he had always been in favor of all possible +improvements. He had asked for the suppression of permanent armies in +the time of the Empire, for the separation of church and state, and had +remained always faithful to democracy. His device, he said, was "Order +and Progress." He thought he had discovered that device. + +Montessuy said: + +"Well, Monsieur Garain, be sincere. Confess that there are no reforms +to be made, and that it is as much as one can do to change the color of +postage-stamps. Good or bad, things are as they should be. Yes, things +are as they should be; but they change incessantly. Since 1870 the +industrial and financial situation of the country has gone through four +or five revolutions which political economists had not foreseen +and which they do not yet understand. In society, as in nature, +transformations are accomplished from within." + +As to matters of government his ideas were terse and decided. He was +strongly attached to the present, heedless of the future, and the +socialists troubled him little. Without caring whether the sun and +capital should be extinguished some day, he enjoyed them. According +to him, one should let himself be carried. None but fools resisted the +current or tried to go in front of it. + +But Count Martin, naturally sad, had, dark presentiments. In veiled +words he announced catastrophes. His timorous phrases came through the +flowers, and irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy. +He explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by +themselves, of throwing off barbarism, and that without the Jews and the +Arabs Europe would be to-day, as in the time of the Crusades, sunk in +ignorance, misery, and cruelty. + +"The Middle Ages," he said, "are closed only in the historical manuals +that are given to pupils to spoil their minds. In reality, barbarians +are always barbarians. Israel's mission is to instruct nations. It was +Israel which, in the Middle Ages, brought to Europe the wisdom of ages. +Socialism frightens you. It is a Christian evil, like priesthood. And +anarchy? Do you not recognize in it the plague of the Albigeois and of +the Vaudois? The Jews, who instructed and polished Europe, are the only +ones who can save it to-day from the evangelical evil by which it +is devoured. But they have not fulfilled their duty. They have made +Christians of themselves among the Christians. And God punishes them. He +permits them to be exiled and to be despoiled. Anti-Semitism is making +fearful progress everywhere. From Russia my co-religionists are expelled +like savage beasts. In France, civil and military employments are +closing against Jews. They have no longer access to aristocratic +circles. My nephew, young Isaac Coblentz, has had to renounce a +diplomatic career, after passing brilliantly his admission examination. +The wives of several of my colleagues, when Madame Schmoll calls on +them, display with intention, under her eyes, anti-Semitic newspapers. +And would you believe that the Minister of Public Instruction has +refused to give me the cross of the Legion of Honor for which I have +applied? There's ingratitude! Anti-Semitism is death--it is death, do +you hear? to European civilization." + +The little man had a natural manner which surpassed all the art in the +world. Grotesque and terrible, he threw the table into consternation by +his sincerity. Madame Martin, whom he amused, complimented him on this: + +"At least," she said, "you defend your co-religionists. You are not, +Monsieur Schmoll, like a beautiful Jewish lady of my acquaintance who, +having read in a journal that she received the elite of Jewish society, +went everywhere shouting that she had been insulted." + +"I am sure, Madame, that you do not know how beautiful and superior to +all other moralities is Jewish morality. Do you know the parable of the +three rings?" + +This question was lost in the murmur of the dialogues wherein were +mingled foreign politics, exhibitions of paintings, fashionable +scandals, and Academy speeches. They talked of the new novel and of the +coming play. This was a comedy. Napoleon was an incidental character in +it. + +The conversation settled upon Napoleon I, often placed on the stage +and newly studied in books--an object of curiosity, a personage in the +fashion, no longer a popular hero, a demi-god, wearing boots for his +country, as in the days when Norvins and Beranger, Charlet and Raffet +were composing his legend; but a curious personage, an amusing type in +his living infinity, a figure whose style is pleasant to artists, whose +movements attract thoughtless idlers. + +Garain, who had founded his political fortune on hatred of the Empire, +judged sincerely that this return of national taste was only an absurd +infatuation. He saw no danger in it and felt no fear about it. In him +fear was sudden and ferocious. For the moment he was very quiet; he +talked neither of prohibiting performances nor of seizing books, of +imprisoning authors, or of suppressing anything. Calm and severe, he saw +in Napoleon only Taine's 'condottiere' who kicked Volney in the stomach. +Everybody wished to define the true Napoleon. Count Martin, in the face +of the imperial centrepiece and of the winged Victorys, talked suitably +of Napoleon as an organizer and administrator, and placed him in a high +position as president of the state council, where his words threw light +upon obscure questions. Garain affirmed that in his sessions, only too +famous, Napoleon, under pretext of taking snuff, asked the councillors +to pass to him their gold boxes ornamented with miniatures and decked +with diamonds, which they never saw again. The anecdote was told to him +by the son of Mounier himself. + +Montessuy esteemed in Napoleon the genius of order. "He liked," he said, +"work well done. That is a taste most persons have lost." + +The painter Duviquet, whose ideas were those of an artist, was +embarrassed. He did not find on the funeral mask brought from St. Helena +the characteristics of that face, beautiful and powerful, which medals +and busts have consecrated. One must be convinced of this now that the +bronze of that mask was hanging in all the old shops, among eagles and +sphinxes made of gilded wood. And, according to him, since the true face +of Napoleon was not that of the ideal Napoleon, his real soul may not +have been as idealists fancied it. Perhaps it was the soul of a good +bourgeois. Somebody had said this, and he was inclined to think that it +was true. Anyway, Duviquet, who flattered himself with having made the +best portraits of the century, knew that celebrated men seldom resemble +the ideas one forms of them. + +M. Daniel Salomon observed that the fine mask about which Duviquet +talked, the plaster cast taken from the inanimate face of the Emperor, +and brought to Europe by Dr. Antommarchi, had been moulded in bronze and +sold by subscription for the first time in 1833, under Louis Philippe, +and had then inspired surprise and mistrust. People suspected the +Italian chemist, who was a sort of buffoon, always talkative and +famished, of having tried to make fun of people. Disciples of Dr. Gall, +whose system was then in favor, regarded the mask as suspicious. They +did not find in it the bumps of genius; and the forehead, examined in +accordance with the master's theories, presented nothing remarkable in +its formation. + +"Precisely," said Princess Seniavine. "Napoleon was remarkable only for +having kicked Volney in the stomach and stealing a snuffbox ornamented +with diamonds. Monsieur Garain has just taught us." + +"And yet," said Madame Martin, "nobody is sure that he kicked Volney." + +"Everything becomes known in the end," replied the Princess, gayly. +"Napoleon did nothing at all. He did not even kick Volney, and his head +was that of an idiot." + +General Lariviere felt that he should say something. He hurled this +phrase: + +"Napoleon--his campaign of 1813 is much discussed." + +The General wished to please Garain, and he had no other idea. However, +he succeeded, after an effort, in formulating a judgment: + +"Napoleon committed faults; in his situation he should not have +committed any." And he stopped abruptly, very red. + +Madame Martin asked: + +"And you, Monsieur Vence, what do you think of Napoleon?" + +"Madame, I have not much love for sword-bearers, and conquerors seem to +me to be dangerous fools. But in spite of everything, that figure of the +Emperor interests me as it interests the public. I find character and +life in it. There is no poem or novel that is worth the Memoirs of Saint +Helena, although it is written in ridiculous fashion. What I think +of Napoleon, if you wish to know, is that, made for glory, he had the +brilliant simplicity of the hero of an epic poem. A hero must be human. +Napoleon was human." + +"Oh, oh!" every one exclaimed. + +But Paul Vence continued: + +"He was violent and frivolous; therefore profoundly human. I mean, +similar to everybody. He desired, with singular force, all that most men +esteem and desire. He had illusions, which he gave to the people. This +was his power and his weakness; it was his beauty. He believed in glory. +He had of life and of the world the same opinion as any one of his +grenadiers. He retained always the infantile gravity which finds +pleasure in playing with swords and drums, and the sort of innocence +which makes good military men. He esteemed force sincerely. He was a man +among men, the flesh of human flesh. He had not a thought that was not +in action, and all his actions were grand yet common. It is this vulgar +grandeur which makes heroes. And Napoleon is the perfect hero. His brain +never surpassed his hand--that hand, small and beautiful, which grasped +the world. He never had, for a moment, the least care for what he could +not reach." + +"Then," said Garain, "according to you, he was not an intellectual +genius. I am of your opinion." + +"Surely," continued Paul Vence, "he had enough genius to be brilliant +in the civil and military arena of the world. But he had not speculative +genius. That genius is another pair of sleeves, as Buffon says. We have +a collection of his writings and speeches. His style has movement and +imagination. And in this mass of thoughts one can not find a philosophic +curiosity, not one expression of anxiety about the unknowable, not an +expression of fear of the mystery which surrounds destiny. At Saint +Helena, when he talks of God and of the soul, he seems to be a little +fourteen-year-old school-boy. Thrown upon the world, his mind found +itself fit for the world, and embraced it all. Nothing of that mind was +lost in the infinite. Himself a poet, he knew only the poetry of action. +He limited to the earth his powerful dream of life. In his terrible and +touching naivete he believed that a man could be great, and neither time +nor misfortune made him lose that idea. His youth, or rather his sublime +adolescence, lasted as long as he lived, because life never brought him +a real maturity. Such is the abnormal state of men of action. They live +entirely in the present, and their genius concentrates on one point. +The hours of their existence are not connected by a chain of grave and +disinterested meditations. They succeed themselves in a series of +acts. They lack interior life. This defect is particularly visible +in Napoleon, who never lived within himself. From this is derived the +frivolity of temperament which made him support easily the enormous load +of his evils and of his faults. His mind was born anew every day. He +had, more than any other person, a capacity for diversion. The first day +that he saw the sun rise on his funereal rock at Saint Helena, he jumped +from his bed, whistling a romantic air. It was the peace of a +mind superior to fortune; it was the frivolity of a mind prompt in +resurrection. He lived from the outside." + +Garain, who did not like Paul Vence's ingenious turn of wit and +language, tried to hasten the conclusion: + +"In a word," he said, "there was something of the monster in the man." + +"There are no monsters," replied Paul Vence; "and men who pass for +monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had +the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for +him." + +Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he +excused himself with a sort of fright. + +"Do you know," said Schmoll again, "the parable of the three rings, +sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew." + +Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox, +regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and +justice. + +"One great principle," he said, "is that men should be judged by their +acts." + +"And women?" asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; "do you judge them by +their acts? And how do you know what they do?" + +The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of +silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on +the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain. + +General Lariviere fell into dreams. + +"When public clamor has split my ears," he said to his neighbor, "I +shall go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers." + +He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given +to a rose. This pleased him highly. + +Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings. + +The Princess rallied the Deputy. + +"Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things +for very different reasons?" + +Montessuy said she was right. + +"It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This +thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was +known neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an +English legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell +Lowell of London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his +time with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her +husband; the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows; +the third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become +ugly, and was a servant in a den. After what she had done, after what +she had seen, love signified nothing to her. These three women behaved +alike for very different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the +mass of actions, their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of +the human being." + +"Some of our actions," said Madame Martin, "have our look, our face: +they are our daughters. Others do not resemble us at all." + +She rose and took the General's arm. + +On the way to the drawing-room the Princess said: + +"Therese is right. Some actions do not express our real selves at all. +They are like the things we do in nightmares." + +The nymphs of the tapestries smiled vainly in their faded beauty at the +guests, who did not see them. + +Madame Martin served the coffee with her young cousin, Madame Belleme de +Saint-Nom. She complimented Paul Vence on what he had said at the table. + +"You talked of Napoleon with a freedom of mind that is rare in the +conversations I hear. I have noticed that children, when they are +handsome, look, when they pout, like Napoleon at Waterloo. You have made +me feel the profound reasons for this similarity." + +Then, turning toward Dechartre: + +"Do you like Napoleon?" + +"Madame, I do not like the Revolution. And Napoleon is the Revolution in +boots." + +"Monsieur Dechartre, why did you not say this at dinner? But I see you +prefer to be witty only in tete-a-tetes." + +Count Martin-Belleme escorted the men to the smoking-room. Paul Vence +alone remained with the women. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had +finished his novel, and what was the subject of it. It was a study +in which he tried to reach the truth through a series of plausible +conditions. + +"Thus," he said, "the novel acquires a moral force which history, in its +heavy frivolity, never had." + +She inquired whether the book was written for women. He said it was not. + +"You are wrong, Monsieur Vence, not to write for women. A superior man +can do nothing else for them." + +He wished to know what gave her that idea. + +"Because I see that all the intelligent women love fools." + +"Who bore them." + +"Certainly! But superior men would weary them more. They would have +more resources to employ in boring them. But tell me the subject of your +novel." + +"Do you insist?" + +"Oh, I insist upon nothing." + +"Well, I will tell you. It is a study of popular manners; the history of +a young workman, sober and chaste, as handsome as a girl, with the mind +of a virgin, a sensitive soul. He is a carver, and works well. At night, +near his mother, whom he loves, he studies, he reads books. In his mind, +simple and receptive, ideas lodge themselves like bullets in a wall. He +has no desires. He has neither the passions nor the vices that attach +us to life. He is solitary and pure. Endowed with strong virtues, he +becomes conceited. He lives among miserable people. He sees suffering. +He has devotion without humanity. He has that sort of cold charity which +is called altruism. He is not human because he is not sensual." + +"Oh! One must be sensual to be human?" + +"Certainly, Madame. True pity, like tenderness, comes from the heart. He +is not intelligent enough to doubt. He believes what he has read. And +he has read that to establish universal happiness society must be +destroyed. Thirst for martyrdom devours him. One morning, having kissed +his mother, he goes out; he watches for the socialist deputy of his +district, sees him, throws himself on him, and buries a poniard in +his breast. Long live anarchy! He is arrested, measured, photographed, +questioned, judged, condemned to death, and guillotined. That is my +novel." + +"It is not very amusing," said the Princess; "but that is not your +fault. Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other Frenchmen. The +Russians have more audacity and more imagination." + +Countess Martin asked Paul Vence whether he knew a silent, timid-looking +man among the guests. Her husband had invited him. She knew nothing of +him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was a senator. +He had seen him one day by chance in the Luxembourg, in the gallery that +served as a library. + +"I went there to look at the cupola, where Delacroix has painted, in a +wood of bluish myrtles, heroes and sages of antiquity. That gentleman +was there, with the same wretched and pitiful air. His coat was damp and +he was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying, +while rubbing his hands: 'The proof that the Republic is the best of +governments is that in 1871 it could kill in a week sixty thousand +insurgents without becoming unpopular. After such a repression any other +regime would have been impossible.'" + +"He is a very wicked man," said Madame Martin. "And to think that I was +pitying him!" + +Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace +of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the +banks of the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her. + +Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The +General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin. + +"I met this morning, in the park, Baronne Warburg, mounted on a +magnificent horse. She said, 'General, how do you manage to have such +fine horses?' I replied: Madame, to have fine horses, you must be either +very wealthy or very clever.'" + +He was so well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice. + +Paul Vence came near Countess Martin: + +"I know that senator's name: it is Lyer. He is the vice-president of a +political society, and author of a book entitled, The Crime of December +Second." + +The General continued: + +"The weather was horrible. I went into a hut and found Le Menil there. +I was in a bad humor. He was making fun of me, I saw, because I sought +shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like wind +and snow. He said that he liked bad weather, and that he was to go +foxhunting with friends next week." + +There was a pause; the General continued: + +"I wish him much joy, but I don't envy him. Foxhunting is not +agreeable." + +"But it is useful," said Montessuy. + +The General shrugged his shoulders. + +"Foxes are dangerous for chicken-coops in the spring when the fowls have +to feed their families." + +"Foxes are sly poachers, who do less harm to farmers than to hunters. I +know something of this." + +Therese was not listening to the Princess, who was talking to her. She +was thinking: + +"He did not tell me that he was going away!" + +"Of what are you thinking, dear?" inquired the Princess. + +"Of nothing interesting," Therese replied. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE END OF A DREAM + +In the little shadowy room, where sound was deadened by curtains, +portieres, cushions, bearskins, and carpets from the Orient, the +firelight shone on glittering swords hanging among the faded favors of +the cotillons of three winters. The rosewood chiffonier was surmounted +by a silver cup, a prize from some sporting club. On a porcelain plaque, +in the centre of the table, stood a crystal vase which held branches +of white lilacs; and lights palpitated in the warm shadows. Therese and +Robert, their eyes accustomed to obscurity, moved easily among these +familiar objects. He lighted a cigarette while she arranged her hair, +standing before the mirror, in a corner so dim she could hardly see +herself. She took pins from the little Bohemian glass cup standing on +the table, where she had kept it for three years. He looked at her, +passing her light fingers quickly through the gold ripples of her hair, +while her face, hardened and bronzed by the shadow, took on a mysterious +expression. She did not speak. + +He said to her: + +"You are not cross now, my dear?" + +And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said: + +"What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said +at first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from +General Lariviere." + +He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained +cold and reserved toward him. But he affected to think that she only +pouted. + +"My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I +met Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my +promise to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I +meant to tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere +told you first, but there was no significance in that." + +Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a +glance from her tranquil eyes, which he did not understand. + +"Then you are going?" + +"Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at +most." + +She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented with a branch of holly. + +"Is it something that you can not postpone?" + +"Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover, +Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence." + +Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned. + +"Is fox-hunting interesting?" + +"Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems that one must fathom. The +intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at +night a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure you +it is not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. I do +not care for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you half +a dozen skins." + +"What do you wish me to do with them?" + +"Oh, you can make rugs of them." + +"And you will be hunting eight days?" + +"Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at +this time there was a delightful reunion at her house. She had with her +her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five +women are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable. I shall probably +find them at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt's +birthday, and I shall remain there two days." + +"My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable +if you shortened on my account a sojourn which is so agreeable." + +"But you, Therese?" + +"I, my friend? I can take care of myself." + +The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She +said, in a dreamy tone: + +"It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone." + +He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her +hand. + +"You love me?" he said. + +"Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but--" + +"What do you mean?" + +"Nothing. I am thinking--I am thinking that we are separated all through +the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends +half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is +better not to see each other at all." + +He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He +looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common +to all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her +through force of education and simplicity of intelligence. + +"Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me? +Sometimes you are painfully harsh." + +She shook her little head brusquely. + +"What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate. It is in the blood. I +take it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the +castle, the ceilings, the tapestries, the gardens, the park, the +hunting-grounds, you have said that none better were in France; but you +have not seen my father's workshop--a white wooden table and a mahogany +bureau. Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my +father made figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in +the apartment where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a +parvenu's daughter, or a conqueror's daughter, it's all the same. We are +people of material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess +what he could buy--that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep--what? +I do not know--the happiness that I have--or that I have not. I have my +own way of being exacting. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I know +very well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes in +giving herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something, +because my trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or +think what I like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what +is due to me. And then--" + +She lowered her voice: + +"And then, I have--impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you +have? You shouldn't have loved me." + +This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his +pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she +did, but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to +a woman's words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often +words are the same as actions. + +Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength +and confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims, which he +judged absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her; +and, naively, he always ended by playing it. + +"You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be +agreeable to you. Don't be capricious with me." + +"And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not +because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I +was capricious." + +He looked at her, astonished and saddened. + +"The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was +love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you +loved me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the +satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my +desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone. +You are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your +foxhunt, isn't that capricious?" + +He replied, very sincerely: + +"If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice +that small pleasure with great joy." + +She felt that he spoke the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling +the most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he +would not go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would +seek hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to +take his reason seriously, and said: + +"Ah, you have promised!" + +And she affected to yield. + +Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her +listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn. +He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids +as a reward. He said: + +"We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. I +will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here +to-morrow?" + +She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the +next day nor any other day. + +Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her. + +The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity +fair, exhibitions. As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to +increase. The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the +exhibitions would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see +him again before his departure. + +As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to +observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed +by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained +silent and unhappy. + +With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on +the key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the +sapphire and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she +turned her head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little +mockingly, yet with a touch of tragic emotion: + +"Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little +visits are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!" + +She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a +point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely +forced him to do so. + +In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world, +without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was +her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But +the avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights, +enveloped her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so +agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold +of winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains +of the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and +there. These small shops, these monotonous windows, were nothing to her. +Yet she felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship +of inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of +houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly upon her. She +was alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between +the two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had +taken so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that day +brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day had +left a subtle, strange, persistent sting, which would never leave her. +What had happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced everything. She +had a sort of obscure certainty that she would never return to that room +which had so recently enclosed the most secret and dearest phases of her +life. She had loved Robert with the seriousness of a necessary joy. Made +to be loved, and very reasonable, she had not lost in the abandonment of +herself that instinct of reflection, that necessity for security, which +was so strong in her. She had not chosen: one seldom chooses. She had +not allowed herself to be taken at random and by surprise. She had done +what she had wished to do, as much as one ever does what one wishes to +do in such cases. She had nothing to regret. He had been to her what it +was his duty to be. She felt, in spite of everything, that all was at +an end. She thought, with dry sadness, that three years of her life had +been given to an honest man who had loved her and whom she had loved. +"For I loved him. I must have loved him in order to give myself to him." +But she could not feel again the sentiments of early days, the movements +of her mind when she had yielded. She recalled small and insignificant +circumstances: the flowers on the wall-paper and the pictures in the +room. She recalled the words, a little ridiculous and almost touching, +that he had said to her. But it seemed to her that the adventure had +occurred to another woman, to a stranger whom she did not like and whom +she hardly understood. And what had happened only a moment ago seemed +far distant now. The room, the lilacs in the crystal vase, the little +cup of Bohemian glass where she found her pins--she saw all these things +as if through a window that one passes in the street. She was without +bitterness, and even without sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas! +This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against +her; it was nothing, yet it was everything. It was the end. She knew it. +She wished to cease. It was the consent of all the forces of her being. +She said to herself: "I have no reason to love him less. Do I love him +no more? Did I ever love him?" She did not know and she did not care to +know. Three years, during which there had been months when they had seen +each other every day--was all this nothing? Life is not a great thing. +And what one puts in it, how little that is! + +In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end +it all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was not +a resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a state +of the body and of the mind. + +When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain, +and on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its +bell in an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that +he had given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame. They had +loved each other that day--perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened +at that reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor +little flower skeleton, in her memory. + +While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her +dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and +the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a +crisis. She thought: "How do other women manage such things? And I, who +promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?" + +Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil +disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made +of a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the +other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized +her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her; +she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few +steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this +place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal +a glimpse of the sky. + +He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of +her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively. + +"Graceful movements," he added, "are like music for the eyes." + +She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause +of her good health. + +He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The +mystery of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages +had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm. +He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the +Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother +country of his mind. + +"I shall go there next week," he said. "I long to see again Ravenna +asleep among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen +Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms +appear. The magic of death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale, +with their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one +feel the monstrous delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its +silver lamels, the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful under its +crypt, luminous yet gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the +sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius, +seated on her golden chair, erect in her gown studded with stones and +embroidered with scenes from the Old Testament; her beautiful, cruel +face preserved hard and black with aromatic plants, and her ebony +hands immovable on her knees. For thirteen centuries she retained this +funereal majesty, until one day a child passed a candle through the +opening of the grave and burned the body." + +Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her +conceit, had done during her life. + +"Twice a slave," said Dechartre, "she became twice an empress." + +"She must have been beautiful," said Madame Martin. "You have made +me see her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to +Venice, Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals +bordered by palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I +still like Venice, after being there three times." + +He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice. + +Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made +studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere. + +"Elsewhere," he said, "even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice +it is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops +lovingly the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the +iridescent atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice +is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women +are! Their forms are so slender and supple under their black shawls. If +nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that +bone the charm of their exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they +form laughing groups, agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant +necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming glances. And all bend, with the +suppleness of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head +resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice, preceded by +two choir-boys." + +He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas, +sometimes quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost +outstripped him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and +supple carriage. He observed the little shake which at moments her +obstinate head gave to the holly on her toque. + +Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate, +with a young woman almost unknown. + +They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows +of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of +boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay. +One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in +misty days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights +of the city were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three +golden nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued: + +"Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at +her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with +small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in +the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as +a flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most +beautiful light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a +butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head." + +At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two +lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly. + +"It is true that at Venice," she said, "all women are pretty." + +"They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls--the +cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are +commonplace enough." + +"By others you mean society women; and you don't like these?" + +"Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them, +that's a different affair." + +"Do you think so?" + +She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner. + + + + +CHAPTER V. A DINNER 'EN FAMILLE' + +She dined that night alone with her husband. The narrow table had not +the basket with golden eagles and winged Victorys. The candelabra did +not light Oudry's paintings. While he talked of the events of the day, +she fell into a sad reverie. It seemed to her that she floated in a +mist. It was a peaceful and almost sweet suffering. She saw vaguely +through the clouds the little room of the Rue Spontini transported by +angels to one of the summits of the Himalaya Mountains, and Robert Le +Menil--in the quaking of a sort of world's end--had disappeared while +putting on his gloves. She felt her pulse to see whether she were +feverish. A rattle of silverware on the table awoke her. She heard her +husband saying: + +"My dear friend Gavaut delivered to-day, in the Chamber, an excellent +speech on the question of the reserve funds. It's extraordinary how his +ideas have become healthy and just. Oh, he has improved a great deal." + +She could not refrain from smiling. + +"But Gavaut, my friend, is a poor devil who never thought of anything +except escaping from the crowd of those who are dying of hunger. +Gavaut never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him +seriously in the political world? You may be sure that he never gave an +illusion to any woman, not even his wife. And yet to produce that sort +of illusion a man does not need much." She added, brusquely: + +"You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. +I have accepted; I am going." + +Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going. + +At once she answered: + +"With Madame Marmet." + +There was no objection to make. Madame Marmet was a proper companion, +and it was appropriate for her to visit Italy, where her husband had +made some excavations. He asked only: + +"Have you invited her? When are you going?" + +"Next week." + +He had the wisdom not to make any objection, judging that opposition +would only make her capriciousness firmer, and fearing to give impetus +to that foolish idea. He said: + +"Surely, to travel is an agreeable pastime. I thought that we might in +the spring visit the Caucasus and Turkestan. There is an interesting +country. General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains, +and everything else on his railway. He is a friend of mine; he is quite +charmed with you. He will provide us with an escort of Cossacks." + +He persisted in trying to flatter her vanity, unable to realize that +her mind was not worldly. She replied, negligently, that it might be a +pleasant trip. Then he praised the mountains, the ancient cities, the +bazaars, the costumes, the armor. + +He added: + +"We shall take some friends with us--Princess Seniavine, General +Lariviere, perhaps Vence or Le Menil." + +She replied, with a little dry laugh, that they had time to select their +guests. + +He became attentive to her wants. + +"You are not eating. You will injure your health." + +Without yet believing in this prompt departure, he felt some anxiety +about it. Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone. He +felt that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he had +decided to give two or three political dinners during the session. He +saw his party growing. This was the moment to assert himself, to make a +dazzling show. He said, mysteriously: + +"Something might happen requiring the aid of all our friends. You have +not followed the march of events, Therese?" + +"No, my dear." + +"I am sorry. You have judgment, liberality of mind. If you had followed +the march of events you would have been struck by the current that is +leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of +exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical politics and +religious persecution. Some day or other it will be necessary to make +over a Casimir-Perier ministry with other men, and that day--" + +He stopped: really she listened too inattentively. + +She was thinking, sad and disenchanted. It seemed to her that the pretty +woman, who, among the warm shadows of a closed room, placed her bare +feet in the fur of the brown bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses +while she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was +not even a woman that she knew well, or that she desired to know, but a +person whose affairs were of no interest to her. A pin badly set in her +hair, one of the pins from the Bohemian glass cup, fell on her neck. She +shivered. + +"Yet we really must give three or four dinners to our good political +friends," said M. Martin-Belleme. "We shall invite some of the ancient +radicals to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some +pretty women. We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been +no gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?" + +"But, my dear, since I am to go next week--" + +This filled him with consternation. + +They went, both silent and moody, into the drawing-room, where Paul +Vence was waiting. He often came in the evening. + +She extended her hand to him. + +"I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town. Paris is cold and +bleak. This weather tires and saddens me. I am going to Florence, for +six weeks, to visit Miss Bell." + +M. Martin-Belleme then lifted his eyes to heaven. + +Vence asked whether she had been in Italy often. + +"Three times; but I saw nothing. This time I wish to see, to throw +myself into things. From Florence I shall take walks into Tuscany, into +Umbria. And, finally, I shall go to Venice." + +"You will do well. Venice suggests the peace of the Sabbath-day in the +grand week of creative and divine Italy." + +"Your friend Dechartre talked very prettily to me of Venice, of the +atmosphere of Venice, which sows pearls." + +"Yes, at Venice the sky is a colorist. Florence inspires the mind. An +old author has said: 'The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and feeds +the beautiful ideas of men.' I have lived delicious days in Tuscany. I +wish I could live them again." + +"Come and see me there." + +He sighed. + +The newspaper, books, and his daily work prevented him. + +M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that +one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M. +Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work. + +"Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is +impossible to express one's self. I know how to talk with my pen as well +as any other person; but, after all, to talk or to write, what futile +occupations! How wretchedly inadequate are the little signs which form +syllables, words, and phrases. What becomes of the idea, the beautiful +idea, which these miserable hieroglyphics hide? What does the reader +make of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and +of nonsense. To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful +translations, perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should +I care for the admiration which they give to my books, since it is what +they themselves see in them that they admire? Every reader substitutes +his visions in the place of ours. We furnish him with the means to +quicken his imagination. It is a horrible thing to be a cause of such +exercises. It is an infamous profession." + +"You are jesting," said M. Martin-Belleme. + +"I do not think so," said Therese. "He recognizes that one mind is +impenetrable to another mind, and he suffers from this. He feels that he +is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may +do, one is always alone in the world. That is what he wishes to say. He +is right. You may always explain: you never are understood." + +"There are signs--" said Paul Vence. + +"Don't you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of +hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any +more." + +Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of +Saint Francis. + +"The idea, Madame, came to him in a marvellous fashion one day when he +had gone to call on his Maria in the street where she lives, behind +the public hospital--a street always damp, the houses on which are +tottering. You must know that he considers Maria the saint and martyr +who is responsible for the sins of the people. + +"He pulled the bell-rope, made greasy by two centuries of visitors. +Either because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly +known, or because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door. +Choulette rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope +remained in his hand. Skilful at understanding symbols and the hidden +meaning of things, he understood at once that this rope had not been +detached without the permission of spiritual powers. He made of it +a belt, and realized that he had been chosen to lead back into its +primitive purity the Third Order of Saint Francis. He renounced the +beauty of women, the delights of poetry, the brightness of glory, and +studied the life and the doctrine of Saint Francis. However, he has sold +to his editor a book entitled 'Les Blandices', which contains, he says, +the description of all sorts of loves. He flatters himself that in it +he has shown himself a criminal with some elegance. But far from harming +his mystic undertakings, this book favors them in this sense, that, +corrected by his later work, he will become honest and exemplary; and +the gold that he has received in payment, which would not have been paid +to him for a more chaste volume, will serve for a pilgrimage to Assisi." + +Madame Martin asked how much of this story was really true. Vence +replied that she must not try to learn. + +He confessed that he was the idealist historian of the poet, and that +the adventures which he related of him were not to be taken in the +literal and Judaic sense. + +He affirmed that at least Choulette was publishing Les Blandices, and +desired to visit the cell and the grave of St. Francis. + +"Then," exclaimed Madame Martin, "I will take him to Italy with me. Find +him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week." + +M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had +to finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day. + +Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette. Paul +Vence said that he was a singular specimen of humanity. + +"He is not very different from the saints of whose extraordinary lives +we read. He is as sincere as they. He has an exquisite delicacy of +sentiment and a terrible violence of mind. If he shocks one by many of +his acts, the reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps +less closely observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just as there +are bad angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems +are true poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops of the +seventeenth century." + +She interrupted him: + +"While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend +Dechartre. He has a charming mind." + +She added: + +"Perhaps he is a little too timid." + +Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre +interesting. + +"I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood." + +"You knew his parents?" + +"Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre." + +"The architect?" + +"The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and +churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge. +Solitary and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack +Viollet-le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to +reestablish buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or +as they might have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the +contrary, wished that everything which the lapse of centuries had added +to a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish +anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to +him to be a scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He +said: 'It is a crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone +by the hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false +witnesses.' He wished to limit the task of the archaeologic architect to +that of supporting and consolidating walls. He was right. Everybody said +that he was wrong. He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival +triumphed. He bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son. +Jacques Dechartre was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do +not think that maternal tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a +charming fellow; but he is a spoiled child." + +"Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from +everything." + +"Do not rely on this. He has a tormented and tormenting imagination." + +"Does he like women?" + +"Why do you ask?" + +"Oh, it isn't with any idea of match-making." + +"Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men +really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison +with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede." + +Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful +with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles. + +"They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil," Paul Vence +continued. "I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams, +forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with +himself, pursuing his idea, absolutely incapable of listening to +anybody; she, studying her roles, her complexion burned by rouge, her +eyes tender, pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She +complained to me that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable. She +loved him and deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived +him, it was done on the spur of the moment. Afterward she never thought +of it. A typical woman! But she was imprudent; she smiled upon Joseph +Springer in the hope that he would make her a member of the Comedie +Francaise. Dechartre left her. Now she finds it more practical to live +with her managers, and Jacques finds it more agreeable to travel." + +"Does he regret her?" + +"How can one know the things that agitate a mind anxious and mobile, +selfish and passionate, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in +disengaging itself, liking itself most of all among the beautiful things +that it finds in the world?" + +Brusquely she changed the subject. + +"And your novel, Monsieur Vence?" + +"I have reached the last chapter, Madame. My little workingman has been +guillotined. He died with that indifference of virgins without desire, +who never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The +journals and the public approve the act of justice which has just been +accomplished. But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and +a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory murder." + +He rose and said good-night. + +She called him back. + +"Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me." + +When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his +red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge's cap framing his pale and +hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of +his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue, +a collection of the annual budgets. Before she could reach her room he +motioned that he wished to speak to her. + +"My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It +does you a great deal of harm. You intend to leave your home without any +reason, without even a pretext. And you wish to run through Europe with +whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard--that man Choulette." + +She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there +could be nothing objectionable. + +"But you announce your going to everybody, yet you do not even know +whether Madame Marmet can accompany you." + +"Oh, Madame Marmet will soon pack her boxes. Nothing keeps her in Paris +except her dog. She will leave it to you; you may take care of it." + +"Does your father know of your project?" + +It was his last resource to invoke the authority of Montessuy. He knew +that his wife feared to displease her father. He insisted: + +"Your father is full of sense and tact. I have been happy to find him +agreeing with me several times in the advices which I have permitted +myself to give you. He thinks as I do, that Madame Meillan's house is +not a fit place for you to visit. The company that meets there is mixed, +and the mistress of the house favors intrigue. You are wrong, I must +say, not to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your +father does not think it singular that you should go away with so much +frivolity, and the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since +circumstances have made me eminent in the course of this legislature. My +merit has nothing to do with the case, surely. But if you had consented +to listen to me at dinner I should have demonstrated to you that the +group of politicians to which I belong has almost reached power. In such +a moment you should not renounce your duties as mistress of the house. +You must understand this yourself." + +She replied "You annoy me." And, turning her back to him, she shut the +door of her room between them. That night in her bed she opened a book, +as she always did before going to sleep. It was a novel. She was turning +the leaves with indifference, when her eyes fell on these lines: + +"Love is like devotion: it comes late. A woman is hardly in love or +devout at twenty, unless she has a special disposition to be either, a +sort of native sanctity. Women who are predestined to love, themselves +struggle a long time against that grace of love which is more terrible +than the thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest +yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude does not +frighten her. Passion is an arid and burning desert. Passion is profane +asceticism, as harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as +rare as great penitent women. Those who know life well know that women +do not easily bind themselves in the chains of real love. They know that +nothing is less common than sacrifice among them. And consider how much +a worldly woman must sacrifice when she is in love--liberty, quietness, +the charming play of a free mind, coquetry, amusement, pleasure--she +loses everything. + +"Coquetry is permissible. One may conciliate that with all the +exigencies of fashionable life. Not so love. Love is the least mundane +of passions, the most anti-social, the most savage, the most barbarous. +So the world judges it more severely than mere gallantry or looseness +of manners. In one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays +her nature and fails in her function, which is to be admired by all men, +like a work of art. A woman is a work of art, the most marvellous that +man's industry ever has produced. A woman is a wonderful artifice, due +to the concourse of all the arts mechanical and of all the arts liberal. +She is the work of everybody, she belongs to the world." + +Therese closed the book and thought that these ideas were only the +dreams of novelists who did not know life. She knew very well that there +was in reality neither a Carmel of passion nor a chain of love, nor +a beautiful and terrible vocation against which the predestined +one resisted in vain; she knew very well that love was only a brief +intoxication from which one recovered a little sadder. And yet, perhaps, +she did not know everything; perhaps there were loves in which one was +deliciously lost. She put out her lamp. The dreams of her first youth +came back to her. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. A DISTINGUISHED RELICT + +It was raining. Madame Martin-Belleme saw confusedly through the glass +of her coupe the multitude of passing umbrellas, like black turtles +under the watery skies. She was thinking. Her thoughts were gray and +indistinct, like the aspect of the streets and the squares. + +She no longer knew why the idea had come to her to spend a month with +Miss Bell. Truly, she never had known. The idea had been like a spring, +at first hidden by leaves, and now forming the current of a deep and +rapid stream. She remembered that Tuesday night at dinner she had said +suddenly that she wished to go, but she could not remember the first +flush of that desire. It was not the wish to act toward Robert Le Menil +as he was acting toward her. Doubtless she thought it excellent to go +travelling in Italy while he went fox-hunting. This seemed to her a +fair arrangement. Robert, who was always pleased to see her when he came +back, would not find her on his return. She thought this would be right. +She had not thought of it at first. And since then she had thought +little of it, and really she was not going for the pleasure of making +him grieve. She had against him a thought less piquant, and more +harsh. She did not wish to see him soon. He had become to her almost +a stranger. He seemed to her a man like others--better than most +others--good-looking, estimable, and who did not displease her; but he +did not preoccupy her. Suddenly he had gone out of her life. She could +not remember how he had become mingled with it. The idea of belonging +to him shocked her. The thought that they might meet again in the small +apartment of the Rue Spontini was so painful to her that she discarded +it at once. She preferred to think that an unforeseen event would +prevent their meeting again--the end of the world, for example. M. +Lagrange, member of the Academie des Sciences, had told her the day +before of a comet which some day might meet the earth, envelop it with +its flaming hair, imbue animals and plants with unknown poisons, and +make all men die in a frenzy of laughter. She expected that this, or +something else, would happen next month. It was not inexplicable that +she wished to go. But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy, +that she should feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable +to her. + +Her carriage left her at the corner of a street. + +There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small, +neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband. + +Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite M. +Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had +remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet's +funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech +delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet thought +that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They dined together +often with rich friends. + +Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a +flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes +the good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told +her the day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her +whether she had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth +devoured by flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her +with affected gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were +not many books in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor. +It amazed one to see in this good lady's house that Etruscan warrior +wearing a green bronze helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of +bonbons, vases of gilded porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin, +picked up at Lucerne and on the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood, +had sold the books which her husband had left. Of all the ancient +objects collected by the archaeologist, she had retained nothing except +the Etruscan. Many persons had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had +obtained from the administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but +the good widow would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost +that warrior with his green bronze helmet she would lose the name that +she wore worthily, and would cease to be the widow of Louis Marmet of +the Academie des Inscriptions. + +"Do not be afraid, Madame; a comet will not soon strike the earth. Such +a phenomenon is very improbable." + +Madame Martin replied that she knew no serious reason why the earth and +humanity should not be annihilated at once. + +Old Lagrange exclaimed with profound sincerity that he hoped the +cataclysm would come as late as possible. + +She looked at him. His bald head could boast only a few hairs dyed +black. His eyelids fell like rags over eyes still smiling; his cheeks +hung in loose folds, and one divined that his body was equally withered. +She thought, "And even he likes life!" + +Madame Marmet hoped, too, that the end of the world was not near at +hand. + +"Monsieur Lagrange," said Madame Martin, "you live, do you not, in +a pretty little house, the windows of which overlook the Botanical +Gardens? It seems to me it must be a joy to live in that garden, which +makes me think of the Noah's Ark of my infancy, and of the terrestrial +paradises in the old Bibles." + +But he was not at all charmed with his house. It was small, unimproved, +infested with rats. + +She acknowledged that one seldom felt at home anywhere, and that rats +were found everywhere, either real or symbolical, legions of pests that +torment us. Yet she liked the Botanical Gardens; she had always wished +to go there, yet never had gone. There was also the museum, which she +was curious to visit. + +Smiling, happy, he offered to escort her there. He considered it his +house. He would show her rare specimens, some of which were superb. + +She did not know what a bolide was. She recalled that some one had +said to her that at the museum were bones carved by primitive men, and +plaques of ivory on which were engraved pictures of animals, which were +long ago extinct. She asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to +smile. He replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his +colleagues. + +"Ah!" said Madame Martin, "then they are not in your showcase." + +She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is +indiscreet to question them on things that are not in their own +showcases. It is true that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in +studying meteors. This had led him to study comets. But he was wise. For +twenty years he had been preoccupied by nothing except dining out. + +When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected +of her. + +"I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming +with me." + +The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent +for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. MADAME HAS HER WAY + +The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran, +and the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell +from the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came +and went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a +small rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one's hand. Countess +Martin and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under +the rack loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions. +Choulette had not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer. +Yet he had promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements +to go, and had received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices. +Paul Vence had brought him one evening to Madame Martin's house. He +had been sweet, polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had +promised herself much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius, +original, picturesquely ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child +prematurely old and abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree +of innocence. The doors closed. She expected him no longer. She should +not have counted on his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment +when the engine began to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was +looking out of the window, said, quietly: + +"I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming." + +He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his +head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost +repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so +clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been +retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express +the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist. When she saw him, +Therese regretted having invited so strange a companion. He walked +along, throwing a hasty glance into every carriage--a glance which, +little by little, became sullen and distrustful. But when he recognized +Madame Martin, he smiled so sweetly and said good-morning to her in so +caressing a voice that nothing was left of the ferocious old vagabond +walking on the quay, nothing except the old carpet-bag, the handles of +which were half broken. + +He placed it in the rack with great care, among the elegant bags +enveloped with gray cloth, beside which it looked conspicuously sordid. +It was studded with yellow flowers on a blood-colored background. + +He was soon perfectly at ease, and complimented Madame Martin on the +elegance of her travelling attire. + +"Excuse me, ladies," he added, "I was afraid I should be late. I went +to six o'clock mass at Saint Severin, my parish, in the Virgin Chapel, +under those pretty, but absurd columns that point toward heaven though +frail as reeds-like us, poor sinners that we are." + +"Ah," said Madame Martin, "you are pious to-day." + +And she asked him whether he wore the cordon of the order which he was +founding. He assumed a grave and penitent air. + +"I am afraid, Madame, that Monsieur Paul Vence has told you many absurd +stories about me. I have heard that he goes about circulating rumors +that my ribbon is a bell-rope--and of what a bell! I should be pained if +anybody believed so wretched a story. My ribbon, Madame, is a symbolical +ribbon. It is represented by a simple thread, which one wears under +one's clothes after a pauper has touched it, as a sign that poverty is +holy, and that it will save the world. There is nothing good except in +poverty; and since I have received the price of Les Blandices, I feel +that I am unjust and harsh. It is a good thing that I have placed in my +bag several of these mystic ribbons." + +And, pointing to the horrible carpet-bag: + +"I have also placed in it a host which a bad priest gave to me, the +works of Monsieur de Maistre, shirts, and several other things:" + +Madame Martin lifted her eyebrows, a little ill at ease. But the good +Madame Marmet retained her habitual placidity. + +As the train rolled through the homely scenes of the outskirts, that +black fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city, Choulette took +from his pocket an old book which he began to fumble. The writer, hidden +under the vagabond, revealed himself. Choulette, without wishing to +appear to be careful of his papers, was very orderly about them. He +assured himself that he had not lost the pieces of paper on which +he noted at the coffeehouse his ideas for poems, nor the dozen of +flattering letters which, soiled and spotted, he carried with him +continually, to read them to his newly-made companions at night. After +assuring himself that nothing was missing, he took from the book a +letter folded in an open envelope. He waved it for a while, with an air +of mysterious impudence, then handed it to the Countess Martin. It was +a letter of introduction from the Marquise de Rieu to a princess of the +House of France, a near relative of the Comte de Chambord, who, old and +a widow, lived in retirement near the gates of Florence. Having enjoyed +the effect which he expected to produce, he said that he should perhaps +visit the Princess; that she was a good person, and pious. + +"A truly great lady," he added, "who does not show her magnificence +in gowns and hats. She wears her chemises for six weeks, and sometimes +longer. The gentlemen of her train have seen her wear very dirty white +stockings, which fell around her heels. The virtues of the great queens +of Spain are revived in her. Oh, those soiled stockings, what real glory +there is in them!" + +He took the letter and put it back in his book. Then, arming himself +with a horn-handled knife, he began, with its point, to finish a figure +sketched in the handle of his stick. He complimented himself on it: + +"I am skilful in all the arts of beggars and vagabonds. I know how to +open locks with a nail, and how to carve wood with a bad knife." + +The head began to appear. It was the head of a thin woman, weeping. + +Choulette wished to express in it human misery, not simple and touching, +such as men of other times may have felt it in a world of mingled +harshness and kindness; but hideous, and reflecting the state of +ugliness created by the free-thinking bourgeois and the military +patriots of the French Revolution. According to him the present regime +embodied only hypocrisy and brutality. + +"Their barracks are a hideous invention of modern times. They date from +the seventeenth century. Before that time there were only guard-houses +where the soldiers played cards and told tales. Louis XIV was a +precursor of Bonaparte. But the evil has attained its plenitude since +the monstrous institution of the obligatory enlistment. The shame of +emperors and of republics is to have made it an obligation for men to +kill. In the ages called barbarous, cities and princes entrusted their +defence to mercenaries, who fought prudently. In a great battle only +five or six men were killed. And when knights went to the wars, at least +they were not forced to do it; they died for their pleasure. They were +good for nothing else. Nobody in the time of Saint Louis would have +thought of sending to battle a man of learning. And the laborer was +not torn from the soil to be killed. Nowadays it is a duty for a poor +peasant to be a soldier. He is exiled from his house, the roof of which +smokes in the silence of night; from the fat prairies where the oxen +graze; from the fields and the paternal woods. He is taught how to kill +men; he is threatened, insulted, put in prison and told that it is +an honor; and, if he does not care for that sort of honor, he is +fusilladed. He obeys because he is terrorized, and is of all domestic +animals the gentlest and most docile. We are warlike in France, and we +are citizens. Another reason to be proud, this being a citizen! For the +poor it consists in sustaining and preserving the wealthy in their power +and their laziness. The poor must work for this, in presence of the +majestic quality of the law which prohibits the wealthy as well as the +poor from sleeping under the bridges, from begging in the streets, and +from stealing bread. That is one of the good effects of the Revolution. +As this Revolution was made by fools and idiots for the benefit of those +who acquired national lands, and resulted in nothing but making the +fortune of crafty peasants and financiering bourgeois, the Revolution +only made stronger, under the pretence of making all men equal, the +empire of wealth. It has betrayed France into the hands of the men of +wealth. They are masters and lords. The apparent government, composed of +poor devils, is in the pay of the financiers. For one hundred years, in +this poisoned country, whoever has loved the poor has been considered +a traitor to society. A man is called dangerous when he says that there +are wretched people. There are laws against indignation and pity, and +what I say here could not go into print." + +Choulette became excited and waved his knife, while under the wintry +sunlight passed fields of brown earth, trees despoiled by winter, and +curtains of poplars beside silvery rivers. + +He looked with tenderness at the figure carved on his stick. + +"Here you are," he said, "poor humanity, thin and weeping, stupid with +shame and misery, as you were made by your masters--soldiers and men of +wealth." + +The good Madame Marmet, whose nephew was a captain in the artillery, was +shocked at the violence with which Choulette attacked the army. Madame +Martin saw in this only an amusing fantasy. Choulette's ideas did not +frighten her. She was afraid of nothing. But she thought they were a +little absurd. She did not think that the past had ever been better than +the present. + +"I believe, Monsieur Choulette, that men were always as they are to-day, +selfish, avaricious, and pitiless. I believe that laws and manners were +always harsh and cruel to the unfortunate." + +Between La Roche and Dijon they took breakfast in the dining-car, and +left Choulette in it, alone with his pipe, his glass of benedictine, and +his irritation. + +In the carriage, Madame Marmet talked with peaceful tenderness of +the husband she had lost. He had married her for love; he had written +admirable verses to her, which she had kept, and never shown to any one. +He was lively and very gay. One would not have thought it who had seen +him later, tired by work and weakened by illness. He studied until the +last moment. Two hours before he died he was trying to read again. +He was affectionate and kind. Even in suffering he retained all his +sweetness. Madame Martin said to her: + +"You have had long years of happiness; you have kept the reminiscence of +them; that is a share of happiness in this world." + +But good Madame Marmet sighed; a cloud passed over her quiet brow. + +"Yes," she said, "Louis was the best of men and the best of husbands. +Yet he made me very miserable. He had only one fault, but I suffered +from it cruelly. He was jealous. Good, kind, tender, and generous as he +was, this horrible passion made him unjust, ironical, and violent. I can +assure you that my behavior gave not the least cause for suspicion. I +was not a coquette. But I was young, fresh; I passed for beautiful. +That was enough. He would not let me go out alone, and would not let +me receive calls in his absence. Whenever we went to a reception, I +trembled in advance with the fear of the scene which he would make later +in the carriage." + +And the good Madame Marmet added, with a sigh: + +"It is true that I liked to dance. But I had to renounce going to balls; +it made him suffer too much." + +Countess Martin expressed astonishment. She had always imagined Marmet +as an old man, timid, and absorbed by his thoughts; a little ridiculous, +between his wife, plump, white, and amiable, and the skeleton wearing a +helmet of bronze and gold. But the excellent widow confided to her that, +at fifty-five years of age, when she was fifty-three, Louis was just as +jealous as on the first day of their marriage. + +And Therese thought that Robert had never tormented her with jealousy. +Was it on his part a proof of tact and good taste, a mark of confidence, +or was it that he did not love her enough to make her suffer? She did +not know, and she did not have the heart to try to know. She would have +to look through recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open. + +She murmured carelessly: + +"We long to be loved, and when we are loved we are tormented or +worried." + +The day was finished in reading and thinking. Choulette did not +reappear. Night covered little by little with its gray clouds the +mulberry-trees of the Dauphine. Madame Marmet went to sleep peacefully, +resting on herself as on a mass of pillows. Therese looked at her and +thought: + +"She is happy, since she likes to remember." + +The sadness of night penetrated her heart. And when the moon rose on +the fields of olive-trees, seeing the soft lines of plains and of hills +pass, Therese, in this landscape wherein everything spoke of peace and +oblivion, and nothing spoke of her, regretted the Seine, the Arc de +Triomphe with its radiating avenues, and the alleys of the park where, +at least, the trees and the stones knew her. + +Suddenly Choulette threw himself into the carriage. Armed with his +knotty stick, his face and head enveloped in red wool and a fur cap, +he almost frightened her. It was what he wished to do. His violent +attitudes and his savage dress were studied. Always seeking to produce +effects, it pleased him to seem frightful. + +He was a coward himself, and was glad to inspire the fears he often +felt. A moment before, as he was smoking his pipe, he had felt, while +seeing the moon swallowed up by the clouds, one of those childish +frights that tormented his light mind. He had come near the Countess to +be reassured. + +"Arles," he said. "Do you know Arles? It is a place of pure beauty. I +have seen, in the cloister, doves resting on the shoulders of statues, +and I have seen the little gray lizards warming themselves in the sun on +the tombs. The tombs are now in two rows on the road that leads to the +church. They are formed like cisterns, and serve as beds for the poor at +night. One night, when I was walking among them, I met a good old woman +who was placing dried herbs in the tomb of an old maid who had died +on her wedding-day. We said goodnight to her. She replied: 'May God +hear-you! but fate wills that this tomb should open on the side of the +northwest wind. If only it were open on the other side, I should be +lying as comfortably as Queen Jeanne.'" + +Therese made no answer. She was dozing. And Choulette shivered in the +cold of the night, in the fear of death. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE LADY OF THE BELLS + +In her English cart, which she drove herself, Miss Bell had brought +over the hills, from the railway station at Florence, the Countess +Martin-Belleme and Madame Marmet to her pink-tinted house at Fiesole, +which, crowned with a long balustrade, overlooked the incomparable city. +The maid followed with the luggage. Choulette, lodged, by Miss Bell's +attention, in the house of a sacristan's widow, in the shadow of the +cathedral of Fiesole, was not expected until dinner. Plain and gentle, +wearing short hair, a waistcoat, a man's shirt on a chest like a boy's, +almost graceful, with small hips, the poetess was doing for her French +friends the honors of the house, which reflected the ardent delicacy of +her taste. On the walls of the drawing-room were pale Virgins, with +long hands, reigning peacefully among angels, patriarchs, and saints in +beautiful gilded frames. On a pedestal stood a Magdalena, clothed only +with her hair, frightful with thinness and old age, some beggar of the +road to Pistoia, burned by the suns and the snows, whom some unknown +precursor of Donatello had moulded. And everywhere were Miss Bell's +chosen arms-bells and cymbals. The largest lifted their bronze clappers +at the angles of the room; others formed a chain at the foot of the +walls. Smaller ones ran along the cornices. There were bells over the +hearth, on the cabinets, and on the chairs. The shelves were full of +silver and golden bells. There were big bronze bells marked with the +Florentine lily; bells of the Renaissance, representing a lady wearing +a white gown; bells of the dead, decorated with tears and bones; bells +covered with symbolical animals and leaves, which had rung in the +churches in the time of St. Louis; table-bells of the seventeenth +century, having a statuette for a handle; the flat, clear cow-bells of +the Ruth Valley; Hindu bells; Chinese bells formed like cylinders--they +had come from all countries and all times, at the magic call of little +Miss Bell. + +"You look at my speaking arms," she said to Madame Martin. "I think +that all these Misses Bell are pleased to be here, and I should not be +astonished if some day they all began to sing together. But you must not +admire them all equally. Reserve your purest and most fervent praise for +this one." + +And striking with her finger a dark, bare bell which gave a faint sound: + +"This one," she said, "is a holy village-bell of the fifth century. She +is a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to +make the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show to +you a gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I bore +you, darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet. +It is wrong." + +She escorted them to their rooms. + +An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and +lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her. The +humid air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring. +Therese, resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light. At her +feet, the cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees +looked like sheep on the hills. In the valley, Florence extended its +domes, its towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which +the Arno showed its undulating line. Beyond were the soft blue hills. + +She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her +first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace. Then +the charming infinity of the sky attracted her. She looked at the forms +in the clouds. + +After a long silence, Vivian Bell extended her hand toward the horizon. + +"Darling, I do not know how to say what I wish. But look, darling, look +again. What you see there is unique in the world. Nature is nowhere else +so subtle, elegant, and fine. The god who made the hills of Florence +was an artist. Oh, he was a jeweller, an engraver, a sculptor, a +bronze-founder, and a painter; he was a Florentine. He did nothing else +in the world, darling. The rest was made by a hand less delicate, whose +work was less perfect. How can you think that that violet hill of San +Miniato, so firm and so pure in relief, was made by the author of Mont +Blanc? It is not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an antique +medal and of a precious painting. It is a perfect and measured work of +art. And here is another thing that I do not know how to say, that I +can not even understand, but which is a real thing. In this country I +feel--and you will feel as I do, darling--half alive and half dead; in +a condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look again; you +will realize the melancholy of those hills that surround Florence, and +see a delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead." + +The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the +mountain-peaks faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky. +Madame Marmet sneezed. + +Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the +evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous. + +Then suddenly she said: + +"Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that +he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre +is to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and +to the museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful +things, because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a +sculptor. His figures in medallions are admired more in England than in +France. Oh, I am so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet +at Florence, darling!" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND + +She next day, as they were traversing the square where are planted, in +imitation of antique amphitheatres, two marble pillars, Madame Marmet +said to the Countess Martin: + +"I think I see Monsieur Choulette." + +Seated in a shoemaker's shop, his pipe in his hand, Choulette was making +rhythmic gestures, and appeared to be reciting verses. The Florentine +cobbler listened with a kind smile. He was a little, bald man, and +represented one of the types familiar to Flemish painters. On a table, +among wooden lasts, nails, leather, and wax, a basilic plant displayed +its round green head. A sparrow, lacking a leg, which had been replaced +by a match, hopped on the old man's shoulder and head. + +Madame Martin, amused by this spectacle, called Choulette from the +threshold. He was softly humming a tune, and she asked him why he had +not gone with her to visit the Spanish chapel. + +He arose and replied: + +"Madame, you are preoccupied by vain images; but I live in life and in +truth." + +He shook the cobbler's hand and followed the two ladies. + +"While going to church," he said, "I saw this old man, who, bending over +his work, and pressing a last between his knees as in a vise, was sewing +coarse shoes. I felt that he was simple and kind. I said to him, in +Italian: 'My father, will you drink with me a glass of Chianti?' He +consented. He went for a flagon and some glasses, and I kept the shop." + +And Choulette pointed to two glasses and a flagon placed on a stove. + +"When he came back we drank together; I said vague but kind things to +him, and I charmed him by the sweetness of sounds. I will go again +to his shop; I will learn from him how to make shoes, and how to live +without desire. After which, I shall not be sad again. For desire and +idleness alone make us sad." + +The Countess Martin smiled. + +"Monsieur Choulette, I desire nothing, and, nevertheless, I am not +joyful. Must I make shoes, too?" + +Choulette replied, gravely: + +"It is not yet time for that." + +When they reached the gardens of the Oricellari, Madame Marmet sank on +a bench. She had examined at Santa Maria-Novella the frescoes of +Ghirlandajo, the stalls of the choir, the Virgin of Cimabue, the +paintings in the cloister. She had done this carefully, in memory of her +husband, who had greatly liked Italian art. She was tired. Choulette sat +by her and said: + +"Madame, could you tell me whether it is true that the Pope's gowns are +made by Worth?" + +Madame Marmet thought not. Nevertheless, Choulette had heard people say +this in cafes. Madame Marmet was astonished that Choulette, a Catholic +and a socialist, should speak so disrespectfully of a pope friendly to +the republic. But he did not like Leo XIII. + +"The wisdom of princes is shortsighted," he said; "the salvation of the +Church must come from the Italian republic, as Leo XIII believes and +wishes; but the Church will not be saved in the manner which this pious +Machiavelli thinks. The revolution will make the Pope lose his last +sou, with the rest of his patrimony. And it will be salvation. The +Pope, destitute and poor, will then become powerful. He will agitate the +world. We shall see again Peter, Lin, Clet, Anaclet, and Clement; the +humble, the ignorant; men like the early saints will change the face +of the earth. If to-morrow, in the chair of Peter, came to sit a real +bishop, a real Christian, I would go to him, and say: 'Do not be an +old man buried alive in a golden tomb; quit your noble guards and your +cardinals; quit your court and its similacrums of power. Take my arm and +come with me to beg for your bread among the nations. Covered with rags, +poor, ill, dying, go on the highways, showing in yourself the image of +Jesus. Say, "I am begging my bread for the condemnation of the wealthy." +Go into the cities, and shout from door to door, with a sublime +stupidity, "Be humble, be gentle, be poor!" Announce peace and charity +to the cities, to the dens, and to the barracks. You will be disdained; +the mob will throw stones at you. Policemen will drag you into prison. +You shall be for the humble as for the powerful, for the poor as for +the rich, a subject of laughter, an object of disgust and of pity. Your +priests will dethrone you, and elevate against you an anti-pope, or will +say that you are crazy. And it is necessary that they should tell the +truth; it is necessary that you should be crazy; the lunatics have +saved the world. Men will give to you the crown of thorns and the reed +sceptre, and they will spit in your face, and it is by that sign that +you will appear as Christ and true king; and it is by such means that +you will establish Christian socialism, which is the kingdom of God on +earth.'" + +Having spoken in this way, Choulette lighted one of those long and +tortuous Italian cigars, which are pierced with a straw. He drew from it +several puffs of infectious vapor, then he continued, tranquilly: + +"And it would be practical. You may refuse to acknowledge any quality in +me except my clear view of situations. Ah, Madame Marmet, you will +never know how true it is that the great works of this world were always +achieved by madmen. Do you think, Madame Martin, that if Saint Francis +of Assisi had been reasonable, he would have poured upon the earth, +for the refreshment of peoples, the living water of charity and all the +perfumes of love?" + +"I do not know," replied Madame Martin; "but reasonable people have +always seemed to me to be bores. I can say this to you, Monsieur +Choulette." + +They returned to Fiesole by the steam tramway which goes up the hill. +The rain fell. Madame Marmet went to sleep and Choulette complained. All +his ills came to attack him at once: the humidity in the air gave him +a pain in the knee, and he could not bend his leg; his carpet-bag, lost +the day before in the trip from the station to Fiesole, had not been +found, and it was an irreparable disaster; a Paris review had just +published one of his poems, with typographical errors as glaring as +Aphrodite's shell. + +He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile, +absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened, +thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found +Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of +parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses +which she had composed in the night. At her friend's coming she raised +her little face, plain but illuminated by splendid eyes. + +"Darling, permit me to introduce to you the Prince Albertinelli." + +The Prince possessed a certain youthful, godlike beauty, that his black +beard intensified. He bowed. + +"Madame, you would make one love France, if that sentiment were not +already in our hearts." + +The Countess and Choulette asked Miss Bell to read to them the verses +she was writing. She excused herself from reciting her uncertain cadence +to the French poet, whom she liked best after Francois Villon. Then she +recited in her pretty, hissing, birdlike voice. + +"That is very pretty," said Choulette, "and bears the mark of Italy +softly veiled by the mists of Thule." + +"Yes," said the Countess Martin, "that is pretty. But why, dear Vivian, +did your two beautiful innocents wish to die?" + +"Oh, darling, because they felt as happy as possible, and desired +nothing more. It was discouraging, darling, discouraging. How is it that +you do not understand that?" + +"And do you think that if we live the reason is that we hope?" + +"Oh, yes. We live in the hope of what to-morrow, tomorrow, king of the +land of fairies, will bring in his black mantle studded with stars, +flowers, and tears. Oh, bright king, To-morrow!" + + + + +BOOK 2. + + + + +CHAPTER X. DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE + +They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was sketching +monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know what they +would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express rare ideas +in odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in this way +that she often found her inspiration. + +Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian 'O Lola'! His +soft fingers hardly touched the keys. + +Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles +that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a +needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and +which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the +strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought +he had lost it in the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti +Palace; and he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian +painters. + +Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said: + +"I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my +hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the reason +why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the +farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not +more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than +myself. The sacristan's widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not +permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work +which we can do ourselves with noble pride." + +The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who +for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company +of Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which her companion +caused her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances +to persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the +frescoes of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M. +Schmoll, the Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback. +She was terrified at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas +back to her little circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an +easy turn, which irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice +the public meetings at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne, +the evening receptions where shone the worldly and the spiritualist +philosophers. As for the women, they were all charming and +irreproachable. She dined with all of them. And Therese thought: "She +is too prudent. She bores me." And she thought of leaving her at Fiesole +and visiting the churches alone. Employing a word that Le Menil had +taught her, she said to herself: + +"I will 'plant' Madame Marmet." + +A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his white +imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed, +under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and +voluptuousness. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the +Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now celebrated +in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess +Martin at once. She questioned him on his methods, and on the results +he obtained from them. He said that he worked with prudent energy. "The +earth," he said, "is like women. The earth does not wish one to treat +it with either timidity or brutality." The Ave Maria rang in all +the campaniles, seeming to make of the sky an immense instrument of +religious music. "Darling," said Miss Bell, "do you observe that the air +of Florence is made sonorous and silvery at night by the sound of the +bells?" + +"It is singular," said Choulette, "we have the air of people who are +waiting for something." + +Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a +little late; she feared he had missed the train. + +Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely "Madame Marmet, +is it possible for you to look at a door--a simple, painted, wooden +door like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like any +other--without being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor who +might, at any moment, come in? The door of one's room, Madame Marmet, +opens on the infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one ever +know the true name of the man or woman, who, under a human guise, with a +known face, in ordinary clothes, comes into one's house?" + +He added that when he was closeted in his room he could not look at the +door without feeling his hair stand on end. But Madame Marmet saw the +doors of her rooms open without fear. She knew the name of every one who +came to see her--charming persons. + +Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: "Madame +Marmet, those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names +which you do not know, and which are their real names." + +Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to +cross the threshold in order to enter one's life. + +"Misfortune is ingenious and subtle. It comes by the window, it goes +through walls. It does not always show itself, but it is always there. +The poor doors are innocent of the coming of that unwelcome visitor." + +Choulette warned Madame Martin severely that she should not call +misfortune an unwelcome visitor. + +"Misfortune is our greatest master and our best friend. Misfortune +teaches us the meaning of life. Madame, when you suffer, you know what +you must know; you believe what you must believe; you do what you must +do; you are what you must be. And you shall have joy, which pleasure +expels. True joy is timid, and does not find pleasure among a +multitude." + +Prince Albertinelli said that Miss Bell and her French friends did not +need to be unfortunate in order to be perfect, and that the doctrine of +perfection reached by suffering was a barbarous cruelty, held in horror +under the beautiful sky of Italy. When the conversation languished, +he prudently sought again at the piano the phrases of the graceful and +banal Sicilian air, fearing to slip into an air of Trovatore, which was +written in the same manner. + +Vivian Bell questioned the monsters she had created, and complained of +their absurd replies. + +"At this moment," she said, "I should like to hear speak only figures +on tapestries which should say tender things, ancient and precious as +themselves." + +And the handsome Prince, carried away by the flood of melody, sang. His +voice displayed itself like a peacock's plumage, and died in spasms of +"ohs" and "ahs." + +The good Madame Marmet, her eyes fixed on the door, said: + +"I think that Monsieur Dechartre is coming." + +He came in, animated, with joy on his usually grave face. + +Miss Bell welcomed him with birdlike cries. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, we were impatient to see you. Monsieur Choulette +was talking evil of doors--yes, of doors of houses; and he was saying +also that misfortune is a very obliging old gentleman. You have lost +all these beautiful things. You have made us wait very long, Monsieur +Dechartre. Why?" + +He apologized; he had taken only the time to go to his hotel and change +his dress. He had not even gone to bow to his old friend the bronze San +Marco, so imposing in his niche on the San Michele wall. He praised the +poetess and saluted the Countess Martin with joy hardly concealed. + +"Before quitting Paris I went to your house, where I was told you had +gone to wait for spring at Fiesole, with Miss Bell. I then had the hope +of finding you in this country, which I love now more than ever." + +She asked him whether he had gone to Venice, and whether he had seen +again at Ravenna the empresses wearing aureolas, and the phantoms that +had formerly dazzled him. + +No, he had not stopped anywhere. + +She said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the wall, on +the St. Paulin bell. + +He said to her: + +"You are looking at the Nolette." + +Vivian Bell laid aside her papers and her pencils. + +"You shall soon see a marvel, Monsieur Dechartre. I have found the queen +of small bells. I found it at Rimini, in an old building in ruins, which +is used as a warehouse. I bought it and packed it myself. I am waiting +for it. You shall see. It bears a Christ on a cross, between the Virgin +and Saint John, the date of 1400, and the arms of Malatesta--Monsieur +Dechartre, you are not listening enough. Listen to me attentively. In +1400 Lorenzo Ghiberti, fleeing from war and the plague, took refuge at +Rimini, at Paola Malatesta's house. It was he that modelled the figures +of my bell. And you shall see here, next week, Ghiberti's work." + +The servant announced that dinner was served. + +Miss Bell apologized for serving to them Italian dishes. Her cook was a +poet of Fiesole. + +At table, before the fiascani enveloped with corn straw, they talked of +the fifteenth century, which they loved. Prince Albertinelli praised the +artists of that epoch for their universality, for the fervent love they +gave to their art, and for the genius that devoured them. He talked with +emphasis, in a caressing voice. + +Dechartre admired them. But he admired them in another way. + +"To praise in a becoming manner," he said, "those men, who worked so +heartily, the praise should be modest and just. They should be placed in +their workshops, in the shops where they worked as artisans. It is +there that one may admire their simplicity and their genius. They were +ignorant and rude. They had read little and seen little. The hills that +surround Florence were the boundary of their horizon. They knew +only their city, the Holy Scriptures, and some fragments of antique +sculptures, studied and caressed lovingly." + +"You are right," said Professor Arrighi. "They had no other care than to +use the best processes. Their minds bent only on preparing varnish and +mixing colors. The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel, +in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split, +passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae." + +"Happy time," said Dechartre, "when nobody troubled himself about that +originality for which we are so avidly seeking to-day. The apprentice +tried to work like the master. He had no other ambition than to resemble +him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the +others. They worked not for glory, but to live." + +"They were right," said Choulette. "Nothing is better than to work for a +living." + +"The desire to attain fame," continued Dechartre, "did not trouble them. +As they did not know the past, they did not conceive the future; and +their dream did not go beyond their lives. They exercised a powerful +will in working well. Being simple, they made few mistakes, and saw the +truth which our intelligence conceals from us." + +Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he +had made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom +the Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction. He liked +to impress upon people the fact that he, the Bohemian and vagabond, had +been received by that royal Princess, at whose house neither Miss +Bell nor the Countess Martin would have been admitted, and whom Prince +Albertinelli prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony. + +"She devotes herself," said the Prince, "to the practices of piety." + +"She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity," said Choulette. +"In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes +the most rigorous etiquette to be observed, so that her grandeur is +almost a penance, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the +church. It is a village church, where the chickens roam, while the +'cure' plays briscola with the sacristan." + +And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a +servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely: + +"After waiting in consecutive anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss +her hand." + +And he stopped. + +Madame Martin asked, impatiently: + +"What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility +and her simplicity?" + +"She said to me: 'Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently +new and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.' She +said also 'We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are not +better. He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous plaster which +has not yet come off.' Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned +to address to me. O simple grandeur! O Christian virtue! O daughter +of Saint Louis! O marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of +Hungary!" + +Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he +denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin +was wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people +were always jesting. + +Then they reverted to the subject of art, which in that country is +inhaled with the air. + +"As for me," said the Countess Martin, "I am not learned enough to +admire Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that +art of the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen +piety and purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they +are very pretty. The rest, those figures of Virgins and angels, are +voluptuous, caressing, and at times perversely ingenuous. What is there +religious in those young Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint +Sebastian, brilliant with youth, who seems merely the dolorous Bacchus +of Christianity?" + +Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be +right, she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and, +finding no piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all. + +"There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half +a Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect of Epicurus, and who +sought for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti +disdained the ignorant folk who believed in the immortality of the soul. +The following phrase by him was quoted: 'The death of man is exactly +similar to that of brutes.' Later, when antique beauty was excavated +from ruins, the Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that +worked in the churches and cloisters were neither devout nor chaste. +Perugino was an atheist, and did not conceal it." + +"Yes," said Miss Bell; "but it was said that his head was hard, and that +celestial truths, could not penetrate his thick cranium. He was harsh +and avaricious, and quite embedded in material interests. He thought +only of buying houses." + +Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia. + +"He was," he said, "an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of +Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk practised the art +of manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned +lapis-lazuli. Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the +prior, who doubtless had a secret, esteemed it more precious than rubies +or sapphires. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of +his convent, and he expected marvels, less from the skilfulness of the +master than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During +all the time that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history +of Jesus Christ, the prior kept by his side and presented to him the +precious powder in a bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it, +under the saintly man's eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his +brush, loaded with color, in a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall +with it. He used in that manner a great quantity of the powder. And the +good father, seeing his bag getting thinner, sighed: 'Jesus! How that +lime devours the ultramarine!' When the frescoes were finished, and +Perugino had received from the monk the agreed price, he placed in +his hand a package of blue powder: 'This is for you, father. Your +ultramarine which I took with my brush fell to the bottom of my cup, +whence I gathered it every day. I return it to you. Learn to trust +honest people." + +"Oh," said Therese, "there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that +Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the +least scrupulous. There are many misers who are honest." + +"Naturally, darling," said Miss Bell. "Misers do not wish to owe +anything, and prodigal people can bear to have debts. They do not think +of the money they have, and they think less of the money they owe. I +did not say that Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property. +I said that he had a hard business head and that he bought houses. I am +very glad to hear that he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the +Gesuati." + +"Since your Pietro was rich," said Choulette, "it was his duty to return +the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are +not." + +At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver +bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase +which Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage, +after meals. + +"I wash my hands," he said, "of the evil that Madame Martin does or may +do by her speech, or otherwise." + +And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor +Arrighi. + +In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee: + +"Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn us to the savage sadness of +equality? Why, Daphnis's flute would not be melodious if it were made of +seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between +masters and servants, aristocrats and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad +barbarian, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in +need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this +world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate her, nude and +in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor +little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to +abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in +society, the humble with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor +and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race." + +"Enemies of the human race!" replied Choulette, while stirring his +coffee. "That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied to the Christians +who talked of divine love to him." + +Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes +about art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times +prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he +had seen, to love all that he loved. + +He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of +spring. He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw +already the light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow +of laurel-trees falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of +Florence had nothing more to do than to serve as an adornment to this +young woman. + +He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics +of her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which +every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and +living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never +forgets. + +Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which had +pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure +taste. But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the +compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling +only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious details +of it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air. +She was resigned to the appreciation of women only, and these had in +their appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic +admiration of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received +agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was +too intimate and almost indiscreet. + +"So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?" + +No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, even +now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He found +no pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a woman having +rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her. + +He continued, in a tone a little more elevated: + +"I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day, +without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She +dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We +must, like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. To paint, +carve, or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit." + +"Monsieur Dechartre," asked Prince Albertinelli, "how do you think a +mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?" + +"I think," said Choulette, "so little of a terrestrial future, that I +have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, +leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence." + +He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never +lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not +desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put +into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be +accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are +to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what +is, and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur +Dechartre? Beware, for God may hear you." + +Dechartre replied: + +"It would be enough for me to live one moment more." + +And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort +Madame Martin to the Brancacci chapel. + +An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon +citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, +her head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her +head, was thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her +new life: Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light +as shadows, ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a +little sad, and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the +Prince Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of +ideas, and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face. + +She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those +that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer +tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She +discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful +to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered. +She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being. +She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. +He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could +not see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She +was not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went straight +on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only +a black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps she had +been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell, +without even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. She never +had had another. "I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me," +she thought. + +Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was +not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said +to herself: + +"He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he +admires." She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety +of Florence. She had seen casually, at the Offices, a picture that +Dechartre liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein +Leonardo, the sculptor said, had expressed the minute profundity and +tragic refinement of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting +that she had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and +went to sleep. + +She dreamed that she met in a deserted church Robert Le Menil enveloped +in furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a +crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of +him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and +heard at the open window a sad, monotonous cry, and saw a humming-bird +darting about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began +to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. "THE DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE" + +She took pleasure in dressing early, with delicate and subtle taste. Her +dressing-room, an aesthetic fantasy of Vivian Bell, with its coarsely +varnished pottery, its tall copper pitchers, and its faience pavement, +like a chess-board, resembled a fairy's kitchen. It was rustic and +marvellous, and the Countess Martin could have in it the agreeable +surprise of mistaking herself for a fairy. While her maid was dressing +her hair, she heard Dechartre and Choulette talking under her windows. +She rearranged all the work Pauline had done, and uncovered the line of +her nape, which was fine and pure. She looked at herself in the glass, +and went into the garden. + +Dechartre was there, reciting verses of Dante, and looking at Florence: +"At the hour when our mind, a greater stranger to the flesh..." + +Near him, Choulette, seated on the balustrade of the terrace, his legs +hanging, and his nose in his beard, was still at work on the figure of +Misery on his stick. + +Dechartre resumed the rhymes of the canticle: "At the hour when our +mind, a greater stranger to the flesh; and less under the obsession of +thoughts, is almost divine in its visions,..." + +She approached beside the boxwood hedge, holding a parasol and dressed +in a straw-colored gown. The faint sunlight of winter enveloped her in +pale gold. + +Dechartre greeted her joyfully. + +She said: + +"You are reciting verses that I do not know. I know only Metastasio. My +teacher liked only Metastasio. What is the hour when the mind has divine +visions?" + +"Madame, that hour is the dawn of the day. It may be also the dawn of +faith and of love." + +Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave +at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether +strangers to the flesh. But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the +pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the +golden hills. He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images +that one sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not +related to the object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the +contrary, to ideas abandoned during the day. + +Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket. + +"Yes," said Dechartre, "the things we see at night are unfortunate +remains of what we have neglected the day before. Dreams avenge things +one has disdained. They are reproaches of abandoned friends. Hence their +sadness." + +She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said: + +"That is perhaps true." + +Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait +of Misery on his stick. Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and +Choulette recognized the Virgin in it. He had even composed a quatrain +which he was to write on it in spiral form--a didactic and moral +quatrain. He would cease to write, except in the style of the +commandments of God rendered into French verses. The four lines +expressed simplicity and goodness. He consented to recite them. + +Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the +distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa, +almost as blue as the sky. Jacques Dechartre looked at her. It seemed +to him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he +discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested +with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace. The +daylight which she liked, was indulgent to her. And truly she was +pretty, bathed in that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms +and feeds noble thoughts. A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded +cheeks; her eyes, bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the +brilliancy of her teeth set off her lips of ardent sweetness. His look +embraced her supple bust, her full hips, and the bold attitude of her +waist. She held her parasol with her left hand, the other hand played +with violets. Dechartre had a mania for beautiful hands. Hands presented +to his eyes a physiognomy as striking as the face--a character, a soul. +These hands enchanted him. They were exquisite. He adored their slender +fingers, their pink nails, their palms soft and tender, traversed by +lines as elegant as arabesques, and rising at the base of the fingers +in harmonious mounts. He examined them with charmed attention until she +closed them on the handle of her umbrella. Then, standing behind her, he +looked at her again. Her bust and arms, graceful and pure in line, her +beautiful form, which was like that of a living amphora, pleased him. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens, +is it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many +flowers in them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees." + +It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of +her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it. + +He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but +felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened, +seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things: + +"That view is beautiful, The weather is fine." + + + + +CHAPTER XII. HEARTS AWAKENED + +In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking +of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of +the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy, +who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the +illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and +resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in +language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the +adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark +and blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning +more charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those +magnificent forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was +through him, that she understood art and life. She took no interest in +things that did not interest him. How had this affection come to her? +She had no precise remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul +Vence wished to introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him, +no presentiment that he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze +statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked +at the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel's. But she did not imagine +that he could be agreeable to her, or more seductive than many artists +and lovers of art at whom she laughed with her friends. When she saw +him, he pleased her; she had a desire to attract him, to see him often. +The night he dined at her house she realized that she had for him a +noble and elevating affection. But soon after he irritated her a little; +it made her impatient to see him closeted within himself and too little +preoccupied by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in that +state of impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the grille +of the Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and of the +Empress seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him serious +and charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the night, +but too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had felt +a sort of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along the +boxwood bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every day +or never to see him again. + +Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near +her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new. +He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened +in her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was +determined never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her +lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her. For a moment +she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer, +exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without +being exacting. But she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea. +If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare +to think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and +closing her eyes. + +She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when +Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope +marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the +handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only +astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, +when the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson. + +In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without +saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to +Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was +happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two +or three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he +regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her +house. + +"I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He +said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at +Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale +and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not +wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in +persuading you. + +"I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary, +that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter +resort. I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it. +Reassure me at once, I pray you. + +"Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your +husband and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it +annoys him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in +Paris. I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister. +This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among +fashionable people." + +Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three +fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal +which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand. + +In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He +feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under +these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be +taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be +very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return +soon. + +Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire, +and calmly watched it burn. + +Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had +complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer? +Should she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so +indifferent to her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she +had no desire to be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle +toward him! Seeing that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn +tranquillity, she became sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was +the same man he had been before. She was not the same woman. They were +separated now by imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in +the air that make one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she +had not begun to write an answer. + +Anxious, she thought: "He trusts me. He suspects nothing." This made her +more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were +simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others. + +She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The +latter said: + +"Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you? +Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls +naturally expressed." + +Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend's shoulder, and +said: + +"May I look?" + +"Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the +popular songs of your country." + +"Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me." + +"Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several +meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very +clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly +disengage one's self from what one has taken into the heart." + +The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the +Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was +to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along +the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism. +As they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and +terraces ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend +the villa, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers +of the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and +diverted one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then +she confessed the thought which had come to her the day before. + +"You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had +left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate +and polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of +distinction who live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my +cook Pompaloni does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them, +but he puts the salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet's tongue is very +sweet, but the salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like +Pompaloni's dish, my love--each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like +Madame Marmet a great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found +her alone and sad in a corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking +mournfully of her husband. I said to her: 'Do you wish me to think of +your husband, too? I will think of him with you. I have been told that +he was a learned man, a member of the Royal Society of Paris. Madame +Marmet, talk to me of him.' She replied that he had devoted himself +to the Etruscans, and that he had given to them his entire life. Oh, +darling, I cherished at once the memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who +lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to me. I said to +Madame Marmet, 'We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, a modest +little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?' She +replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to +the Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze +figures, grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were +a seriously gay people. They made bronze caricatures. But the +monkeys--some afflicted with big stomachs, others astonished to show +their bones--Madame Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration. She +contemplated them like--there is a beautiful French word that escapes +me--like the monuments and the trophies of Monsieur Marmet." + +Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull, +the streets ugly, the passers-by common. + +"Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his +palace." + +"I do not think so." + +"Why, darling, why?" + +"Because I do not please him much." + +Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great +admirer of the Countess Martin. + +The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade +were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held +rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the +most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The +Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons into +the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not +an attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio +Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now +fallen, had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering +the works of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin +several paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a +Mantegna. + +The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection; +she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the +darkness a bit of armor and a white horse. + +A valet presented a card. + +The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he +was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression +of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors. +Dechartre was on the staircase. + +The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero, +but Antinous. + +"I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace," said +Miss Bell. "I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery." + +And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. +Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. + +Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old +men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable +tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to +her, in a low tone: + +"This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world +hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that +Jews could not sell." + +He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green +velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo. + +"I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London, +of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that +it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to +sell it for fifty thousand francs." + +The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully. + +"There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm +that this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old +inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about +it." + +And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures +by the pre-Raphaelites. + +Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese. +He had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again, +delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had +imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and +also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed +cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her; +that he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He +murmured bitterly in her ear: "I have reflected. I did not wish to come. +Why did I come?" She understood at once what he meant, that he feared +her now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her +that he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the +desires he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to +understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and +look at bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not +interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt +reassured, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived +the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said "No, +nothing interesting." The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to +breakfast, asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused +himself. He was about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found +himself alone with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away +from her. He had no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled +to her that she was the next morning to visit the Bargello. "You have +permitted me to accompany you." She asked him if he had not found her +moody and tiresome. Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he +feared she was sad. + +"Alas," he added, "your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know +them." She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. "You do not think +that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?" And she walked away +brusquely. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. "YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!" + +After dinner, in the salon of the bells, under the lamps from which +the great shades permitted only an obscure light to filter, good Madame +Marmet was warming herself by the hearth, with a white cat on her knees. +The evening was cool. Madame Martin, her eyes reminiscent of the golden +light, the violet peaks, and the ancient trees of Florence, smiled with +happy fatigue. She had gone with Miss Bell, Dechartre, and Madame Marmet +to the Chartrist convent of Ema. And now, in the intoxication of her +visions, she forgot the care of the day before, the importunate +letters, the distant reproaches, and thought of nothing in the world +but cloisters chiselled and painted, villages with red roofs, and roads +where she saw the first blush of spring. Dechartre had modelled for Miss +Bell a waxen figure of Beatrice. Vivian was painting angels. Softly bent +over her, Prince Albertinelli caressed his beard and threw around him +glances that appeared to seek admiration. + +Replying to a reflection of Vivian Bell on marriage and love: + +"A woman must choose," he said. "With a man whom women love her heart is +not quiet. With a man whom the women do not love she is not happy." + +"Darling," asked Miss Bell, "what would you wish for a friend dear to +you?" + +"I should wish, Vivian, that my friend were happy. I should wish +also that she were quiet. She should be quiet in hatred of treason, +humiliating suspicions, and mistrust." + +"But, darling, since the Prince has said that a woman can not have at +the same time happiness and security, tell me what your friend should +choose." + +"One never chooses, Vivian; one never chooses. Do not make me say what I +think of marriage." + +At this moment Choulette appeared, wearing the magnificent air of those +beggars of whom small towns are proud. He had played briscola with +peasants in a coffeehouse of Fiesole. + +"Here is Monsieur Choulette," said Miss Bell. "He will teach what we are +to think of marriage. I am inclined to listen to him as to an oracle. He +does not see the things that we see, and he sees things that we do not +see. Monsieur Choulette, what do you think of marriage?" + +He took a seat and lifted in the air a Socratic finger: + +"Are you speaking, Mademoiselle, of the solemn union between man and +woman? In this sense, marriage is a sacrament. But sometimes, alas! it +is almost a sacrilege. As for civil marriage, it is a formality. The +importance given to it in our society is an idiotic thing which would +have made the women of other times laugh. We owe this prejudice, like +many others, to the bourgeois, to the mad performances of a lot of +financiers which have been called the Revolution, and which seem +admirable to those that have profited by it. Civil marriage is, in +reality, only registry, like many others which the State exacts in order +to be sure of the condition of persons: in every well organized state +everybody must be indexed. Morally, this registry in a big ledger has +not even the virtue of inducing a wife to take a lover. Who ever thinks +of betraying an oath taken before a mayor? In order to find joy in +adultery, one must be pious." + +"But, Monsieur," said Therese, "we were married at the church." + +Then, with an accent of sincerity: + +"I can not understand how a man ever makes up his mind to marry; nor how +a woman, after she has reached an age when she knows what she is doing, +can commit that folly." + +The Prince looked at her with distrust. He was clever, but he was +incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object, +disinterestedly, and to express general ideas. He imagined that Countess +Martin-Belleme was suggesting to him projects that she wished him to +consider. And as he was thinking of defending himself and also avenging +himself, he made velvet eyes at her and talked with tender gallantry: + +"You display, Madame, the pride of the beautiful and intelligent French +women whom subjection irritates. French women love liberty, and none of +them is as worthy of liberty as you. I have lived in France a little. +I have known and admired the elegant society of Paris, the salons, the +festivals, the conversations, the plays. But in our mountains, under our +olive-trees, we become rustic again. We assume golden-age manners, and +marriage is for us an idyl full of freshness." + +Vivian Bell examined the statuette which Dechartre had left on the +table. + +"Oh! it was thus that Beatrice looked, I am sure. And do you know, +Monsieur Dechartre, there are wicked men who say that Beatrice never +existed?" + +Choulette declared he wished to be counted among those wicked men. He +did not believe that Beatrice had any more reality than other ladies +through whom ancient poets who sang of love represented some scholastic +idea, ridiculously subtle. + +Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself, jealous of Dante +as of the universe, a refined man of letters, Choulette continued: + +"I suspect that the little sister of the angels never lived, except in +the imagination of the poet. It seems a pure allegory, or, rather, an +exercise in arithmetic or a theme of astrology. Dante, who was a good +doctor of Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his +pointed cap--Dante believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed +mathematician dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of +arithmetic, that is all." + +And he lighted his pipe. + +Vivian Bell exclaimed: + +"Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much, +and if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased +with you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the +canticle in which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the +Divine Comedy, Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table. +Open it and read it." + +During the Prince's reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near +Countess Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor +among the poets. He recalled to Therese the painting they had seen +together two days before, on the door of the Servi, a fresco almost +obliterated, where one hardly divined the presence of the poet wearing a +laurel wreath, Florence, and the seven circles. This was enough to exalt +the artist. But she had distinguished nothing, she had not been moved. +And then she confessed that Dante did not attract her. Dechartre, +accustomed to her sharing all his ideas of art and poetry, felt +astonishment and some discontent. He said, aloud: + +"There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel." + +Miss Bell, lifting her head, asked what were these things that "darling" +did not feel; and when she learned that it was the genius of Dante, she +exclaimed, in mock anger: + +"Oh, do you not honor the father, the master worthy of all praise, the +god? I do not love you any more, darling. I detest you." + +And, as a reproach to Choulette and to the Countess Martin, she recalled +the piety of that citizen of Florence who took from the altar the +candles that had been lighted in honor of Christ, and placed them before +the bust of Dante. + +The Prince resumed his interrupted reading. Dechartre persisted in +trying to make Therese admire what she did not know. Certainly he would +have easily sacrificed Dante and all the poets of the universe for her. +But near him, tranquil, and an object of desire, she irritated him, +almost without his realizing it, by the charm of her laughing beauty. He +persisted in imposing on her his ideas, his artistic passions, even his +fantasy, and his capriciousness. He insisted in a low tone, in phrases +concise and quarrelsome. She said: + +"Oh, how violent you are!" + +Then he bent to her ear, and in an ardent voice, which he tried to +soften: + +"You must take me with my own soul!" + +Therese felt a shiver of fear mingled with joy. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE AVOWAL + +She next day she said to herself that she would reply to Robert. It was +raining. She listened languidly to the drops falling on the terrace. +Vivian Bell, careful and refined, had placed on the table artistic +stationery, sheets imitating the vellum of missals, others of pale +violet powdered with silver dust; celluloid pens, white and light, which +one had to manage like brushes; an iris ink which, on a page, spread a +mist of azure and gold. Therese did not like such delicacy. It seemed +to her not appropriate for letters which she wished to make simple and +modest. When she saw that the name of "friend," given to Robert on +the first line, placed on the silvery paper, tinted itself like +mother-of-pearl, a half smile came to her lips. The first phrases were +hard to write. She hurried the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell +and of Prince Albertinelli, a little of Choulette, and that she had seen +Dechartre at Florence. She praised some pictures of the museums, but +without discrimination, and only to fill the pages. She knew that Robert +had no appreciation of painting; that he admired nothing except a little +cuirassier by Detaille, bought at Goupil's. + +She saw again in her mind this cuirassier, which he had shown to her +one day, with pride, in his bedroom, near the mirror, under family +portraits. All this, at a distance, seemed to her petty and tiresome. +She finished her letter with words of friendship, the sweetness of which +was not feigned. Truly, she had never felt more peaceful and gentle +toward her lover. In four pages she had said little and explained less. +She announced only that she should stay a month in Florence, the air of +which did her good. Then she wrote to her father, to her husband, and to +Princess Seniavine. She went down the stairway with the letters in her +hand. In the hall she threw three of them on the silver tray destined +to receive papers for the post-office. Mistrusting Madame Marmet, she +slipped into her pocket the letter to Le Menil, counting on chance to +throw it into a post-box. + +Almost at the same time Dechartre came to accompany the three friends +in a walk through the city. As he was waiting he saw the letters on the +tray. + +Without believing that characters could be divined through penmanship, +he was susceptible to the form of letters as to elegance of drawing. The +writing of Therese charmed him, and he liked its openness, the bold and +simple turn of its lines. He looked at the addresses without reading +them, with an artist's admiration. + +They visited, that morning, Santa Maria Novella, where the Countess +Martin had already gone with Madame Marmet. But Miss Bell had reproached +them for not observing the beautiful Ginevra of Benci on a fresco of the +choir. "You must visit that figure of the morning in a morning light," +said Vivian. While the poetess and Therese were talking together, +Dechartre listened patiently to Madame Marmet's conversation, filled +with anecdotes, wherein academicians dined with elegant women, and +shared the anxiety of that lady, much preoccupied for several days by +the necessity to buy a tulle veil. She could find none to her taste in +the shops of Florence. + +As they came out of the church they passed the cobbler's shop. The good +man was mending rustic shoes. Madame Martin asked the old man whether he +was well, whether he had enough work for a living, whether he was happy. +To all these questions he replied with the charming affirmative of +Italy, the musical si, which sounded melodious even in his toothless +mouth. She made him tell his sparrow's story. The poor bird had once +dipped its leg in burning wax. + +"I have made for my little companion a wooden leg out of a match, and he +hops upon my shoulder as formerly," said the cobbler. + +"It is this good old man," said Miss Bell, "who teaches wisdom to +Monsieur Choulette. There was at Athens a cobbler named Simon, who wrote +books on philosophy, and who was the friend of Socrates. I have always +thought that Monsieur Choulette resembled Socrates." + +Therese asked the cobbler to tell his name and his history. His name was +Serafino Stoppini, and he was a native of Stia. He was old. He had had +much trouble in his life. + +He lifted his spectacles to his forehead, uncovering blue eyes, very +soft, and almost extinguished under their red lids. + +"I have had a wife and children; I have none now. I have known things +which I know no more." + +Miss Bell and Madame Marmet went to look for a veil. + +"He has nothing in the world," thought Therese, "but his tools, a +handful of nails, the tub wherein he dips his leather, and a pot of +basilick, yet he is happy." + +She said to him: + +"This plant is fragrant, and it will soon be in bloom." + +He replied: + +"If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die." + +Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table. + +Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her: + +"You know..." + +She looked at him and waited. + +He finished his phrase: + +"... that I love you?" + +She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the +lids of which were trembling. Then she made a motion with her head that +meant Yes. And, without his trying to stop her, she rejoined Miss Bell +and Madame Marmet, who were waiting for her at the corner. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER + +Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend +and Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor +Emmanuel had loved when he was Duke of Savoy. For thirty years she had +not once gone out of her palace on the Arno, where, she painted, and +wearing a wig, she played the guitar in her spacious white salon. She +received the best society of Florence, and Miss Bell often called on +her. At table this recluse, eighty-seven years of age, questioned the +Countess Martin on the fashionable world of Paris, whose movement was +familiar to her through the journals. Solitary, she retained respect and +a sort of devotion for the world of pleasure. + +As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was +blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets +with black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in +the pure air, stands a hill with three slender trees. They walked; and +Vivian showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging, +some marble masterpiece--a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine. They +walked through these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or +San Michele, where it had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them. +Therese was thinking of him now with deepest interest. Madame Marmet +was thinking of buying a veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso. This +affair recalled to her M. Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day, +took from his pocket a veil with gold dots and wiped his forehead with +it, thinking it was his handkerchief. The audience was astonished, and +whispered to one another. It was a veil that had been confided to him +the day before by his niece, Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had +accompanied to the theatre, and Madame Marmet explained how, finding +it in the pocket of his overcoat, he had taken it to return it to his +niece. + +At Lagrange's name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the +savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for +that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble. +But above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared +of clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold. Miss +Bell showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled +niches, ornament the facade of the church. + +"See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George. Saint George was +formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed." + +But "darling" said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn. +At this moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her +pocket. + +"Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre," said the good Madame Marmet. + +He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should +have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello's St. George +held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained +a particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could +see in his niche at the left. + +When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she +saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint. +Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his +St. Mark with abundant friendship. + +"It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to +do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is +not appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take +pleasure in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that +Donatello, after giving a soul to him, exclaimed: 'Mark, why do you not +speak?'" + +Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the +burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a +veil. + +Therese and Dechartre remained. + +"I like him," continued the sculptor; "I like Saint Mark because I +feel in him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of +Donatello, who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because +he recalls to me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler +to whom you were speaking so kindly this morning." + +"Ah," she said, "I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur +Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men +of that painter." + +As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she +found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it +seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it +under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark. + +Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at +his heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had +dropped the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in +the morning Therese's letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put +that one with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained +immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured; +perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from +the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the +dressmaker's." + +Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of +Madame Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish. + +All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she was +saying to him: "I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in +love with me." But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a +lover. He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another +made him suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the +letter, remained in his eyes and made them burn. + +She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she +saw him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the +reason. She thought it odd that he should be jealous without having the +right to be jealous; but this did not displease her. + +When they reached the Corso, they saw Miss Bell and Madame Marmet coming +out of the dressmaker's shop. + +Dechartre said to Therese, in an imperious and supplicating voice: + +"I must speak to you. I must see you alone tomorrow; meet me at six +o'clock at the Lungarno Acciaoli." + +She made no reply. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. "TO-MORROW?" + +When, in her Carmelite mantle, she came to the Lungarno Acciaoli, at +about half-past six, Dechartre greeted her with a humble look that moved +her. The setting sun made the Arno purple. They remained silent for a +moment. While they were walking past the monotonous line of palaces to +the old bridge, she was the first to speak. + +"You see, I have come. I thought I ought to come. I do not think I am +altogether innocent of what has happened. I know: I have done what was +my fate in order that you should be to me what you are now. My attitude +has put thoughts into your head which you would not have had otherwise." + +He looked as if he did not understand. She continued: + +"I was selfish, I was imprudent. You were agreeable to me; I liked your +wit; I could not get along without you. I have done what I could +to attract you, to retain you. I was a coquette--not coldly, nor +perfidiously, but a coquette." + +He shook his head, denying that he ever had seen a sign of this. + +"Yes, I was a coquette. Yet it was not my habit. But I was a coquette +with you. I do not say that you have tried to take advantage of it, +as you had the right to do, nor that you are vain about it. I have not +remarked vanity in you. It may be possible that you had not noticed. +Superior men sometimes lack cleverness. But I know very well that I was +not as I should have been, and I beg your pardon. That is the reason why +I came. Let us be good friends, since there is yet time." + +He repeated, with sombre softness, that he loved her. The first hours of +that love had been easy and delightful. He had only desired to see her, +and to see her again. But soon she had troubled him. The evil had come +suddenly and violently one day on the terrace of Fiesole. And now he had +not the courage to suffer and say nothing. He had not come with a fixed +design. If he spoke of his passion he spoke by force and in spite of +himself; in the strong necessity of talking of her to herself, since +she was for him the only being in the world. His life was no longer in +himself, it was in her. She should know it, then, that he was in love +with her, not with vague tenderness, but with cruel ardor. Alas! his +imagination was exact and precise. He saw her continually, and she +tortured him. + +And then it seemed to him that they might have joys which should make +life worth living. Their existence might be a work of art, beautiful and +hidden. They would think, comprehend, and feel together. It would be a +marvellous world of emotions and ideas. + +"We could make of life a delightful garden." + +She feigned to think that the dream was innocent. + +"You know very well that I am susceptible to the charm of your mind. It +has become a necessity to see you and hear you. I have allowed this to +be only too plain to you. Count upon my friendship and do not torment +yourself." She extended her hand to him. He did not take it, but +replied, brusquely: + +"I do not desire your friendship. I will not have it. I must have you +entirely or never see you again. You know that very well. Why do you +extend your hand to me with derisive phrases? Whether you wished it or +not, you have made me desperately in love with you. You have become +my evil, my suffering, my torture, and you ask me to be an agreeable +friend. Now you are coquettish and cruel. If you can not love me, let me +go; I will go, I do not know where, to forget and hate you. For I have +against you a latent feeling of hatred and anger. Oh, I love you, I love +you!" + +She believed what he was saying, feared that he might go, and feared the +sadness of living without him. She replied: + +"I found you in my path. I do not wish to lose you. No, I do not wish to +lose you." + +Timid yet violent, he stammered; the words were stifled in his throat. +Twilight descended from the far-off mountains, and the last reflections +of the sun became pallid in the east. She said: + +"If you knew my life, if you had seen how empty it was before I +knew you, you would know what you are to me, and would not think of +abandoning me." + +But, with the tranquil tone of her voice and with the rustle of her +skirts on the pavement, she irritated him. + +He told her how he suffered. He knew now the divine malady of love. + +"The grace of your thoughts, your magnificent courage, your superb +pride, I inhale them like a perfume. It seems to me when you speak that +your mind is floating on your lips. Your mind is for me only the odor of +your beauty. I have retained the instincts of a primitive man; you have +reawakened them. I feel that I love you with savage simplicity." + +She looked at him softly and said nothing. They saw the lights of +evening, and heard lugubrious songs coming toward them. And then, like +spectres chased by the wind, appeared the black penitents. The crucifix +was before them. They were Brothers of Mercy, holding torches, singing +psalms on the way to the cemetery. In accordance with the Italian +custom, the cortege marched quickly. The crosses, the coffin, the +banners, seemed to leap on the deserted quay. Jacques and Therese stood +against the wall in order that the funeral train might pass. + +The black avalanche had disappeared. There were women weeping behind the +coffin carried by the black phantoms, who wore heavy shoes. + +Therese sighed: + +"What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world?" + +He looked as if he had not heard, and said: + +"Before I knew you I was not unhappy. I liked life. I was retained in +it by dreams. I liked forms, and the mind in forms, the appearances that +caress and flatter. I had the joy of seeing and of dreaming. I enjoyed +everything and depended upon nothing. My desires, abundant and light, I +gratified without fatigue. I was interested in everything and wished for +nothing. One suffers only through the will. Without knowing it, I was +happy. Oh, it was not much, it was only enough to live. Now I have no +joy in life. My pleasures, the interest that I took in the images of +life and of art, the vivid amusement of creating with my hands the +figures of my dreams--you have made me lose everything and have not +left me even regret. I do not want my liberty and tranquillity again. It +seems to me that before I knew you I did not live; and now that I feel +that I am living, I can not live either far from you or near you. I am +more wretched than the beggars we saw on the road to Ema. They had air +to breathe, and I can breathe only you, whom I have not. Yet I am glad +to have known you. That alone counts in my existence. A moment ago I +thought I hated you. I was wrong; I adore you, and I bless you for the +harm you have done me. I love all that comes to me from you." + +They were nearing the black trees at the entrance to San Niccola bridge. +On the other side of the river the vague fields displayed their sadness, +intensified by night. Seeing that he was calm and full of a soft +languor, she thought that his love, all imagination, had fled in words, +and that his desires had become only a reverie. She had not expected so +prompt a resignation. It almost disappointed her to escape the danger +she had feared. + +She extended her hand to him, more boldly this time than before. + +"Then, let us be friends. It is late. Let us return. Take me to my +carriage. I shall be what I have been to you, an excellent friend. You +have not displeased me." + +But he led her to the fields, in the growing solitude of the shore. + +"No, I will not let you go without having told you what I wish to say. +But I know no longer how to speak; I can not find the words. I love you. +I wish to know that you are mine. I swear to you that I will not live +another night in the horror of doubting it." + +He pressed her in his arms; and seeking the light of her eyes through +the obscurity of her veil, said "You must love me. I desire you to love +me, and it is your fault, for you have desired it too. Say that you are +mine. Say it." + +Having gently disengaged herself, she replied, faintly and slowly "I can +not! I can not! You see I am acting frankly with you. I said to you +a moment ago that you had not displeased me. But I can not do as you +wish." + +And recalling to her thought the absent one who was waiting for her, +she repeated: "I can not!" Bending over her he anxiously questioned her +eyes, the double stars that trembled and veiled themselves. "Why? You +love me, I feel it, I see it. You love me. Why will you do me this +wrong?" + +He drew her to him, wishing to lay his soul, with his lips, on her +veiled lips. She escaped him swiftly, saying: "I can not. Do not ask +more. I can not be yours." + +His lips trembled, his face was convulsed. He exclaimed "You have a +lover, and you love him. Why do you mock me?" + +"I swear to you I have no desire to mock you, and that if I loved any +one in the world it would be you." But he was not listening to her. + +"Leave me, leave me!" And he ran toward the dark fields. The Arno formed +lagoons, upon which the moon, half veiled, shone fitfully. He walked +through the water and the mud, with a step rapid, blind, like that of +one intoxicated. She took fright and shouted. She called him. But he +did not turn his head and made no answer. He fled with alarming +recklessness. She ran after him. Her feet were hurt by the stones, and +her skirt was heavy with water, but soon she overtook him. + +"What were you about to do?" + +He looked at her, and saw her fright in her eyes. "Do not be afraid," he +said. "I did not see where I was going. I assure you I did not intend to +kill myself. I am desperate, but I am calm. I was only trying to escape +from you. I beg your pardon. But I could not see you any longer. Leave +me, I pray you. Farewell!" + +She replied, agitated and trembling: "Come! We shall do what we can." + +He remained sombre and made no reply. She repeated "Come!" + +She took his arm. The living warmth of her hand animated him. He said: + +"Do you wish it?" + +"I can not leave you." + +"You promise?" + +"I must." + +And, in her anxiety and anguish, she almost smiled, in thinking that he +had succeeded so quickly by his folly. + +"To-morrow?" said he, inquiringly. + +She replied quickly, with a defensive instinct: + +"Oh, no; not to-morrow!" + +"You do not love me; you regret that you have promised." + +"No, I do not regret, but--" + +He implored, he supplicated her. She looked at him for a moment, turned +her head, hesitated, and said, in a low tone: + +"Saturday." + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION + +After dinner, Miss Bell was sketching in the drawing-room. She was +tracing, on canvas, profiles of bearded Etruscans for a cushion which +Madame Marmet was to embroider. Prince Albertinelli was selecting the +wool with an almost feminine knowledge of shades. It was late when +Choulette, having, as was his habit, played briscola with the cook at +the caterer's, appeared, as joyful as if he possessed the mind of a +god. He took a seat on a sofa, beside Madame Martin, and looked at her +tenderly. Voluptuousness shone in his green eyes. He enveloped her, +while talking to her, with poetic and picturesque phrases. It was like +the sketch of a lovesong that he was improvising for her. In oddly +involved sentences, he told her of the charm that she exhaled. + +"He, too!" said she to herself. + +She amused herself by teasing him. She asked whether he had not found in +Florence, in the low quarters, one of the kind of women whom he liked +to visit. His preferences were known. He could deny it as much as he +wished: no one was ignorant of the door where he had found the cordon of +his Third Order. His friends had met him on the boulevard. His taste for +unfortunate women was evident in his most beautiful poems. + +"Oh, Monsieur Choulette, so far as I am able to judge, you like very bad +women." + +He replied with solemnity: + +"Madame, you may collect the grain of calumny sown by Monsieur Paul +Vence and throw handfuls of it at me. I will not try to avoid it. It is +not necessary you should know that I am chaste and that my mind is pure. +But do not judge lightly those whom you call unfortunate, and who should +be sacred to you, since they are unfortunate. The disdained and lost +girl is the docile clay under the finger of the Divine Potter: she is +the victim and the altar of the holocaust. The unfortunates are nearer +God than the honest women: they have lost conceit. They do not glorify +themselves with the untried virtue the matron prides herself on. They +possess humility, which is the cornerstone of virtues agreeable to +heaven. A short repentance will be sufficient for them to be the first +in heaven; for their sins, without malice and without joy, contain +their own forgiveness. Their faults, which are pains, participate in the +merits attached to pain; slaves to brutal passion, they are deprived +of all voluptuousness, and in this they are like the men who practise +continence for the kingdom of God. They are like us, culprits; but shame +falls on their crime like a balm, suffering purifies it like fire. That +is the reason why God will listen to the first voice which they shall +send to him. A throne is prepared for them at the right hand of the +Father. In the kingdom of God, the queen and the empress will be happy +to sit at the feet of the unfortunate; for you must not think that the +celestial house is built on a human plan. Far from it, Madame." + +Nevertheless, he conceded that more than one road led to salvation. One +could follow the road of love. + +"Man's love is earthly," he said, "but it rises by painful degrees, and +finally leads to God." + +The Prince had risen. Kissing Miss Bell's hand, he said: + +"Saturday." + +"Yes, the day after to-morrow, Saturday," replied Vivian. + +Therese started. Saturday! They were talking of Saturday quietly, as of +an ordinary day. Until then she had not wished to think that Saturday +would come so soon or so naturally. + +The guests had been gone for half an hour. Therese, tired, was thinking +in her bed, when she heard a knock at the door of her room. The panel +opened, and Vivian's little head appeared. + +"I am not intruding, darling? You are not sleepy?" + +No, Therese had no desire to sleep. She rose on her elbow. Vivian sat on +the bed, so light that she made no impression on it. + +"Darling, I am sure you have a great deal of reason. Oh, I am sure +of it. You are reasonable in the same way that Monsieur Sadler is a +violinist. He plays a little out of tune when he wishes. And you, +too, when you are not quite logical, it is for your own pleasure. Oh, +darling, you have a great deal of reason and of judgment, and I come to +ask your advice." + +Astonished, and a little anxious, Therese denied that she was logical. +She denied this very sincerely. But Vivian would not listen to her. + +"I have read Francois Rabelais a great deal, my love. It is in Rabelais +and in Villon that I studied French. They are good old masters of +language. But, darling, do you know the 'Pantagruel?' 'Pantagruel' is +like a beautiful and noble city, full of palaces, in the resplendent +dawn, before the street-sweepers of Paris have come. The sweepers have +not taken out the dirt, and the maids have not washed the marble steps. +And I have seen that French women do not read the 'Pantagruel.' You do +not know it? Well, it is not necessary. In the 'Pantagruel,' Panurge +asks whether he must marry, and he covers himself with ridicule, my +love. Well, I am quite as laughable as he, since I am asking the same +question of you." + +Therese replied with an uneasiness she did not try to conceal: + +"As for that, my dear, do not ask me. I have already told you my +opinion." + +"But, darling, you have said that only men are wrong to marry. I can not +take that advice for myself." + +Madame Martin looked at the little boyish face and head of Miss Bell, +which oddly expressed tenderness and modesty. + +Then she embraced her, saying: + +"Dear, there is not a man in the world exquisite and delicate enough for +you." + +She added, with an expression of affectionate gravity: + +"You are not a child. If some one loves you, and you love him, do what +you think you ought to do, without mingling interests and combinations +that have nothing to do with sentiment. This is the advice of a friend." + +Miss Bell hesitated a moment. Then she blushed and arose. She had been a +little shocked. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. "I KISS YOUR FEET BECAUSE THEY HAVE COME!" + +Saturday, at four o'clock, Therese went, as she had promised, to the +gate of the English cemetery. There she found Dechartre. He was serious +and agitated; he spoke little. She was glad he did not display his joy. +He led her by the deserted walls of the gardens to a narrow street which +she did not know. She read on a signboard: Via Alfieri. After they had +taken fifty steps, he stopped before a sombre alley: + +"It is in there," he said. + +She looked at him with infinite sadness. + +"You wish me to go in?" + +She saw he was resolute, and followed him without saying a word, into +the humid shadow of the alley. He traversed a courtyard where the grass +grew among the stones. In the back was a pavilion with three windows, +with columns and a front ornamented with goats and nymphs. On the +moss-covered steps he turned in the lock a key that creaked and +resisted. He murmured, + +"It is rusty." + +She replied, without thought "All the keys are rusty in this country." + +They went up a stairway so silent that it seemed to have forgotten the +sound of footsteps. He pushed open a door and made Therese enter the +room. She went straight to a window opening on the cemetery. Above the +wall rose the tops of pine-trees, which are not funereal in this land +where mourning is mingled with joy without troubling it, where the +sweetness of living extends to the city of the dead. He took her hand +and led her to an armchair. He remained standing, and looked at the room +which he had prepared so that she would not find herself lost in it. +Panels of old print cloth, with figures of Comedy, gave to the walls the +sadness of past gayeties. He had placed in a corner a dim pastel which +they had seen together at an antiquary's, and which, for its shadowy +grace, she called the shade of Rosalba. There was a grandmother's +armchair; white chairs; and on the table painted cups and Venetian +glasses. In all the corners were screens of colored paper, whereon were +masks, grotesque figures, the light soul of Florence, of Bologna, and +of Venice in the time of the Grand Dukes and of the last Doges. A mirror +and a carpet completed the furnishings. + +He closed the window and lighted the fire. She sat in the armchair, and +as she remained in it erect, he knelt before her, took her hands, kissed +them, and looked at her with a wondering expression, timorous and proud. +Then he pressed his lips to the tip of her boot. + +"What are you doing?" + +"I kiss your feet because they have come." + +He rose, drew her to him softly, and placed a long kiss on her lips. She +remained inert, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her toque fell, +her hair dropped on her shoulders. + +Two hours later, when the setting sun made immeasurably longer the +shadows on the stones, Therese, who had wished to walk alone in the +city, found herself in front of the two obelisks of Santa Maria Novella +without knowing how she had reached there. She saw at the corner of the +square the old cobbler drawing his string with his eternal gesture. He +smiled, bearing his sparrow on his shoulder. + +She went into the shop, and sat on a chair. She said in French: + +"Quentin Matsys, my friend, what have I done, and what will become of +me?" + +He looked at her quietly, with laughing kindness, not understanding nor +caring. Nothing astonished him. She shook her head. + +"What I did, my good Quentin, I did because he was suffering, and +because I loved him. I regret nothing." + +He replied, as was his habit, with the sonorous syllable of Italy: + +"Si! si!" + +"Is it not so, Quentin? I have not done wrong? But, my God! what will +happen now?" + +She prepared to go. He made her understand that he wished her to wait. +He culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her. + +"For its fragrance, signora!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. CHOULETTE TAKES A JOURNEY + +It was the next day. + +Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty stick, his +pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who +was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin +coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity. + +"Farewell, Madame. I am quitting Fiesole, you, Dechartre, the too +handsome Prince Albertinelli, and that gentle ogress, Miss Bell. I am +going to visit the Assisi mountain, which the poet says must be named no +longer Assisi, but the Orient, because it is there that the sun of love +rose. I am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is +resting in a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not +even take out of this world a shroud--out of this world where he left +the revelation of all joy and of all kindness." + +"Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like +Saint Clara a great deal." + +"You are right, Madame; she was a woman of strength and prudence. When +Saint Francis, ill and almost blind, came to spend a few days at Saint +Damien, near his friend, she built with her own hands a hut for him in +the garden. Pain, languor, and burning eyelids deprived him of sleep. +Enormous rats came to attack him at night. Then he composed a joyous +canticle in praise of our splendid brother the Sun, and our sister the +Water, chaste, useful, and pure. My most beautiful verses have less +charm and splendor. And it is just that it should be thus, for Saint +Francis's soul was more beautiful than his mind. I am better than all +my contemporaries whom I have known, yet I am worth nothing. When Saint +Francis had composed his Song of the Sun he rejoiced. He thought: 'We +shall go, my brothers and I, into the cities, and stand in the public +squares, with a lute, on the market-day. Good people will come near us, +and we shall say to them: "We are the jugglers of God, and we shall +sing a lay to you. If you are pleased, you will reward us." They will +promise, and when we shall have sung, we shall recall their promise to +them. We shall say to them: "You owe a reward to us. And the one that we +ask of you is that you love one another." Doubtless, to keep their +word and not injure God's poor jugglers, they will avoid doing ill to +others.'" + +Madame Martin thought St. Francis was the most amiable of the saints. + +"His work," replied Choulette, "was destroyed while he lived. Yet he +died happy, because in him was joy with humility. He was, in fact, God's +sweet singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his +task and teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that +poet, Madame, if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit. For all +moral beauty is achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom +that comes from God and resembles folly." + +"I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about +the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You +will imprison them all in convents." + +"I confess," replied Choulette, "that they embarrass me a great deal in +my project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh +and injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead +to joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable +crimes of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to +supper, Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels." He took his pipe, +his carpet-bag, and his stick: + +"The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do +evil when one loves purely. But sensual love is formed of hatred, +selfishness, and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you +beautiful one night, on this sofa, I was assailed by a cloud of violent +thoughts. I had come from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell's +cook improvise magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was +inundated by a celestial joy which the sight of you made me lose. It +must be that a profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. For, near +you, I felt reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. They were +lies. I felt that I was your adversary and your enemy; I hated you. When +I saw you smile, I felt a desire to kill you." + +"Truly?" + +"Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have +inspired more than once. But common people feel it without being +conscious of it, while my vivid imagination represents me to myself +incessantly. I contemplate my mind, at times splendid, often hideous. +If you had been able to read my mind that night you would have screamed +with fright." + +Therese smiled: + +"Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara." + +He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger: + +"You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and +who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame." + +He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form +disappear behind the bushes of the garden. + +In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for +her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an +anguish which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased. She did +not feel the stupor of the first time that she had yielded for love; +she did not feel the brusque vision of the irreparable. She was under +influences slower, more vague, and more powerful. This time a charming +reverie bathed the reminiscence of the caresses which she had received. +She was full of trouble and anxiety, but she felt no regret. She had +acted less through her will than through a force which she divined to +be higher. She absolved herself because of her disinterestedness. She +counted on nothing, having calculated nothing. + +Doubtless, she had been wrong to yield, since she was not free; but she +had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice. +She did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that +surpass immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went +away from her and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; at +least, she thought not. She would keep the reminiscence and the imprint +of the rarest and most precious thing one may find in the world. Perhaps +he was incapable of real attachment. He thought he loved her. He had +loved her for an hour. She dared not wish for more, in the embarrassment +of the false situation which irritated her frankness and her pride, and +which troubled the lucidity of her intelligence. While the carriage +was carrying her to San Marco, she persuaded herself that he would say +nothing to her of the day before, and that the room from which one could +see the pines rise to the sky would leave to them only the dream of a +dream. + +He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look +that he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same +time that she wished him to be thus. + +"You--" he said, "I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing +that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place +where I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you." + +"Then you still love me?" + +"It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a +phantom. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It +is true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the +only, good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered +think they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to obtain +you?" + +"Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly. If we have +reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always +confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I +never will reproach you for anything." + +An agile troupe of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them +with an importunity wherein was mingled the gracefulness which Italians +never lose. Their subtlety made them divine that these were lovers, and +they knew that lovers are prodigal. Dechartre threw coin to them, and +they all returned to their happy laziness. + +A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that +there was no monk. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautiful +under the arcades of the cloister! + +They visited the cells where, on the bare plaster, Fra Angelico, aided +by his brother Benedetto, painted innocent pictures for his companions. + +"Do you recall the winter night when, meeting you before the Guimet +Museum, I accompanied you to the narrow street bordered by small gardens +which leads to the Billy Quay? Before separating we stopped a moment on +the parapet along which runs a thin boxwood hedge. You looked at that +boxwood, dried by winter. And when you went away I looked at it for a +long time." + +They were in the cell wherein Savonarola lived. The guide showed to them +the portrait and the relics of the martyr. + +"What could there have been in me that you liked that day? It was dark." + +"I saw you walk. It is in movements that forms speak. Each one of your +steps told me the secrets of your charming beauty. Oh! my imagination +was never discreet in anything that concerned you. I did not dare to +speak to you. When I saw you, it frightened me. It frightened me because +you could do everything for me. When you were present, I adored you +tremblingly. When you were far from me, I felt all the impieties of +desire." + +"I did not suspect this. But do you recall the first time we saw each +other, when Paul Vence introduced you? You were seated near a screen. +You were looking at the miniatures. You said to me: 'This lady, painted +by Siccardi, resembles Andre Chenier's mother.' I replied to you: 'She +is my husband's great-grandmother. How did Andre Chenier's mother look?' +And you said: 'There is a portrait of her: a faded Levantine.'" + +He excused himself and thought that he had not spoken so impertinently. + +"You did. My memory is better than yours." + +They were walking in the white silence of the convent. They saw the cell +which Angelico had ornamented with the loveliest painting. And there, +before the Virgin who, in the pale sky, receives from God the Father +the immortal crown, he took Therese in his arms and placed a kiss on her +lips, almost in view of two Englishwomen who were walking through the +corridors, consulting their Baedeker. She said to him: + +"We must not forget Saint Anthony's cell." + +"Therese, I am suffering in my happiness from everything that is yours +and that escapes me. I am suffering because you do not live for me +alone. I wish to have you wholly, and to have had you in the past." + +She shrugged her shoulders a little. + +"Oh, the past!" + +"The past is the only human reality. Everything that is, is past." + +She raised toward him her eyes, which resembled bits of blue sky full of +mingled sun and rain. + +"Well, I may say this to you: I never have felt that I lived except with +you." + +When she returned to Fiesole, she found a brief and threatening letter +from Le Menil. He could not understand, her prolonged absence, her +silence. If she did not announce at once her return, he would go to +Florence for her. + +She read without astonishment, but was annoyed to see that everything +disagreeable that could happen was happening, and that nothing would +be spared to her of what she had feared. She could still calm him and +reassure him: she had only to say to him that she loved him; that she +would soon return to Paris; that he should renounce the foolish idea +of rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be +watched at once. But she would have to write: "I love you." She must +quiet him with caressing phrases. + +She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth. She +accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls carried +away by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving ocean of +events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of her a fond +reminiscence in a corner of his soul. + +She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square. +Children were playing in the twilight. She looked from the top of the +hill to the beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel. +And the peace of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the +box. Then only she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what +the result would be. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. WHAT IS FRANKNESS? + +In the square, where the spring sun scattered its yellow roses, the +bells at noon dispersed the rustic crowd of grain-merchants assembled +to sell their wares. At the foot of the Lanzi, before the statues, the +venders of ices had placed, on tables covered with red cotton, small +castles bearing the inscription: 'Bibite ghiacciate'. And joy descended +from heaven to earth. Therese and Jacques, returning from an early +promenade in the Boboli Gardens, were passing before the illustrious +loggia. Therese looked at the Sabine by John of Bologna with that +interested curiosity of a woman examining another woman. But Dechartre +looked at Therese only. He said to her: + +"It is marvellous how the vivid light of day flatters your beauty, loves +you, and caresses the mother-of-pearl on your cheeks." + +"Yes," she said. "Candle-light hardens my features. I have observed +this. I am not an evening woman, unfortunately. It is at night that +women have a chance to show themselves and to please. At night, Princess +Seniavine has a fine blond complexion; in the sun she is as yellow as a +lemon. It must be owned that she does not care. She is not a coquette." + +"And you are?" + +"Oh, yes. Formerly I was a coquette for myself, now I am a coquette for +you." + +She looked at the Sabine woman, who with her waving arms, long and +robust, tried to avoid the Roman's embraces. + +"To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form and that length of +limb? I am not shaped in that way." + +He took pains to reassure her. But she was not disturbed about it. She +was looking now at the little castle of the ice-vender. A sudden desire +had come to her to eat an ice standing there, as the working-girls of +the city stood. + +"Wait a moment," said Dechartre. + +He ran toward the street that follows the left side of the Lanzi, and +disappeared. + +After a moment he came back, and gave her a little gold spoon, the +handle of which was finished in a lily of Florence, with its chalice +enamelled in red. + +"You must eat your ice with this. The man does not give a spoon with +his ices. You would have had to put out your tongue. It would have been +pretty, but you are not accustomed to it." + +She recognized the spoon, a jewel which she had remarked the day before +in the showcase of an antiquarian. + +They were happy; they disseminated their joy, which was full and simple, +in light words which had no sense. And they laughed when the Florentine +repeated to them passages of the old Italian writers. She enjoyed the +play of his face, which was antique in style and jovial in expression. +But she did not always understand what he said. She asked Jacques: + +"What did he say?" + +"Do you really wish to know?" + +Yes, she wished to know. + +"Well, he said he should be happy if the fleas in his bed were shaped +like you!" + +When she had eaten the ice, he asked her to return to San Michele. +It was so near! They would cross the square and at once discover the +masterpiece in stone. They went. They looked at the St. George and at +the bronze St. Mark. Dechartre saw again on the wall the post-box, and +he recalled with painful exactitude the little gloved hand that had +dropped the letter. He thought it hideous, that copper mouth which had +swallowed Therese's secret. He could not turn his eyes away from it. All +his gayety had fled. She admired the rude statue of the Evangelist. + +"It is true that he looks honest and frank, and it seems that, if he +spoke, nothing but words of truth would come out of his mouth." + +He replied bitterly: + +"It is not a woman's mouth." + +She understood his thought, and said, in her soft tone: + +"My friend, why do you say this to me? I am frank." + +"What do you call frank? You know that a woman is obliged to lie." + +She hesitated. Then she said: + +"A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. "I NEVER HAVE LOVED ANY ONE BUT YOU!" + +Therese was dressed in sombre gray. The bushes on the border of +the terrace were covered with silver stars and on the hillsides the +laurel-trees threw their odoriferous flame. The cup of Florence was in +bloom. + +Vivian Bell walked, arrayed in white, in the fragrant garden. + +"You see, darling, Florence is truly the city of flowers, and it is not +inappropriate that she should have a red lily for her emblem. It is a +festival to-day, darling." + +"A festival, to-day?" + +"Darling, do you not know this is the first day of May? You did not wake +this morning in a charming fairy spectacle? Do you not celebrate the +Festival of Flowers? Do you not feel joyful, you who love flowers? For +you love them, my love, I know it: you are very good to them. You said +to me that they feel joy and pain; that they suffer as we do." + +"Ah! I said that they suffer as we do?" + +"Yes, you said it. It is their festival to-day. We must celebrate it +with the rites consecrated by old painters." + +Therese heard without understanding. She was crumpling under her glove +a letter which she had just received, bearing the Italian postage-stamp, +and containing only these two lines: + +"I am staying at the Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli. I shall +expect you to-morrow morning. No. 18." + +"Darling, do you not know it is the custom of Florence to celebrate +spring on the first day of May every year? Then you did not understand +the meaning of Botticelli's picture consecrated to the Festival of +Flowers. Formerly, darling, on the first day of May the entire city +gave itself up to joy. Young girls, crowned with sweetbrier and other +flowers, made a long cortege through the Corso, under arches, and sang +choruses on the new grass. We shall do as they did. We shall dance in +the garden." + +"Ah, we shall dance in the garden?" + +"Yes, darling; and I will teach you Tuscan steps of the fifteenth +century which have been found in a manuscript by Mr. Morrison, the +oldest librarian in London. Come back soon, my love; we shall put on +flower hats and dance." + +"Yes, dear, we shall dance," said Therese. + +And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its +stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she +found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of +his whip: + +"Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli." + +She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli. She had gone there at +sunset, and she had seen the rays of the sun on the agitated surface of +the river. Then night had come, the murmur of the waters in the silence, +the words and the looks that had troubled her, the first kiss of +her lover, the beginning of incomparable love. Oh, yes, she recalled +Lungarno Acciaoli and the river-side beyond the old bridge--Great +Britain Hotel--she knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was +fortunate, since he would come, that he had gone there. He might as +easily have gone to the Hotel de la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was +fortunate they were not side by side in the same corridor. Lungarno +Acciaoli! The dead body which they had seen pass was at peace somewhere +in the little flowery cemetery. + +"Number 18." + +It was a bare hotel room, with a stove in the Italian fashion, a set +of brushes displayed on the table, and a time-table. Not a book, not +a journal. He was there; she saw suffering on his bony face, a look of +fever. This produced on her a sad impression. He waited a moment for +a word, a gesture; but she dared do nothing. He offered a chair. She +refused it and remained standing. + +"Therese, something has happened of which I do not know. Speak." + +After a moment of silence, she replied, with painful slowness: + +"My friend, when I was in Paris, why did you go away from me?" + +By the sadness of her accent he believed, he wished to believe, in the +expression of an affectionate reproach. His face colored. He replied, +ardently: + +"Ah, if I could have foreseen! That hunting party--I cared little +for it, as you may think! But you--your letter, that of the +twenty-seventh"--he had a gift for dates--"has thrown me into a horrible +anxiety. Something has happened. Tell me everything." + +"My friend, I believed you had ceased to love me." + +"But now that you know the contrary?" + +"Now--" + +She paused, her arms fell before her and her hands were joined. + +Then, with affected tranquillity, she continued: + +"Well, my friend, we took each other without knowing. One never knows. +You are young; younger than I, since we are of the same age. You have, +doubtless, projects for the future." + +He looked at her proudly. She continued: + +"Your family, your mother, your aunts, your uncle the General, have +projects for you. That is natural. I might have become an obstacle. It +is better that I should disappear from your life. We shall keep a fond +remembrance of each other." + +She extended her gloved hand. He folded his arms: + +"Then, you do not want me? You have made me happy, as no other man ever +was, and you think now to brush me aside? Truly, you seem to think you +have finished with me. What have you come to say to me? That it was a +liaison, which is easily broken? That people take each other, quit each +other--well, no! You are not a person whom one can easily quit." + +"Yes," said Therese, "you had perhaps given me more of your heart than +one does ordinarily in such 180 cases. I was more than an amusement for +you. But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived +you, if I am frivolous--you know people have said so--well, if I have +not been to you what I should have been--" + +She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she +said: + +"If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious; +if I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment--" + +He interrupted her: + +"You are not telling the truth." + +"No, I am not telling the truth. And I do not know how to lie. I wished +to spoil our past. I was wrong. It was--you know what it was. But--" + +"But?" + +"I have always told you I was not sure of myself. There are women, it +is said, who are sure of themselves. I warned you that I was not like +them." + +He shook his head violently, like an irritated animal. + +"What do you mean? I do not understand. I understand nothing. Speak +clearly. There is something between us. I do not know what. I demand to +know what it is. What is it?" + +"There is the fact that I am not a woman sure of herself, and that you +should not rely on me. No, you should not rely on me. I had promised +nothing--and then, if I had promised, what are words?" + +"You do not love me. Oh, you love me no more! I can see it. But it is so +much the worse for you! I love you. You should not have given yourself +to me. Do not think that you can take yourself back. I love you and I +shall keep you. So you thought you could get out of it very quietly? +Listen a moment. You have done everything to make me love you, to attach +me to you, to make it impossible for me to live without you. + +"Six weeks ago you asked for nothing better. You were everything for me, +I was everything for you. And now you desire suddenly that I should +know you no longer; that you should be to me a stranger, a lady whom one +meets in society. Ah, you have a fine audacity! Have I dreamed? All the +past is a dream? I invented it all? Oh, there can be no doubt of it. You +loved me. I feel it still. Well, I have not changed. I am what I was; +you have nothing to complain of. I have not betrayed you for other +women. It isn't credit that I claim. I could not have done it. When one +has known you, one finds the prettiest women insipid. I never have had +the idea of deceiving you. I have always acted well toward you. Why +should you not love me? Answer! Speak! Say you love me still. Say it, +since it is true. Come, Therese, you will feel at once that you love as +you loved me formerly in the little nest where we were so happy. Come!" + +He approached her ardently. She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him +away with a kind of horror. + +He understood, stopped, and said: + +"You have a lover." + +She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb. + +Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in +shame. He lowered his eyes and was silent. His fingers to his lips, and +biting his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on her +waist, and bled. He threw himself in an armchair, drew his handkerchief +to wipe off the blood, and remained indifferent and without thought. + +She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look +vague, arranged her hat with instinctive care. At the noise, formerly +delicious, that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at +her, and asked furiously: + +"Who is he? I will know." + +She did not move. She replied with soft firmness: + +"I have told you all I can. Do not ask more; it would be useless." + +He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen +before. + +"Oh, do not tell me his name. It will not be difficult for me to find +it." + +She said not a word, saddened for him, anxious for another, full of +anguish and fear, and yet without regret, without bitterness, because +her real soul was elsewhere. + +He had a vague sensation of what passed in her mind. In his anger to +see her so sweet and so serene, to find her beautiful, and beautiful for +another, he felt a desire to kill her, and he shouted at her: + +"Go!" + +Then, weakened by this effort of hatred, which was not natural to him, +he buried his head in his hands and sobbed. + +His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him. She thought +she might perhaps console him for her loss. Amicably and comfortably she +seated herself beside him. + +"My friend, blame me. I am to blame, but more to be pitied. Disdain +me, if you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the +plaything of life. In fine, judge me as you wish. But keep for me a +little friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence, +something like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong +wind. That is what I deserve. Do not be harsh to the agreeable but +frivolous visitor who passed through your life. Bid good-by to me as to +a traveller who goes one knows not where, and who is sad. There is so +much sadness in separation! You were irritated against me a moment ago. +Oh, I do not reproach you for it. I only suffer for it. Reserve a little +sympathy for me. Who knows? The future is always unknown. It is very +gray and obscure before me. Let me say to myself that I have been kind, +simple, frank with you, and that you have not forgotten it. In time you +will understand, you will forgive; to-day have a little pity." + +He was not listening to her words. He was appeased simply by the caress +of her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear. He exclaimed: + +"You do not love him. I am the one whom you love. Then--" + +She hesitated: + +"Ah, to say whom one loves or loves not is not an easy thing for a +woman, or at least for me. I do not know how other women do. But life is +not good to me. I am tossed to and fro by force of circumstances." + +He looked at her calmly. An idea came to him. He had taken a resolution; +he forgave, he forgot, provided she returned to him at once. + +"Therese, you do not love him. It was an error, a moment of +forgetfulness, a horrible and stupid thing that you did through +weakness, through surprise, perhaps in spite. Swear to me that you never +will see him again." + +He took her arm: + +"Swear to me!" + +She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He +wrenched her wrist. She exclaimed: + +"You hurt me!" + +However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near +the brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper +ornamented with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the +hotel, with innumerable windows. + +"Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take +the letter." + +And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and +determined, she said: + +"I can not, I will not." + +"Why?" + +"Because--do you wish to know?--because I love him." + +Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps +he would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by +sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die. + +"Is what you say true? Is it possible?" + +"How do I know? Can I say? Do I understand? Have I an idea, a sentiment, +about anything?" + +With an effort she added: + +"Am I at this moment aware of anything except my sadness and your +despair?" + +"You love him, you love him! What is he, who is he, that you should love +him?" + +His surprise made him stupid; he was in an abyss of astonishment. +But what she had said separated them. He dared not complain. He only +repeated: + +"You love him, you love him! But what has he done to you, what has he +said, to make you love him? I know you. I have not told you every time +your ideas shocked me. I would wager he is not even a man in society. +And you believe he loves you? You believe it? Well, you are deceiving +yourself. He does not love you. You flatter him, simply. He will quit +you at the first opportunity. When he shall have compromised you, he +will abandon you. Next year people will say of you: 'She is not at all +exclusive.' I am sorry for your father; he is one of my friends, and +will know of your behavior. You can not expect to deceive him." + +She listened, humiliated but consoled, thinking how she would have +suffered had she found him generous. + +In his simplicity he sincerely disdained her. This disdain relieved him. + +"How did the thing happen? You can tell me." + +She shrugged her shoulders with so much pity that he dared not continue. +He became contemptuous again. + +"Do you imagine that I shall aid you in saving appearances, that I shall +return to your house, that I shall continue to call on your husband?" + +"I think you will continue to do what a gentleman should. I ask nothing +of you. I should have liked to preserve of you the reminiscence of an +excellent friend. I thought you might be indulgent and kind to, me, but +it is not possible. I see that lovers never separate kindly. Later, you +will judge me better. Farewell!" + +He looked at her. Now his face expressed more pain than anger. She never +had seen his eyes so dry and so black. It seemed as if he had grown old +in an hour. + +"I prefer to tell you in advance. It will be impossible for me to see +you again. You are not a woman whom one may meet after one has been +loved by her. You are not like others. You have a poison of your own, +which you have given to me, and which I feel in me, in my veins. Why +have I known you?" + +She looked at him kindly. + +"Farewell! Say to yourself that I am not worthy of being regretted so +much." + +Then, when he saw that she placed her hand on the latch of the door, +when he felt at that gesture that he was to lose her, that he should +never have her again, he shouted. He forgot everything. There remained +in him only the dazed feeling of a great misfortune accomplished, of +an irreparable calamity. And from the depth of his stupor a desire +ascended. He desired to possess again the woman who was leaving him and +who would never return. He drew her to him. He desired her, with all the +strength of his animal nature. She resisted with all the force of her +will, which was free and on the alert. She disengaged herself, crumpled, +torn, without even having been afraid. + +He understood that everything was useless; he realized she was no longer +for him, because she belonged to another. As his suffering returned, he +pushed her out of the door. + +She remained a moment in the corridor, proudly waiting for a word. + +But he shouted again, "Go!" and shut the door violently. + +On the Via Alfieri, she saw again the pavilion in the rear of the +courtyard where pale grasses grew. She found it silent and tranquil, +faithful, with its goats and nymphs, to the lovers of the time of the +Grand Duchess Eliza. She felt at once freed from the painful, brutal +world, and transported to ages wherein she had not known the sadness of +life. At the foot of the stairs, the steps of which were covered with +roses, Dechartre was waiting. She threw herself in his arms. He carried +her inert, like a precious trophy before which he had become pallid and +trembling. She enjoyed, her eyelids half closed, the superb humiliation +of being a beautiful prey. Her fatigue, her sadness, her disgust with +the day, the reminiscence of violence, her regained liberty, the need +of forgetting, remains of fright, everything vivified, awakened her +tenderness. She threw her arms around the neck of her lover. + +They were as gay as children. They laughed, said tender nothings, +played, ate lemons, oranges, and other fruits piled up near-them on +painted plates. Her lips, half-open, showed her brilliant teeth. She +asked, with coquettish anxiety, if he were not disillusioned after the +beautiful dream he had made of her. + +In the caressing light of the day, for the enjoyment of which he had +arranged, he contemplated her with youthful joy. He lavished praise +and kisses upon her. They forgot themselves in caresses, in friendly +quarrels, in happy glances. + +He asked her how a little red mark on her temple had come there. She +replied that she had forgotten; that it was nothing. She hardly lied; +she had really forgotten. + +They recalled to each other their short but beautiful history, all their +life, which began upon the day when they had met. + +"You know, on the terrace, the day after your arrival, you said vague +things to me. I guessed that you loved me." + +"I was afraid to seem stupid to you." + +"You were, a little. It was my triumph. It made me impatient to see you +so little troubled near me. I loved you before you loved me. Oh, I do +not blush for it!" + +He gave her a glass of Asti. But there was a bottle of Trasimene. She +wished to taste it, in memory of the lake which she had seen silent and +beautiful at night in its opal cup. That was when she had first visited +Italy, six years before. + +He chided her for having discovered the beauty of things without his +aid. + +She said: + +"Without you, I did not know how to see anything. Why did you not come +to me before?" + +He closed her lips with a kiss. Then she said: + +"Yes, I love you! Yes, I never have loved any one but you!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. A MEETING AT THE STATION + +Le Menil had written: "I leave tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Meet +me at the station." + +She had gone to meet him. She saw him in long coat and cape, precise and +calm, in front of the hotel stages. He said only: + +"Ah, you have come." + +"But, my friend, you called me." + +He did not confess that he had written in the absurd hope that she would +love him again and that the rest would be forgotten, or that she would +say to him: "It was only a trial of your love." + +If she had said so he would have believed her, however. + +Astonished because she did not speak, he said, dryly: + +"What have you to say to me? It is not for me to speak, but for you. I +have no explanations to give you. I have not to justify a betrayal." + +"My friend, do not be cruel, do not be ungrateful. This is what I had +to say to you. And I must repeat that I leave you with the sadness of a +real friend." + +"Is that all? Go and say this to the other man. It will interest him +more than it interests me." + +"You called me, and I came; do not make me regret it." + +"I am sorry to have disturbed you. You could doubtless find a better +employment for your time. I will not detain you. Rejoin him, since you +are longing to do so." + +At the thought that his unhappy words expressed a moment of eternal +human pain, and that tragedy had illustrated many similar griefs, she +felt all the sadness and irony of the situation, which a curl of her +lips betrayed. He thought she was laughing. + +"Do not laugh; listen to me. The other day, at the hotel, I wanted to +kill you. I came so near doing it that now I know what I escaped. I will +not do it. You may rest secure. What would be the use? As I wish to keep +up appearances, I shall call on you in Paris. It will grieve me to learn +that you can not receive me. I shall see your husband, I shall see your +father also. It will be to say good-by to them, as I intend to go on a +long voyage. Farewell, Madame!" + +At the moment when he turned his back to her, Therese saw Miss Bell and +Prince Albertinelli coming out of the freight-station toward her. +The Prince was very handsome. Vivian was walking by his side with the +lightness of chaste joy. + +"Oh, darling, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! The Prince, and +I have seen, at the customhouse, the new bell, which has just come." + +"Ah, the bell has come?" + +"It is here, darling, the Ghiberti bell. I saw it in its wooden cage. It +did not ring, because it was a prisoner. But it will have a campanile in +my Fiesole house. + +"When it feels the air of Florence, it will be happy to let its silvery +voice be heard. Visited by the doves, it will ring for all our joys and +all our sufferings. It will ring for you, for me, for the Prince, for +good Madame Marmet, for Monsieur Choulette, for all our friends." + +"Dear, bells never ring for real joys and for real sufferings. Bells are +honest functionaries, who know only official sentiments." + +"Oh, darling, you are much mistaken. Bells know the secrets of souls; +they know everything. But I am very glad to find you here. I know, my +love, why you came to the station. Your maid betrayed you. She told me +you were waiting for a pink gown which was delayed in coming and that +you were very impatient. But do not let that trouble you. You are always +beautiful, my love." + +She made Madame Martin enter her wagon. + +"Come, quick, darling; Monsieur Jacques Dechartre dines at the house +to-night, and I should not like to make him wait." + +And while they were driving through the silence of the night, through +the pathways full of the fresh perfume of wildflowers, she said: + +"Do you see over there, darling, the black distaffs of the Fates, the +cypresses of the cemetery? It is there I wish to sleep." + +But Therese thought anxiously: "They saw him. Did they recognize him? I +think not. The place was dark, and had only little blinding lights. +Did she know him? I do not recall whether she saw him at my house last +year." + +What made her anxious was a sly smile on the Prince's face. + +"Darling, do you wish a place near me in that rustic cemetery? Shall we +rest side by side under a little earth and a great deal of sky? But I do +wrong to extend to you an invitation which you can not accept. It will +not be permitted to you to sleep your eternal sleep at the foot of the +hill of Fiesole, my love. You must rest in Paris, in a handsome tomb, by +the side of Count Martin-Belleme." + +"Why? Do you think, dear, that the wife must be united to her husband +even after death?" + +"Certainly she must, darling. Marriage is for time and for eternity. +Do you not know the history of a young pair who loved each other in the +province of Auvergne? They died almost at the same time, and were placed +in two tombs separated by a road. But every night a sweetbrier bush +threw from one tomb to the other its flowery branches. The two coffins +had to be buried together." + +When they had passed the Badia, they saw a procession coming up the +side of the hill. The wind blew on the candles borne in gilded wooden +candlesticks. The girls of the societies, dressed in white and +blue, carried painted banners. Then came a little St. John, blond, +curly-haired, nude, under a lamb's fleece which showed his arms and +shoulders; and a St. Mary Magdalene, seven years old, crowned only with +her waving golden hair. The people of Fiesole followed. Countess Martin +recognized Choulette among them. With a candle in one hand, a book in +the other, and blue spectacles on the end of his nose, he was singing. +His unkempt beard moved up and down with the rhythm of the song. In the +harshness of light and shade that worked in his face, he had an air that +suggested a solitary monk capable of accomplishing a century of penance. + +"How amusing he is!" said Therese. "He is making a spectacle of himself +for himself. He is a great artist." + +"Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious +man? Why? There is much joy and much beauty in faith. Poets know this. +If Monsieur Choulette had not faith, he could not write the admirable +verses that he does." + +"And you, dear, have you faith?" + +"Oh, yes; I believe in God and in the word of Christ." + +Now the banners and the white veils had disappeared down the road. But +one could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle +reflected in rays of gold. + +Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden. Therese found +him resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first +sufferings of love. While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix +upon a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under +the trees. + +"You promised me that you would be in the garden when I came. I have +been waiting for you an hour, which seemed eternal. You were not to go +out. Your absence has surprised and grieved me." + +She replied vaguely that she had been compelled to go to the station, +and that Miss Bell had brought her back in the wagon. + +He begged her pardon for his anxiety, but everything alarmed him. His +happiness made him afraid. + +They were already at table when Choulette appeared, with the face of an +antique satyr. A terrible joy shone in his phosphorous eyes. Since his +return from Assisi, he lived only among paupers, drank chianti all +day with girls and artisans to whom he taught the beauty of joy and +innocence, the advent of Jesus Christ, and the imminent abolition of +taxes and military service. At the beginning of the procession he had +gathered vagabonds in the ruins of the Roman theatre, and had delivered +to them in a macaronic language, half French and half Tuscan, a sermon, +which he took pleasure in repeating: + +"Kings, senators, and judges have said: 'The life of nations is in us.' +Well, they lie; and they are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle.' + +"The life of nations is in the crops of the fields yellowing under the +eye of the Lord. It is in the vines, and in the smiles and tears with +which the sky bathes the fruits on the trees. + +"The life of nations is not in the laws, which were made by the rich and +powerful for the preservation of riches and power. + +"The chiefs of kingdoms and of republics have said in their books +that the right of peoples is the right of war, and they have glorified +violence. And they render honors unto conquerors, and they raise in the +public squares statues to the victorious man and horse. But one has not +the right to kill; that is the reason why the just man will not draw +from the urn a number that will send him to the war. The right is not to +pamper the folly and crimes of a prince raised over a kingdom or over a +republic; and that is the reason why the just man will not pay taxes and +will not give money to the publicans. He will enjoy in peace the fruit +of his work, and he will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and +he will eat the fruits of the trees that he has cut." + +"Ah, Monsieur Choulette," said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, "you are +right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which +taxes exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three +per cent. of its net income? The master and the servants are the prey of +the publicans." + +Dechartre and Madame Martin were struck by the unexpected sincerity of +his accent. + +He added: + +"I like the King. I am sure of my loyalty, but the misfortunes of the +peasants move me." + +The truth was, he pursued with obstinacy a single aim: to reestablish +the domain of Casentino that his father, Prince Carlo, an officer of +Victor Emmanuel, had left devoured by usurers. His affected gentleness +concealed his stubbornness. He had only useful vices. It was to become +a great Tuscan landowner that he had dealt in pictures, sold the famous +ceilings of his palace, made love to rich old women, and, finally, +sought the hand of Miss Bell, whom he knew to be skilful at earning +money and practised in the art of housekeeping. He really liked +peasants. The ardent praises of Choulette, which he understood vaguely, +awakened this affection in him. He forgot himself enough to express his +mind: + +"In a country where master and servants form one family, the fate of the +one depends on that of the others. Taxes despoil us. How good are our +farmers! They are the best men in the world to till the soil." + +Madame Martin confessed that she should not have believed it. The +country of Lombardy alone seemed to her to be well cultivated. Tuscany +appeared a beautiful, wild orchard. + +The Prince replied, smilingly, that perhaps she would not speak in that +way if she had done him the honor of visiting his farms of Casentino, +although these had suffered from long and ruinous lawsuits. She would +have seen there what an Italian landscape really is. + +"I take a great deal of care of my domain. I was coming from it to-night +when I had the double pleasure of finding at the station Miss Bell, +who had gone there to find her Ghiberti bell, and you, Madame, who were +talking with a friend from Paris." + +He had the idea that it would be disagreeable to her to hear him speak +of that meeting. He looked around the table, and saw the expression of +anxious surprise which Dechartre could not restrain. He insisted: + +"Forgive, Madame, in a rustic, a certain pretension to knowing something +about the world. In the man who was talking to you I recognized +a Parisian, because he had an English air; and while he affected +stiffness, he showed perfect ease and particular vivacity." + +"Oh," said Therese, negligently, "I have not seen him for a long time. +I was much surprised to meet him at Florence at the moment of his +departure." + +She looked at Dechartre, who affected not to listen. + +"I know that gentleman," said Miss Bell. "It is Monsieur Le Menil. I +dined with him twice at Madame Martin's, and he talked to me very well. +He said he liked football; that he introduced the game in France, +and that now football is quite the fashion. He also related to me his +hunting adventures. He likes animals. I have observed that hunters like +animals. I assure you, darling, that Monsieur Le Menil talks admirably +about hares. He knows their habits. He said to me it was a pleasure to +look at them dancing in the moonlight on the plains. He assured me that +they were very intelligent, and that he had seen an old hare, pursued +by dogs, force another hare to get out of the trail so as to deceive the +hunters. Darling, did Monsieur Le Menil ever talk to you about hares?" + +Therese replied she did not know, and that she thought hunters were +tiresome. + +Miss Bell exclaimed. She did not think M. Le Menil was ever tiresome +when talking of the hares that danced in the moonlight on the plains and +among the vines. She would like to raise a hare, like Phanion. + +"Darling, you do not know Phanion. Oh, I am sure that Monsieur Dechartre +knows her. She was beautiful, and dear to poets. She lived in the Island +of Cos, beside a dell which, covered with lemon-trees, descended to +the blue sea. And they say that she looked at the blue waves. I related +Phanion's history to Monsieur Le Menil, and he was very glad to hear it. +She had received from some hunter a little hare with long ears. She +held it on her knees and fed it on spring flowers. It loved Phanion and +forgot its mother. It died before having eaten too many flowers. Phanion +lamented over its loss. She buried it in the lemon-grove, in a grave +which she could see from her bed. And the shade of the little hare was +consoled by the songs of the poets." + +The good Madame Marmet said that M. Le Menil pleased by his elegant and +discreet manners, which young men no longer practise. She would have +liked to see him. She wanted him to do something for her. + +"Or, rather, for my nephew," she said. "He is a captain in the +artillery, and his chiefs like him. His colonel was for a long time +under orders of Monsieur Le Menil's uncle, General La Briche. If +Monsieur Le Menil would ask his uncle to write to Colonel Faure in favor +of my nephew I should be grateful to him. My nephew is not a stranger to +Monsieur Le Menil. They met last year at the masked ball which Captain +de Lassay gave at the hotel at Caen." + +Madame Marmet cast down her eyes and added: + +"The invited guests, naturally, were not society women. But it is said +some of them were very pretty. They came from Paris. My nephew, who gave +these details to me, was dressed as a coachman. Monsieur Le Menil was +dressed as a Hussar of Death, and he had much success." + +Miss Bell said that she was sorry not to have known that M. Le Menil was +in Florence. Certainly, she should have invited him to come to Fiesole. + +Dechartre remained sombre and distant during the rest of the dinner: and +when, at the moment of leaving, Therese extended her hand to him, she +felt that he avoided pressing it in his. + + + + +BOOK 3. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. "ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS IN LOVE" + +The next day, in the hidden pavilion of the Via Alfieri, she found him +preoccupied. She tried to distract him with ardent gayety, with the +sweetness of pressing intimacy, with superb humility. But he remained +sombre. 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 Berthier d'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: + + A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly + A hero must be human. Napoleon was human + Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere + Brilliancy of a fortune too new + Curious to know her face of that day + Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared + Do you think that people have not talked about us? + Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality + Does one ever possess what one loves? + Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone + Each was moved with self-pity + Everybody knows about that + Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city + Gave value to her affability by not squandering it + He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions + He studied until the last moment + He is not intelligent enough to doubt + He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes + He knew now the divine malady of love + Her husband had become quite bearable + His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth + (Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder + I love myself because you love me + I can forget you only when I am with you + I wished to spoil our past + I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness + I have to pay for the happiness you give me + I gave myself to him because he loved me + I haven't a taste, I have tastes + I have known things which I know no more + I do not desire your friendship + Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests + Immobility of time + Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself + Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object + It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him + It is an error to be in the right too soon + It was too late: she did not wish to win + Jealous without having the right to be jealous + Kisses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair + Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope + Laughing in every wrinkle of his face + Learn to live without desire + Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges + Life as a whole is too vast and too remote + Life is made up of just such trifles + Life is not a great thing + Little that we can do when we are powerful + Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty + Love was only a brief intoxication + Lovers never separate kindly + Made life give all it could yield + Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud + Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past + Nobody troubled himself about that originality + None but fools resisted the current + Not everything is known, but everything is said + Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain + One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars + One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel + One is never kind when one is in love + One should never leave the one whom one loves + Picturesquely ugly + Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open + Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her + Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill + She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it + She is happy, since she likes to remember + Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one + Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others + Since she was in love, she had lost prudence + So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice + Superior men sometimes lack cleverness + That sort of cold charity which is called altruism + That if we live the reason is that we hope + That absurd and generous fury for ownership + The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne + The door of one's room opens on the infinite + The past is the only human reality--Everything that is, is past + The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you + The violent pleasure of losing + The discouragement which the irreparable gives + The real support of a government is the Opposition + The politician never should be in advance of circumstances + There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget + There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel + They are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle' + To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form + Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know + Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies + Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life + Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? + We are too happy; we are robbing life + What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world + Whether they know or do not know, they talk + Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault + You must take me with my own soul! + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 3922.txt or 3922.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/2/3922/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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He was educated at the +College Stanislas and published in 1868 an essay upon Alfred de Vigny. +This was followed by two volumes of poetry: 'Les Poemes Dores' (1873), +and 'Les Noces Corinthiennes' (1876). With the last mentioned book his +reputation became established. + +Anatole France belongs to the class of poets known as "Les Parnassiens." +Yet a book like 'Les Noces Corinthiennes' ought to be classified among a +group of earlier lyrics, inasmuch as it shows to a large degree the +influence of Andre Chenier and Alfred de Vigny. France was, and is, +also a diligent contributor to many journals and reviews, among others, +'Le Globe, Les Debats, Le Journal Officiel, L'Echo de Paris, La Revue de +Famille, and Le Temps'. On the last mentioned journal he succeeded Jules +Claretie. He is likewise Librarian to the Senate, and has been a member +of the French Academy since 1896. + +The above mentioned two volumes of poetry were followed by many works in +prose, which we shall notice. France's critical writings are collected +in four volumes, under the title, 'La Vie Litteraire' (1888-1892); his +political articles in 'Opinions Sociales' (2 vols., 1902). He combines +in his style traces of Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, and Renan, and, +indeed, some of his novels, especially 'Thais' (1890), 'Jerome Coignard' +(1893), and Lys Rouge (1894), which was crowned by the Academy, are +romances of the first rank. + +Criticism appears to Anatole France the most recent and possibly the +ultimate evolution of literary expression, "admirably suited to a highly +civilized society, rich in souvenirs and old traditions . . . . It +proceeds," in his opinion, "from philosophy and history, and demands for +its development an absolute intellectual liberty . . . . . It is the +last in date of all literary forms, and it will end by absorbing them all +. . . . To be perfectly frank the critic should say: 'Gentlemen, I +propose to enlarge upon my own thoughts concerning Shakespeare, Racine, +Pascal, Goethe, or any other writer.'" + +It is hardly necessary to say much concerning a critic with such +pronounced ideas as Anatole France. He gives us, indeed, the full flower +of critical Renanism, but so individualized as to become perfection in +grace, the extreme flowering of the Latin genius. It is not too much to +say that the critical writings of Anatole France recall the Causeries du +Lundi, the golden age of Sainte-Beuve! + +As a writer of fiction, Anatole France made his debut in 1879 with +'Jocaste', and 'Le Chat Maigre'. Success in this field was yet decidedly +doubtful when 'Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard' appeared in 1881. It at +once established his reputation; 'Sylvestre Bonnard', as 'Le Lys Rouge' +later, was crowned by the French Academy. These novels are replete with +fine irony, benevolent scepticism and piquant turns, and will survive the +greater part of romances now read in France. The list of Anatole +France's works in fiction is a large one. The titles of nearly all of +them, arranged in chronological order, are as follows: 'Les Desirs de +Jean Seyvien (1882); Abeille (1883); Le Livre de mon Ami (1885); Nos +Enfants (1886); Balthazar (1889); Thais (1890); L'Etui de Naire (1892); +Jerome Coignard, and La Rotisserie de la Reine Pedanque (1893); and +Histoire Contemporaine (1897-1900), the latter consisting of four +separate works: 'L'Orme du Mail, Le Mannequin d'Osier, L'Anneau +d'Amethyste, and Monsieur Bergeret a Paris'. All of his writings show +his delicately critical analysis of passion, at first playfully tender in +its irony, but later, under the influence of his critical antagonism to +Brunetiere, growing keener, stronger, and more bitter. In 'Thais' he has +undertaken to show the bond of sympathy that unites the pessimistic +sceptic to the Christian ascetic, since both despise the world. In 'Lys +Rouge', his greatest novel, he traces the perilously narrow line that +separates love from hate; in 'Opinions de M. l'Abbe Jerome Coignard' he +has given us the most radical breviary of scepticism that has appeared +since Montaigne. 'Le Livre de mon Ami' is mostly autobiographical; +'Clio' (1900) contains historical sketches. + +To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature +would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the +stature and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive +qualities: delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of +writers who are more read and probably will ever exercise greater +influence than some of greater name. The latter show us life as a whole; +but life as a whole is too vast and too remote to excite in most of us +more than a somewhat languid curiosity. France confines himself to +themes of the keenest personal interest, the life of the world we live +in. It is herein that he excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies +are many-sided, his power of exposition is unsurpassed. No one has set +before us the mind of our time, with its half-lights, its shadowy vistas, +its indefiniteness, its haze on the horizon, so vividly as he. + +In Octave Mirbeau's notorious novel, a novel which it would be +complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by her +director against the works of Anatole France, "Ne lisez jamais du +Voltaire. . . C'est un peche mortel . . . ni de Renan . . . ni +de l'Anatole France. Voila qui est dangereux." The names are +appropriately united; a real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession +exists between the three writers. + + JULES LEMAITRE + de l'Academie Francais + + + + + +BOOK 1. + + +CHAPTER I + +"I NEED LOVE" + +She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the tea- +table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of flowers +ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the flowery +branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls quiver. Then +she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention. She held +herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow with her +eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin gown, +around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein sombre +lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face of that +day. The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this amiable +woman whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her, lived without +either acute joy or profound sadness. + +On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures of +the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique games +and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender +columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke of +past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the marble +bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly out +of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night, +powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers. +Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light +rattle of Therese's pearls could be heard. + +Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw +through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine +spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water +was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the 'Hirondelle', +emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble travellers +toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let +the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book +from the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in +gold: 'Yseult la Blonde', by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French +verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read +indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry than +of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable friend, and +whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their meetings, which +were so rare, kissed her, calling her "darling," and babbled; who, plain +yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly exquisite, lived at Fiesole +like a philosopher, while England celebrated her as her most beloved +poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson, she had fallen in love +with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without even finishing her +Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in Burne-Jones dreamy +aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French poems expressing +Italian ideas. She had sent her 'Yseult la Blonde' to "Darling," with a +letter inviting her to spend a month with her at Fiesole. She had +written: "Come; you will see the most beautiful things in the world, and +you will embellish them." + +And "darling" was saying to herself that she would not go, that she must +remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not +indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by +chance at this line: + + Love and gentle heart are one. + +And she asked herself, with gentle irony, whether Miss Bell had ever been +in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell. The +poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was very +handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please an aesthete +who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an Annunciation. + +"Good-evening, Therese. I am positively worn out." + +The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple in her furs, which almost +seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely, +and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing, said: + +"This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met +him in an alley and made him go with me to the bridge, where he wished to +buy from the guardian a learned magpie which performs the manual of arms +with a gun. Oh! I am so tired!" + +"But why did you drag the General to the bridge?" + +"Because he had gout in his toe." + +Therese shrugged her shoulders, smiling: + +"You squander your wickedness. You spoil things." + +"And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a +serious investment?" + +Therese made her drink some Tokay. + +Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere +approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking +stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face. + +"How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?" + +Therese thought he was at the Chamber, and even that he was making a +speech there. + +Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame +Martin why she had not gone to Madame Meillan's the day before. They had +played a comedy there. + +"A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?" + +"Yes--I don't know. I was in the little green room, under the portrait +of the Duc d'Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one of +those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur +Garain." + +The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful +information, pricked up his ears. + +"Garain," he asked, "the minister who was in the Cabinet when the princes +were exiled?" + +"Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the +yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness. +And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc +d'Orleans. I said to him: 'Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake. +It is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.' At this moment +Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet. He paid great +compliments--to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so beautiful +as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed me." + +The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the day +before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself and his +saddle. + +He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good +horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys. + +"It is the same with fencing," he added. "Formerly--" + +Princess Seniavine interrupted him: + +"General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always +charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because +she is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we +have been here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead +clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous. Behold a victim!" + +She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General +astonished. + +Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had +said. + +He collected himself and asked: + +"And how are your poets, Madame?" + +It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for +people who lived by writing and were not of his circle. + +"Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits +you wrapped in a red muffler?" + +"My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on +anybody. Men and women--nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal. +Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to me from +Florence and sent her book." + +"Miss Bell? Isn't she that young person who looks, with her yellow +waving hair, like a little lapdog?" + +He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least thirty. + +An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a +little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly--Madame Marmet +and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a square +monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of elegance. +The General hurried out. + +They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often with +the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the book +tiresome. + +"Oh," sighed Madame Martin, "all books are tiresome. But men are more +tiresome than books, and they are more exacting." + +Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had +retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was the +widow of a member of the 'Academie des Inscriptions', and plumed herself +upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in her black +gown and her beautiful white hair. + +Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult him +particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children. + +"You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion, +Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain such trifles." + +M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with disdain. +Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room. + +"You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you have +only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty." + +She did not conceal her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She +regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She had +appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His ill- +health, his dark humor, his assiduous labor, separated him from society. +The little bilious man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted her. She +held in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his talent +ripened in solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an excellent +writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life. + +Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the +large circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told +frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered +scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old +Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries; +Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife of +the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against the +mantelpiece, M. Berthier d'Eyzelles, editor of the 'Journal des Debats', +a deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted at +him: + +"Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of +it." + +Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped among +themselves: + +"What did he do to get the button from the Prince?" + +"He, nothing. His wife, everything." + +They had their own cynical philosophy. One of them had no faith in +promises of men. + +"They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their +hands and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a club. +They say, 'I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster +ball--a snowball! They vote. It's a black ball. Life seems a vile +affair when I think of it." + +"Then don't think of it." + +Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy +stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning +Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added, +negligently: + +"Everybody knows it." + +Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame +Marmet and Paul Vence remained. + +The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked: + +"When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?" + +It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see +new faces. She replied, unconcernedly: + +"Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions +made by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an +amateur, is he not?" + +"He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. +He caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived +about him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he +did not live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think +that he is solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he +lacks, what he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, +is simplicity of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful +impressions. In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for +poetry or philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished +at the wealth of his mind." + +Madame Marmet approved. + +She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened a +great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her +affability by not squandering it. Either because she liked Madame +Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in +every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative, in +a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She lacked +only her dog. + +"How is Toby?" asked Madame Martin. "Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby? +He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose." + +Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink and +blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden +spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to empty +armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked nose before +Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly. + +It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions. He smiled +and turned a madrigal for the Countess Martin with that hereditary harsh, +coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their creditors, +the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea. He dragged his +phrases heavily. This great philologist knew all languages except +French. And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and rusty +like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried leaves of +anthology. M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit. + +Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning his +bow. + +When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre and +pitiful. He complained piteously. He was not decorated enough, not +provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State--he, +Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some +grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. + +Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he +discovered Vivian Bell's book. + +"Oh, 'Yseult La Blonde'," he exclaimed, bitterly. "You are reading that +book, Madame? Well, learn that Mademoiselle Vivian Bell has stolen an +inscription from me, and that she has altered it, moreover, by putting it +into verse. You will find it on page 109 of her book: 'A shade may weep +over a shade.' You hear, Madame? 'A shade may weep over a shade.' Well, +those words are translated literally from a funeral inscription which I +was the first to publish and to illustrate. Last year, one day, when I +was dining at your house, being placed by the side of Mademoiselle Bell, +I quoted this phrase to her, and it pleased her a great deal. At her +request, the next day I translated into French the entire inscription and +sent it to her. And now I find it changed in this volume of verses under +this title: 'On the Sacred Way'--the sacred way, that is I." + +And he repeated, in his bad humor: + +"I, Madame, am the sacred way." + +He was annoyed that the poet had not spoken to him about this +inscription. He would have liked to see his name at the top of the poem, +in the verses, in the rhymes. He wished to see his name everywhere, and +always looked for it in the journals with which his pockets were stuffed. +But he had no rancor. He was not really angry with Miss Bell. He +admitted gracefully that she was a distinguished person, and a poet that +did great honor to England. + +When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if +he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such +marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know. + +"I never know anything," she said. + +"But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at +the death of Marmet. + +"The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling. We were wet and +frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read +under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, +which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An +indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it +possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious +quarrel? + +"The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique +study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else +knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost. Schmoll +said continually to Marmet: 'You do not know Etruscan, my dear colleague; +that is the reason why you are an honorable savant and a fair-minded +man.' Piqued by his ironic praise, Marmet thought of learning a little +Etruscan. He read to his colleague a memoir on the part played by +flexions in the idiom of the ancient Tuscans." + +Madame Martin asked what a flexion was. + +"Oh, Madame, if I explain anything to you, it will mix up everything. +Be content with knowing that in that memoir poor Marmet quoted Latin +texts and quoted them wrong. Schmoll is a Latinist of great learning, +and, after Mommsen, the chief epigraphist of the world. + +"He reproached his young colleague--Marmet was not fifty years old--with +reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time +Marmet had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, +finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without +rancor. It is a virtue of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those +whom he persecutes. One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute +with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him. +Marmet refused to take it, and said 'I do not know you.'--'Do you take me +for a Latin inscription?' Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried +because of that satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his +enemy with horror." + +"And I have made them dine together, side by side." + +"Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel." + +"My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I +should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one." + +A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed +with brusque suppleness. + +"Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil." + +They had met before at Madame Martin's, and saw each other often at the +Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan's. + +"Madame Meillan's--there's a house where one is bored," said Paul Vence. + +"Yet Academicians go there," said M. Robert Le Menil. "I do not +exaggerate their value, but they are the elite." + +Madame Martin smiled. + +"We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan's you are preoccupied +by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted Princess +Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves." + +"What wolves?" + +"Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty +a woman your conversation was rather savage!" + +Paul Vence rose. + +"So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has +a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you. There +is life in his mind. He is full of ideas." + +"Oh, I do not ask for so much," Madame Martin said. "People that are +natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes +they amuse me." + +When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps +had vanished; then, coming nearer: + +"To-morrow, at three o'clock? Do you still love me?" + +He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was +late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her +husband would come. + +He entreated. Then she said: + +"I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o'clock." + +He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other side +of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished +introduced to her. + +"I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me. +He is a sculptor." + +He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding: + +"A sculptor? They are usually brutal." + +"Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I +should meet him, I will not do so." + +"I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give to +me." + +"My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame +Meillan's yesterday." + +"You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a +house for you." + +He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure +which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored +intrigue. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended +on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, +looked at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown. +Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her languid +body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind. She kept +for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal attraction +the charm of things that art had created. + +He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze +in the ashes, she said: + +"We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd +districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where +misery dwells." + +He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he +thought it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and +he thought them dangerous. People might see them. + +"And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip--" + +She shook her head. + +"Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know or +do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is +said." + +She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for +some reason which she would not tell. He bent upon her beautiful, grave +eyes which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured him. + +"I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care? +Nothing matters." + +He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was +waiting for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy. +Then she began again to read in the ashes. + +She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had +passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where +slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and +the bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still +ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of +her imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears. +When she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is +not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary +thing. She should have known this. She thought: + +"I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed +of a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid +taste of life, and seemed to inhale the future like a salt and pungent +aroma. Why? What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned +enough of the sadness of everything?" + +She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was +a daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank, +founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them +the resources of a brilliant mind, invincible force of character, a rare +alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as if +he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of +Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father. +Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive and powerful +atheist, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable +things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and +precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women +of the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with +the brutality of his temperament and the shrewdness of his mind. + +Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished at Joinville, +delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which +held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter. +There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died one +night of sadness and exhaustion, never having loved anything on earth +except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue Maubeuge. + +She never had had any intimacy with her daughter, whom she felt +instinctively too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart; +and she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong +Montessuy blood, the ardor which had made her suffer so much, and which +she forgave in her husband, but not in her daughter. + +But Montessuy recognized his daughter and loved her. Like most hearty, +full-blooded men, he had hours of charming gayety. Although he lived out +of his house a great deal, he breakfasted with her almost every day, and +sometimes took her out walking. He understood gowns and furbelows. He +instructed and formed Therese. He amused her. Near her, his instinct +for conquest inspired him still. He desired to win always, and he won +his daughter. He separated her from her mother. Therese admired him, +she adored him. + +In her dream she saw him as the unique joy of her childhood. She was +persuaded that no man in the world was as amiable as her father. + +At her entrance in life, she despaired at once of finding elsewhere so +rich a nature, such a plenitude of active and thinking forces. This +discouragement had followed her in the choice of a husband, and perhaps +later in a secret and freer choice. + +She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had +permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower, +embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and +well. He considered the exterior advantages, estimated the eighty years +of imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came to +him that she might wish to find love in marriage. + +He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of the +luxurious desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a display +of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which were for +him all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject of the +happiness of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter would +remain virtuous. + +While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded so +badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled with +melancholy irony. And she admired her father the more. + +After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as any +other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in the +ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences, +that of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated +traits of it, some absurd images, a fleeting and fastidious impression. +The time had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years had +passed, and she did not even remember how she had regained her liberty, +so prompt and easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold, sickly, +selfish, and polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by business and +politics, laborious, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked women only +through vanity, and he never had loved his wife. The separation had been +frank and complete. And since then, strangers to each other, they felt +a tacit, mutual gratitude for their freedom. She would have had some +affection for him if she had not found him hypocritical and too subtle in +the art of obtaining her signature when he needed money for enterprises +that were more for ostentation than real benefit. The man with whom she +dined and talked every day had no significance for her. + +With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned a +sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so +precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented to +her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and +dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories. +His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three +generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had +loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance, and +his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary +term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin. The +homage of this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with +pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused her. She +let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic +frivolity, to finish worthily his happy life by the subjugation of this +young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who evidently +admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned stratagems. +But she escaped him very easily. + +She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her +ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of +his mind. She said to herself: "I gave myself to him because he loved +me." It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful +instinct had impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of +her being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened her nature +at last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity of his sentiment. +She had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved. She had +given herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded easily. +He was mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the irreparable +gives, and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly something to +conceal. Everything that had been whispered before her about other women +resounded in her burning ears. But, proud and delicate, she took care to +hide the value of the gift she was making. He never suspected her moral +uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and was replaced by perfect +tranquillity. After three years she defended her conduct as innocent and +natural. + +Having done harm to no one, she had no regrets. She was content. She +was in love, she was loved. Doubtless she had not felt the intoxication +she had expected, but does one ever feel it? She was the friend of the +good and honest fellow, much liked by women who passed for disdainful and +hard to please, and he had a true affection for her. The pleasure she +gave him and the joy of being beautiful for him attached her to this +friend. He made life for her not continually delightful, but easy to +bear, and at times agreeable. + +That which she had not divined in her solitude, notwithstanding vague +yearnings and apparently causeless sadness, he had revealed to her. She +knew herself when she knew him. It was a happy astonishment. Their +sympathies were not in their minds. Her inclination toward him was +simple and frank, and at this moment she found pleasure in the idea of +meeting him the next day in the little apartment where they had met for +three years. With a shake of the head and a shrug of her shoulders, +coarser than one would have expected from this exquisite woman, sitting +alone by the dying fire, she said to herself: "There! I need love!" + + + + +CHAPTER II + +"ONE CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE YOUNG!" + +It was no longer daylight when they came out of the little apartment in +the Rue Spontini. Robert Le Menil made a sign to a coachman, and entered +the carriage with Therese. Close together, they rolled among the vague +shadows, cut by sudden lights, through the ghostly city, having in their +minds only sweet and vanishing impressions while everything around them +seemed confused and fleeting. + +The carriage approached the Pont-Neuf. They stepped out. A dry cold +made vivid the sombre January weather. Under her veil Therese joyfully +inhaled the wind which swept on the hardened soil a dust white as salt. +She was glad to wander freely among unknown things. She liked to see the +stony landscape which the clearness of the air made distinct; to walk +quickly and firmly on the quay where the trees displayed the black +tracery of their branches on the horizon reddened by the smoke of the +city; to look at the Seine. In the sky the first stars appeared. + +"One would think that the wind would put them out," she said. + +He observed, too, that they scintillated a great deal. He did not think +it was a sign of rain, as the peasants believe. He had observed, on the +contrary, that nine times in ten the scintillation of stars was an augury +of fine weather. + +Near the little bridge they found old iron-shops lighted by smoky lamps. +She ran into them. She turned a corner and went into a shop in which +queer stuffs were hanging. Behind the dirty panes a lighted candle +showed pots, porcelain vases, a clarinet, and a bride's wreath. + +He did not understand what pleasure she found in her search. + +"These shops are full of vermin. What can you find interesting in them?" + +"Everything. I think of the poor bride whose wreath is under that globe. +The dinner occurred at Maillot. There was a policeman in the procession. +There is one in almost all the bridal processions one sees in the park on +Saturdays. Don't they move you, my friend, all these poor, ridiculous, +miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past?" + +Among cups decorated with flowers she discovered a little knife, the +ivory handle of which represented a tall, thin woman with her hair +arranged a la Maintenon. She bought it for a few sous. It pleased her, +because she already had a fork like it. Le Menil confessed that he had +no taste for such things, but said that his aunt knew a great deal about +them. At Caen all the merchants knew her. She had restored and +furnished her house in proper style. This house was noted as early as +1690. In one of its halls were white cases full of books. His aunt had +wished to put them in order. She had found frivolous books in them, +ornamented with engravings so unconventional that she had burned them. + +"Is she silly, your aunt?" asked Therese. + +For a long time his anecdotes about his aunt had made her impatient. +Her friend had in the country a mother, sisters, aunts, and numerous +relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her. He talked of them +with admiration. It annoyed her that he often visited them. When he +came back, she imagined that he carried with him the odor of things that +had been packed up for years. He was astonished, naively, and he +suffered from her antipathy to them. + +He said nothing. The sight of a public-house, the panes of which were +flaming, recalled to him the poet Choulette, who passed for a drunkard. +He asked her if she still saw that Choulette, who called on her wearing +a mackintosh and a red muffler. + +It annoyed her that he spoke like General Lariviere. She did not say +that she had not seen Choulette since autumn, and that he neglected her +with the capriciousness of a man not in society. + +"He has wit," she said, "fantasy, and an original temperament. He +pleases me." + +And as he reproached her for having an odd taste, she replied: + +"I haven't a taste, I have tastes. You do not disapprove of them all, +I suppose." + +He replied that he did not criticise her. He was only afraid that she +might do herself harm by receiving a Bohemian who was not welcome in +respectable houses. + +She exclaimed: + +"Not welcome in respectable houses--Choulette? Don't you know that he +goes every year for a month to the Marquise de Rieu? Yes, to the +Marquise de Rieu, the Catholic, the royalist. But since Choulette +interests you, listen to his latest adventure. Paul Vence related it to +me. I understand it better in this street, where there are shirts and +flowerpots at the windows. + +"This winter, one night when it was raining, Choulette went into a +public-house in a street the name of which I have forgotten, but which +must resemble this one, and met there an unfortunate girl whom the +waiters would not have noticed, and whom he liked for her humility. Her +name was Maria. The name was not hers. She found it nailed on her door +at the top of the stairway where she went to lodge. Choulette was +touched by this perfection of poverty and infamy. He called her his +sister, and kissed her hands. Since then he has not quitted her a +moment. He takes her to the coffee-houses of the Latin Quarter where the +rich students read their reviews. He says sweet things to her. He +weeps, she weeps. They drink; and when they are drunk, they fight. He +loves her. He calls her his chaste one, his cross and his salvation. +She was barefooted; he gave her yarn and knitting-needles that she might +make stockings. And he made shoes for this unfortunate girl himself, +with enormous nails. He teaches her verses that are easy to understand. +He is afraid of altering her moral beauty by taking her out of the shame +where she lives in perfect simplicity and admirable destitution." + +Le Menil shrugged his shoulders. + +"But that Choulette is crazy, and Paul Vence has no right to tell you +such stories. I am not austere, assuredly; but there are immoralities +that disgust me." They were walking at random. She fell into a dream. + +"Yes, morality, I know--duty! But duty--it takes the devil to discover +it. I can assure you that I do not know where duty is. It's like a +young lady's turtle at Joinville. We spent all the evening looking for +it under the furniture, and when we had found it, we went to bed." + +He thought there was some truth in what she said. He would think about +it when alone. + +"I regret sometimes that I did not remain in the army. I know what you +are going to say--one becomes a brute in that profession. Doubtless, but +one knows exactly what one has to do, and that is a great deal in life. +I think that my uncle's life is very beautiful and very agreeable. But +now that everybody is in the army, there are neither officers nor +soldiers. It all looks like a railway station on Sunday. My uncle knew +personally all the officers and all the soldiers of his brigade. +Nowadays, how can you expect an officer to know his men?" + +She had ceased to listen. She was looking at a woman selling fried +potatoes. She realized that she was hungry and wished to eat fried +potatoes. + +He remonstrated: + +"Nobody knows how they are cooked." + +But he had to buy two sous' worth of fried potatoes, and to see that the +woman put salt on them. + +While Therese was eating them, he led her into deserted streets far from +the gaslights. Soon they found themselves in front of the cathedral. +The moon silvered the roofs. + +"Notre Dame," she said. "See, it is as heavy as an elephant yet as +delicate as an insect. The moon climbs over it and looks at it with a +monkey's maliciousness. She does not look like the country moon at +Joinville. At Joinville I have a path--a flat path--with the moon at the +end of it. She is not there every night; but she returns faithfully, +full, red, familiar. She is a country neighbor. I go seriously to meet +her. But this moon of Paris I should not like to know. She is not +respectable company. Oh, the things that she has seen during the time +she has been roaming around the roofs!" + +He smiled a tender smile. + +"Oh, your little path where you walked alone and that you liked because +the sky was at the end of it! I see it as if I were there." + +It was at the Joinville castle that he had seen her for the first time, +and had at once loved her. It was there, one night, that he had told her +of his love, to which she had listened, dumb, with a pained expression on +her mouth and a vague look in her eyes. + +The reminiscence of this little path where she walked alone moved him, +troubled him, made him live again the enchanted hours of his first +desires and hopes. He tried to find her hand in her muff and pressed her +slim wrist under the fur. + +A little girl carrying violets saw that they were lovers, and offered +flowers to them. He bought a two-sous' bouquet and offered it to +Therese. + +She was walking toward the cathedral. She was thinking: "It is like an +enormous beast--a beast of the Apocalypse." + +At the other end of the bridge a flower-woman, wrinkled, bearded, gray +with years and dust, followed them with her basket full of mimosas and +roses. Therese, who held her violets and was trying to slip them into +her waist, said, joyfully: + +"Thank you, I have some." + +"One can see that you are young," the old woman shouted with a wicked +air, as she went away. + +Therese understood at once, and a smile came to her lips and eyes. They +were passing near the porch, before the stone figures that wear sceptres +and crowns. + +"Let us go in," she said. + +He did not wish to go in. He declared that the door was closed. She +pushed it, and slipped into the immense nave, where the inanimate trees +of the columns ascended in darkness. In the rear, candles were moving in +front of spectre-like priests, under the last reverberations of the +organs. She trembled in the silence, and said: + +"The sadness of churches at night moves me; I feel in them the grandeur +of nothingness." + +He replied: + +"We must believe in something. If there were no God, if our souls were +not immortal, it would be too sad." + +She remained for a while immovable under the curtains of shadow hanging +from the arches. Then she said: + +"My poor friend, we do not know what to do with this life, which is so +short, and yet you desire another life which shall never finish." + +In the carriage that took them back he said gayly that he had passed +a fine afternoon. He kissed her, satisfied with her and with himself. +But his good-humor was not communicated to her. The last moments they +passed together were spoiled for her always by the presentiment that he +would not say at parting the thing that he should say. Ordinarily, he +quitted her brusquely, as if what had happened were not to last. At +every one of their partings she had a confused feeling that they were +parting forever. She suffered from this in advance and became irritable. + +Under the trees he took her hand and kissed her. + +"Is it not rare, Therese, to love as we love each other?" + +"Rare? I don't know; but I think that you love me." + +"And you?" + +"I, too, love you." + +"And you will love me always?" + +"What does one ever know?" + +And seeing the face of her lover darken: + +"Would you be more content with a woman who would swear to love only you +for all time?" + +He remained anxious, with a wretched air. She was kind and she reassured +him: + +"You know very well, my friend, that I am not fickle." + +Almost at the end of the lane they said good-by. He kept the carriage to +return to the Rue Royale. He was to dine at the club and go to the +theatre, and had no time to lose. + +Therese returned home on foot. Opposite the Trocadero she remembered +what the old flower-woman had said: "One can see that you are young." +The words came back to her with a significance not immoral but sad. "One +can see that you are young!" Yes, she was young, she was loved, and she +was bored to death. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +A DISCUSSION ON THE LITTLE CORPORAL + +In the centre of the table flowers were disposed in a basket of gilded +bronze, decorated with eagles, stars, and bees, and handles formed like +horns of plenty. On its sides winged Victorys supported the branches of +candelabra. This centrepiece of the Empire style had been given by +Napoleon, in 1812, to Count Martin de l'Aisne, grandfather of the present +Count Martin-Belleme. Martin de l'Aisne, a deputy to the Legislative +Corps in 1809, was appointed the following year member of the Committee +on Finance, the assiduous and secret works of which suited his laborious +temperament. Although a Liberal, he pleased the Emperor by his +application and his exact honesty. For two years he was under a rain of +favors. In 1813 he formed part of the moderate majority which approved +the report in which Laine censured power and misfortune, by giving to the +Empire tardy advice. January 1, 1814, he went with his colleagues to +the Tuileries. The Emperor received them in a terrifying manner. +He charged on their ranks. Violent and sombre, in the horror of his +present strength and of his coming fall, he stunned them with his anger +and his contempt. + +He came and went through their lines, and suddenly took Count Martin by +the shoulders, shook him and dragged him, exclaiming: "A throne is four +pieces of wood covered with velvet? No! A throne is a man, and that man +is I. You have tried to throw mud at me. Is this the time to +remonstrate with me when there are two hundred thousand Cossacks at the +frontiers? Your Laine is a wicked man. One should wash one's dirty +linen at home." And while in his anger he twisted in his hand the +embroidered collar of the deputy, he said: "The people know me. They do +not know you. I am the elect of the nation. You are the obscure +delegates of a department." He predicted to them the fate of the +Girondins. The noise of his spurs accompanied the sound of his voice. +Count Martin remained trembling the rest of his life, and tremblingly +recalled the Bourbons after the defeat of the Emperor. The two +restorations were in vain; the July government and the Second Empire +covered his oppressed breast with crosses and cordons. Raised to the +highest functions, loaded with honors by three kings and one emperor, he +felt forever on his shoulder the hand of the Corsican. He died a senator +of Napoleon III, and left a son agitated by the same fear. + +This son had married Mademoiselle Belleme, daughter of the first +president of the court of Bourges, and with her the political glories of +a family which gave three ministers to the moderate monarch. The +Bellemes, advocates in the time of Louis XV, elevated the Jacobin origins +of the Martins. The second Count Martin was a member of all the +Assemblies until his death in 1881. His son took without trouble his +seat in the Chamber of Deputies. Having married Mademoiselle Therese +Montessuy, whose dowry supported his political fortune, he appeared +discreetly among the four or five bourgeois, titled and wealthy, who +rallied to democracy, and were received without much bad grace by the +republicans, whom aristocracy flattered. + +In the dining-room, Count Martin-Belleme was doing the honors of his +table with the good grace, the sad politeness, recently prescribed at the +Elysee to represent isolated France at a great northern court. From time +to time he addressed vapid phrases to Madame Garain at his right; to the +Princess Seniavine at his left, who, loaded with diamonds, felt bored. +Opposite him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin, having by +her side General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des +Inscriptions, caressed with her fan her smooth white shoulders. At the +two semicircles, whereby the dinner-table was prolonged, were +M. Montessuy, robust, with blue eyes and ruddy complexion; a young +cousin, Madame Belleme de Saint-Nom, embarrassed by her long, thin arms; +the painter Duviquet; M. Daniel Salomon; then Paul Vence and Garain the +deputy; Belleme de Saint-Nom; an unknown senator; and Dechartre, who was +dining at the house for the first time. The conversation, at first +trivial and insignificant, was prolonged into a confused murmur, above +which rose Garain's voice: + +"Every false idea is dangerous. People think that dreamers do no harm. +They are mistaken: dreamers do a great heal of harm. Even apparently +inoffensive utopian ideas really exercise a noxious influence. They tend +to inspire disgust at reality." + +"It is, perhaps, because reality is not beautiful," said Paul Vence. + +M. Garain said that he had always been in favor of all possible +improvements. He had asked for the suppression of permanent armies in +the time of the Empire, for the separation of church and state, and had +remained always faithful to democracy. His device, he said, was "Order +and Progress." He thought he had discovered that device. + +Montessuy said: + +"Well, Monsieur Garain, be sincere. Confess that there are no reforms to +be made, and that it is as much as one can do to change the color of +postage-stamps. Good or bad, things are as they should be. Yes, things +are as they should be; but they change incessantly. Since 1870 the +industrial and financial situation of the country has gone through four +or five revolutions which political economists had not foreseen and which +they do not yet understand. In society, as in nature, transformations +are accomplished from within." + +As to matters of government his ideas were terse and decided. He was +strongly attached to the present, heedless of the future, and the +socialists troubled him little. Without caring whether the sun and +capital should be extinguished some day, he enjoyed them. According to +him, one should let himself be carried. None but fools resisted the +current or tried to go in front of it. + +But Count Martin, naturally sad, had, dark presentiments. In veiled +words he announced catastrophes. His timorous phrases came through the +flowers, and irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy. +He explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by +themselves, of throwing off barbarism, and that without the Jews and the +Arabs Europe would be to-day, as in the time of the Crusades, sunk in +ignorance, misery, and cruelty. + +"The Middle Ages," he said, "are closed only in the historical manuals +that are given to pupils to spoil their minds. In reality, barbarians +are always barbarians. Israel's mission is to instruct nations. It was +Israel which, in the Middle Ages, brought to Europe the wisdom of ages. +Socialism frightens you. It is a Christian evil, like priesthood. And +anarchy? Do you not recognize in it the plague of the Albigeois and of +the Vaudois? The Jews, who instructed and polished Europe, are the only +ones who can save it to-day from the evangelical evil by which it is +devoured. But they have not fulfilled their duty. They have made +Christians of themselves among the Christians. And God punishes them. +He permits them to be exiled and to be despoiled. Anti-Semitism is +making fearful progress everywhere. From Russia my co-religionists are +expelled like savage beasts. In France, civil and military employments +are closing against Jews. They have no longer access to aristocratic +circles. My nephew, young Isaac Coblentz, has had to renounce a +diplomatic career, after passing brilliantly his admission examination. +The wives of several of my colleagues, when Madame Schmoll calls on them, +display with intention, under her eyes, anti-Semitic newspapers. And +would you believe that the Minister of Public Instruction has refused to +give me the cross of the Legion of Honor for which I have applied? +There's ingratitude! Anti-Semitism is death--it is death, do you hear? +to European civilization." + +The little man had a natural manner which surpassed all the art in the +world. Grotesque and terrible, he threw the table into consternation by +his sincerity. Madame Martin, whom he amused, complimented him on this: + +"At least," she said, "you defend your co-religionists. You are not, +Monsieur Schmoll, like a beautiful Jewish lady of my acquaintance who, +having read in a journal that she received the elite of Jewish society, +went everywhere shouting that she had been insulted." + +"I am sure, Madame, that you do not know how beautiful and superior to +all other moralities is Jewish morality. Do you know the parable of the +three rings?" + +This question was lost in the murmur of the dialogues wherein were +mingled foreign politics, exhibitions of paintings, fashionable scandals, +and Academy speeches. They talked of the new novel and of the coming +play. This was a comedy. Napoleon was an incidental character in it. + +The conversation settled upon Napoleon I, often placed on the stage and +newly studied in books--an object of curiosity, a personage in the +fashion, no longer a popular hero, a demi-god, wearing boots for his +country, as in the days when Norvins and Beranger, Charlet and Raffet +were composing his legend; but a curious personage, an amusing type in +his living infinity, a figure whose style is pleasant to artists, whose +movements attract thoughtless idlers. + +Garain, who had founded his political fortune on hatred of the Empire, +judged sincerely that this return of national taste was only an absurd +infatuation. He saw no danger in it and felt no fear about it. In him +fear was sudden and ferocious. For the moment he was very quiet; he +talked neither of prohibiting performances nor of seizing books, of +imprisoning authors, or of suppressing anything. Calm and severe, he saw +in Napoleon only Taine's 'condottiere' who kicked Volney in the stomach. +Everybody wished to define the true Napoleon. Count Martin, in the face +of the imperial centrepiece and of the winged Victorys, talked suitably +of Napoleon as an organizer and administrator, and placed him in a high +position as president of the state council, where his words threw light +upon obscure questions. Garain affirmed that in his sessions, only too +famous, Napoleon, under pretext of taking snuff, asked the councillors to +pass to him their gold boxes ornamented with miniatures and decked with +diamonds, which they never saw again. The anecdote was told to him by +the son of Mounier himself. + +Montessuy esteemed in Napoleon the genius of order. "He liked," he said, +"work well done. That is a taste most persons have lost." + +The painter Duviquet, whose ideas were those of an artist, was +embarrassed. He did not find on the funeral mask brought from St. +Helena the characteristics of that face, beautiful and powerful, which +medals and busts have consecrated. One must be convinced of this now +that the bronze of that mask was hanging in all the old shops, among +eagles and sphinxes made of gilded wood. And, according to him, since +the true face of Napoleon was not that of the ideal Napoleon, his real +soul may not have been as idealists fancied it. Perhaps it was the soul +of a good bourgeois. Somebody had said this, and he was inclined to +think that it was true. Anyway, Duviquet, who flattered himself with +having made the best portraits of the century, knew that celebrated men +seldom resemble the ideas one forms of them. + +M. Daniel Salomon observed that the fine mask about which Duviquet +talked, the plaster cast taken from the inanimate face of the Emperor, +and brought to Europe by Dr. Antommarchi, had been moulded in bronze and +sold by subscription for the first time in 1833, under Louis Philippe, +and had then inspired surprise and mistrust. People suspected the +Italian chemist, who was a sort of buffoon, always talkative and +famished, of having tried to make fun of people. Disciples of Dr. Gall, +whose system was then in favor, regarded the mask as suspicious. They +did not find in it the bumps of genius; and the forehead, examined in +accordance with the master's theories, presented nothing remarkable in +its formation. + +"Precisely," said Princess Seniavine. "Napoleon was remarkable only for +having kicked Volney in the stomach and stealing a snuffbox ornamented +with diamonds. Monsieur Garain has just taught us." + +"And yet," said Madame Martin, "nobody is sure that he kicked Volney." + +"Everything becomes known in the end," replied the Princess, gayly. +"Napoleon did nothing at all. He did not even kick Volney, and his head +was that of an idiot." + +General Lariviere felt that he should say something. He hurled this +phrase: + +"Napoleon--his campaign of 1813 is much discussed." + +The General wished to please Garain, and he had no other idea. However, +he succeeded, after an effort, in formulating a judgment: + +"Napoleon committed faults; in his situation he should not have committed +any." And he stopped abruptly, very red. + +Madame Martin asked: + +"And you, Monsieur Vence, what do you think of Napoleon?" + +"Madame, I have not much love for sword-bearers, and conquerors seem to +me to be dangerous fools. But in spite of everything, that figure of the +Emperor interests me as it interests the public. I find character and +life in it. There is no poem or novel that is worth the Memoirs of Saint +Helena, although it is written in ridiculous fashion. What I think of +Napoleon, if you wish to know, is that, made for glory, he had the +brilliant simplicity of the hero of an epic poem. A hero must be human. +Napoleon was human." + +"Oh, oh!" every one exclaimed. + +But Paul Vence continued: + +"He was violent and frivolous; therefore profoundly human. I mean, +similar to everybody. He desired, with singular force, all that most men +esteem and desire. He had illusions, which he gave to the people. This +was his power and his weakness; it was his beauty. He believed in glory. +He had of life and of the world the same opinion as any one of his +grenadiers. He retained always the infantile gravity which finds +pleasure in playing with swords and drums, and the sort of innocence +which makes good military men. He esteemed force sincerely. He was a +man among men, the flesh of human flesh. He had not a thought that was +not in action, and all his actions were grand yet common. It is this +vulgar grandeur which makes heroes. And Napoleon is the perfect hero. +His brain never surpassed his hand--that hand, small and beautiful, which +grasped the world. He never had, for a moment, the least care for what +he could not reach." + +"Then," said Garain, "according to you, he was not an intellectual +genius. I am of your opinion." + +"Surely," continued Paul Vence, "he had enough genius to be brilliant in +the civil and military arena of the world. But he had not speculative +genius. That genius is another pair of sleeves, as Buffon says. We have +a collection of his writings and speeches. His style has movement and +imagination. And in this mass of thoughts one can not find a philosophic +curiosity, not one expression of anxiety about the unknowable, not an +expression of fear of the mystery which surrounds destiny. At Saint +Helena, when he talks of God and of the soul, he seems to be a little +fourteen-year-old school-boy. Thrown upon the world, his mind found +itself fit for the world, and embraced it all. Nothing of that mind was +lost in the infinite. Himself a poet, he knew only the poetry of action. +He limited to the earth his powerful dream of life. In his terrible and +touching naivete he believed that a man could be great, and neither time +nor misfortune made him lose that idea. His youth, or rather his sublime +adolescence, lasted as long as he lived, because life never brought him a +real maturity. Such is the abnormal state of men of action. They live +entirely in the present, and their genius concentrates on one point. +The hours of their existence are not connected by a chain of grave and +disinterested meditations. They succeed themselves in a series of acts. +They lack interior life. This defect is particularly visible in +Napoleon, who never lived within himself. From this is derived the +frivolity of temperament which made him support easily the enormous load +of his evils and of his faults. His mind was born anew every day. He +had, more than any other person, a capacity for diversion. The first day +that he saw the sun rise on his funereal rock at Saint Helena, he jumped +from his bed, whistling a romantic air. It was the peace of a mind +superior to fortune; it was the frivolity of a mind prompt in +resurrection. He lived from the outside." + +Garain, who did not like Paul Vence's ingenious turn of wit and language, +tried to hasten the conclusion: + +"In a word," he said, "there was something of the monster in the man." + +"There are no monsters," replied Paul Vence; "and men who pass for +monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had +the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for +him." + +Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he +excused himself with a sort of fright. + +"Do you know," said Schmoll again, "the parable of the three rings, +sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew." + +Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox, +regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and +justice. + +"One great principle," he said, "is that men should be judged by their +acts." + +"And women?" asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; "do you judge them by +their acts? And how do you know what they do?" + +The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of +silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on +the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain. + +General Lariviere fell into dreams. + +"When public clamor has split my ears," he said to his neighbor, "I shall +go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers." + +He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given to +a rose. This pleased him highly. + +Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings. + +The Princess rallied the Deputy. + +"Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things for +very different reasons?" + +Montessuy said she was right. + +"It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This +thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was +known neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an +English legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell +Lowell of London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his +time with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her +husband; the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows; +the third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become +ugly, and was a servant in a den. After what she had done, after what +she had seen, love signified nothing to her. These three women behaved +alike for very different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the +mass of actions, their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of +the human being." + +"Some of our actions," said Madame Martin, "have our look, our face: they +are our daughters. Others do not resemble us at all." + +She rose and took the General's arm. + +On the way to the drawing-room the Princess said: + +"Therese is right. Some actions do not express our real selves at all. +They are like the things we do in nightmares." + +The nymphs of the tapestries smiled vainly in their faded beauty at the +guests, who did not see them. + +Madame Martin served the coffee with her young cousin, Madame Belleme de +Saint-Nom. She complimented Paul Vence on what he had said at the table. + +"You talked of Napoleon with a freedom of mind that is rare in the +conversations I hear. I have noticed that children, when they are +handsome, look, when they pout, like Napoleon at Waterloo. You have made +me feel the profound reasons for this similarity." + +Then, turning toward Dechartre: + +"Do you like Napoleon?" + +"Madame, I do not like the Revolution. And Napoleon is the Revolution in +boots." + +"Monsieur Dechartre, why did you not say this at dinner? But I see you +prefer to be witty only in tete-a-tetes." + +Count Martin-Belleme escorted the men to the smoking-room. Paul Vence +alone remained with the women. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had +finished his novel, and what was the subject of it. It was a study in +which he tried to reach the truth through a series of plausible +conditions. + +"Thus," he said, "the novel acquires a moral force which history, in its +heavy frivolity, never had." + +She inquired whether the book was written for women. He said it was not. + +"You are wrong, Monsieur Vence, not to write for women. A superior man +can do nothing else for them." + +He wished to know what gave her that idea. + +"Because I see that all the intelligent women love fools." + +"Who bore them." + +"Certainly! But superior men would weary them more. They would have +more resources to employ in boring them. But tell me the subject of your +novel." + +"Do you insist?" + +"Oh, I insist upon nothing." + +"Well, I will tell you. It is a study of popular manners; the history of +a young workman, sober and chaste, as handsome as a girl, with the mind +of a virgin, a sensitive soul. He is a carver, and works well. At +night, near his mother, whom he loves, he studies, he reads books. In +his mind, simple and receptive, ideas lodge themselves like bullets in a +wall. He has no desires. He has neither the passions nor the vices that +attach us to life. He is solitary and pure. Endowed with strong +virtues, he becomes conceited. He lives among miserable people. He sees +suffering. He has devotion without humanity. He has that sort of cold +charity which is called altruism. He is not human because he is not +sensual." + +"Oh! One must be sensual to be human?" + +"Certainly, Madame. True pity, like tenderness, comes from the heart. +He is not intelligent enough to doubt. He believes what he has read. +And he has read that to establish universal happiness society must be +destroyed. Thirst for martyrdom devours him. One morning, having kissed +his mother, he goes out; he watches for the socialist deputy of his +district, sees him, throws himself on him, and buries a poniard in his +breast. Long live anarchy! He is arrested, measured, photographed, +questioned, judged, condemned to death, and guillotined. That is my +novel." + +"It is not very amusing," said the Princess; "but that is not your fault. +Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other Frenchmen. The +Russians have more audacity and more imagination." + +Countess Martin asked Paul Vence whether he knew a silent, timid-looking +man among the guests. Her husband had invited him. She knew nothing of +him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was a senator. +He had seen him one day by chance in the Luxembourg, in the gallery that +served as a library. + +"I went there to look at the cupola, where Delacroix has painted, in a +wood of bluish myrtles, heroes and sages of antiquity. That gentleman +was there, with the same wretched and pitiful air. His coat was damp and +he was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying, +while rubbing his hands: 'The proof that the Republic is the best of +governments is that in 1871 it could kill in a week sixty thousand +insurgents without becoming unpopular. After such a repression any other +regime would have been impossible.'" + +"He is a very wicked man," said Madame Martin. "And to think that I was +pitying him!" + +Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace +of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the banks +of the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her. + +Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The +General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin. + +"I met this morning, in the park, Baronne Warburg, mounted on a +magnificent horse. She said, 'General, how do you manage to have such +fine horses?' I replied: Madame, to have fine horses, you must be either +very wealthy or very clever.'" + +He was so well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice. + +Paul Vence came near Countess Martin: + +"I know that senator's name: it is Lyer. He is the vice-president of a +political society, and author of a book entitled, The Crime of December +Second." + +The General continued: + +"The weather was horrible. I went into a hut and found Le Menil there. +I was in a bad humor. He was making fun of me, I saw, because I sought +shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like wind and +snow. He said that he liked bad weather, and that he was to go +foxhunting with friends next week." + +There was a pause; the General continued: + +"I wish him much joy, but I don't envy him. Foxhunting is not +agreeable." + +"But it is useful," said Montessuy. + +The General shrugged his shoulders. + +"Foxes are dangerous for chicken-coops in the spring when the fowls have +to feed their families." + +"Foxes are sly poachers, who do less harm to farmers than to hunters. +I know something of this." + +Therese was not listening to the Princess, who was talking to her. She +was thinking: + +"He did not tell me that he was going away!" + +"Of what are you thinking, dear?" inquired the Princess. + +"Of nothing interesting," Therese replied. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE END OF A DREAM + +In the little shadowy room, where sound was deadened by curtains, +portieres, cushions, bearskins, and carpets from the Orient, the +firelight shone on glittering swords hanging among the faded favors of +the cotillons of three winters. The rosewood chiffonier was surmounted +by a silver cup, a prize from some sporting club. On a porcelain plaque, +in the centre of the table, stood a crystal vase which held branches of +white lilacs; and lights palpitated in the warm shadows. Therese and +Robert, their eyes accustomed to obscurity, moved easily among these +familiar objects. He lighted a cigarette while she arranged her hair, +standing before the mirror, in a corner so dim she could hardly see +herself. She took pins from the little Bohemian glass cup standing on +the table, where she had kept it for three years. He looked at her, +passing her light fingers quickly through the gold ripples of her hair, +while her face, hardened and bronzed by the shadow, took on a mysterious +expression. She did not speak. + +He said to her: + +"You are not cross now, my dear?" + +And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said: + +"What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said at +first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from +General Lariviere." + +He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained +cold and reserved toward him. But he affected to think that she only +pouted. + +"My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I met +Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my promise +to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I meant to +tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere told you +first, but there was no significance in that." + +Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a +glance from her tranquil eyes, which he did not understand. + +"Then you are going?" + +"Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at +most." + +She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented with a branch of holly. + +"Is it something that you can not postpone?" + +"Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover, +Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence." + +Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned. + +"Is fox-hunting interesting?" + +"Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems that one must fathom. The +intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at +night a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure +you it is not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. +I do not care for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you +half a dozen skins." + +"What do you wish me to do with them?" + +"Oh, you can make rugs of them." + +"And you will be hunting eight days?" + +"Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at +this time there was a delightful reunion at her house. She had with her +her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five +women are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable. I shall probably +find them at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt's +birthday, and I shall remain there two days." + +"My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable +if you shortened on my account a sojourn which is so agreeable." + +"But you, Therese?" + +"I, my friend? I can take care of myself." + +The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She +said, in a dreamy tone: + +"It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone." + +He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her +hand. + +"You love me?" he said. + +"Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but--" + +"What do you mean?" + +"Nothing. I am thinking--I am thinking that we are separated all through +the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends +half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is +better not to see each other at all." + +He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He +looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common to +all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her +through force of education and simplicity of intelligence. + +"Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me? +Sometimes you are painfully harsh." + +She shook her little head brusquely. + +"What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate. It is in the blood. I +take it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the castle, +the ceilings, the tapestries, the gardens, the park, the hunting-grounds, +you have said that none better were in France; but you have not seen my +father's workshop--a white wooden table and a mahogany bureau. +Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my father made +figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in the apartment +where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a parvenu's +daughter, or a conqueror's daughter, it's all the same. We are people of +material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess what he +could buy--that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep--what? I do not +know--the happiness that I have--or that I have not. I have my own way +of being exacting. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I know very +well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes in giving +herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something, because my +trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or think what I +like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what is due to +me. And then--" + +She lowered her voice: + +"And then, I have--impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you +have? You shouldn't have loved me." + +This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his +pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she +did, but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to a +woman's words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often +words are the same as actions. + +Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength and +confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims, which he judged +absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her; and, +naively, he always ended by playing it. + +"You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be +agreeable to you. Don't be capricious with me." + +"And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not +because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I +was capricious." + +He looked at her, astonished and saddened. + +"The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was +love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you loved +me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the +satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my +desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone. You +are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your +foxhunt, isn't that capricious?" + +He replied, very sincerely: + +"If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice +that small pleasure with great joy." + +She felt that he spoke the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling +the most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he would +not go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would seek +hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to take his +reason seriously, and said: + +"Ah, you have promised!" + +And she affected to yield. + +Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her +listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn. +He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids as +a reward. He said: + +"We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. +I will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here +to-morrow?" + +She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the +next day nor any other day. + +Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her. + +The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity fair, +exhibitions. As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to +increase. The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the +exhibitions would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see +him again before his departure. + +As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to +observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed +by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained +silent and unhappy. + +With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on the +key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the +sapphire and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she turned her +head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little mockingly, yet +with a touch of tragic emotion: + +"Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little +visits are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!" + +She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a +point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely +forced him to do so. + +In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world, +without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was +her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But +the avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights, +enveloped her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so +agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold of +winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains of +the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and there. +These small shops, these monotonous windows, were nothing to her. Yet +she felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship of +inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of +houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly upon her. She +was alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between +the two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had +taken so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that +day brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day +had left a subtle, strange, persistent sting, which would never leave +her. What had happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced +everything. She had a sort of obscure certainty that she would never +return to that room which had so recently enclosed the most secret and +dearest phases of her life. She had loved Robert with the seriousness of +a necessary joy. Made to be loved, and very reasonable, she had not lost +in the abandonment of herself that instinct of reflection, that necessity +for security, which was so strong in her. She had not chosen: one seldom +chooses. She had not allowed herself to be taken at random and by +surprise. She had done what she had wished to do, as much as one ever +does what one wishes to do in such cases. She had nothing to regret. +He had been to her what it was his duty to be. She felt, in spite of +everything, that all was at an end. She thought, with dry sadness, +that three years of her life had been given to an honest man who had +loved her and whom she had loved. "For I loved him. I must have loved +him in order to give myself to him." But she could not feel again the +sentiments of early days, the movements of her mind when she had yielded. +She recalled small and insignificant circumstances: the flowers on the +wall-paper and the pictures in the room. She recalled the words, +a little ridiculous and almost touching, that he had said to her. +But it seemed to her that the adventure had occurred to another woman, +to a stranger whom she did not like and whom she hardly understood. +And what had happened only a moment ago seemed far distant now. +The room, the lilacs in the crystal vase, the little cup of Bohemian +glass where she found her pins--she saw all these things as if through a +window that one passes in the street. She was without bitterness, +and even without sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas! +This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against +her; it was nothing, yet it was everything. It was the end. She knew +it. She wished to cease. It was the consent of all the forces of her +being. She said to herself: "I have no reason to love him less. Do I +love him no more? Did I ever love him?" She did not know and she did +not care to know. Three years, during which there had been months when +they had seen each other every day--was all this nothing? Life is not a +great thing. And what one puts in it, how little that is! + +In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end +it all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was +not a resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a +state of the body and of the mind. + +When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain, and +on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its bell in +an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that he had +given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame. They had loved +each other that day--perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened at that +reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor little +flower skeleton, in her memory. + +While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her +dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and +the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not +a crisis. She thought: "How do other women manage such things? And I, +who promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?" + +Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil +disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made +of a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the +other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized +her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her; +she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few +steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this +place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal a +glimpse of the sky. + +He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of +her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively. + +"Graceful movements," he added, "are like music for the eyes." + +She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause of +her good health. + +He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The +mystery of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages +had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm. +He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the +Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother +country of his mind. + +"I shall go there next week," he said. "I long to see again Ravenna +asleep among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen +Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms appear. +The magic of death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale, with +their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one feel the +monstrous delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its silver lamels, +the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful under its crypt, luminous yet +gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the sarcophagus, it seems +as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius, seated on her golden chair, +erect in her gown studded with stones and embroidered with scenes from +the Old Testament; her beautiful, cruel face preserved hard and black +with aromatic plants, and her ebony hands immovable on her knees. For +thirteen centuries she retained this funereal majesty, until one day a +child passed a candle through the opening of the grave and burned the +body." + +Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her +conceit, had done during her life. + +"Twice a slave," said Dechartre, "she became twice an empress." + +"She must have been beautiful," said Madame Martin. "You have made me +see her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to +Venice, Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals +bordered by palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that +I still like Venice, after being there three times." + +He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice. + +Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made +studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere. + +"Elsewhere," he said, "even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice +it is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops +lovingly the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the +iridescent atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice +is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women +are! Their forms are so slender and supple under their black shawls. +If nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that +bone the charm of their exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they +form laughing groups, agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant +necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming glances. And all bend, with the +suppleness of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head +resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice, preceded by two +choir-boys." + +He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas, sometimes +quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost outstripped +him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and supple carriage. +He observed the little shake which at moments her obstinate head gave to +the holly on her toque. + +Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate, +with a young woman almost unknown. + +They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows +of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of +boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay. +One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in misty +days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights of the +city were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three golden +nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued: + +"Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at +her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with +small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in +the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as a +flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most +beautiful light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a +butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head." + +At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two +lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly. + +"It is true that at Venice," she said, "all women are pretty." + +"They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls--the +cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are +commonplace enough." + +"By others you mean society women; and you don't like these?" + +"Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them, +that's a different affair." + +"Do you think so?" + +She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +A DINNER 'EN FAMILLE' + +She dined that night alone with her husband. The narrow table had not +the basket with golden eagles and winged Victorys. The candelabra did +not light Oudry's paintings. While he talked of the events of the day, +she fell into a sad reverie. It seemed to her that she floated in a +mist. It was a peaceful and almost sweet suffering. She saw vaguely +through the clouds the little room of the Rue Spontini transported by +angels to one of the summits of the Himalaya Mountains, and Robert Le +Menil--in the quaking of a sort of world's end--had disappeared while +putting on his gloves. She felt her pulse to see whether she were +feverish. A rattle of silverware on the table awoke her. She heard her +husband saying: + +"My dear friend Gavaut delivered to-day, in the Chamber, an excellent +speech on the question of the reserve funds. It's extraordinary how his +ideas have become healthy and just. Oh, he has improved a great deal." + +She could not refrain from smiling. + +"But Gavaut, my friend, is a poor devil who never thought of anything +except escaping from the crowd of those who are dying of hunger. Gavaut +never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him +seriously in the political world? You may be sure that he never gave an +illusion to any woman, not even his wife. And yet to produce that sort +of illusion a man does not need much." She added, brusquely: + +"You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. +I have accepted; I am going." + +Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going. + +At once she answered: + +"With Madame Marmet." + +There was no objection to make. Madame Marmet was a proper companion, +and it was appropriate for her to visit Italy, where her husband had made +some excavations. He asked only: + +"Have you invited her? When are you going?" + +"Next week." + +He had the wisdom not to make any objection, judging that opposition +would only make her capriciousness firmer, and fearing to give impetus to +that foolish idea. He said: + +"Surely, to travel is an agreeable pastime. I thought that we might in +the spring visit the Caucasus and Turkestan. There is an interesting +country. General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains, +and everything else on his railway. He is a friend of mine; he is quite +charmed with you. He will provide us with an escort of Cossacks." + +He persisted in trying to flatter her vanity, unable to realize that her +mind was not worldly. She replied, negligently, that it might be a +pleasant trip. Then he praised the mountains, the ancient cities, the +bazaars, the costumes, the armor. + +He added: + +"We shall take some friends with us--Princess Seniavine, General +Lariviere, perhaps Vence or Le Menil." + +She replied, with a little dry laugh, that they had time to select their +guests. + +He became attentive to her wants. + +"You are not eating. You will injure your health." + +Without yet believing in this prompt departure, he felt some anxiety +about it. Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone. +He felt that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he +had decided to give two or three political dinners during the session. +He saw his party growing. This was the moment to assert himself, to make +a dazzling show. He said, mysteriously: + +"Something might happen requiring the aid of all our friends. You have +not followed the march of events, Therese?" + +"No, my dear." + +"I am sorry. You have judgment, liberality of mind. If you had followed +the march of events you would have been struck by the current that is +leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of +exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical politics and +religious persecution. Some day or other it will be necessary to make +over a Casimir-Perier ministry with other men, and that day--" + +He stopped: really she listened too inattentively. + +She was thinking, sad and disenchanted. It seemed to her that the pretty +woman, who, among the warm shadows of a closed room, placed her bare feet +in the fur of the brown bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses while +she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was not even a +woman that she knew well, or that she desired to know, but a person whose +affairs were of no interest to her. A pin badly set in her hair, one of +the pins from the Bohemian glass cup, fell on her neck. She shivered. + +"Yet we really must give three or four dinners to our good political +friends," said M. Martin-Belleme. "We shall invite some of the ancient +radicals to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some +pretty women. We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been +no gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?" + +"But, my dear, since I am to go next week--" + +This filled him with consternation. + +They went, both silent and moody, into the drawing-room, where Paul Vence +was waiting. He often came in the evening. + +She extended her hand to him. + +"I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town. Paris is cold and +bleak. This weather tires and saddens me. I am going to Florence, for +six weeks, to visit Miss Bell." + +M. Martin-Belleme then lifted his eyes to heaven. + +Vence asked whether she had been in Italy often. + +"Three times; but I saw nothing. This time I wish to see, to throw +myself into things. From Florence I shall take walks into Tuscany, into +Umbria. And, finally, I shall go to Venice." + +"You will do well. Venice suggests the peace of the Sabbath-day in the +grand week of creative and divine Italy." + +"Your friend Dechartre talked very prettily to me of Venice, of the +atmosphere of Venice, which sows pearls." + +"Yes, at Venice the sky is a colorist. Florence inspires the mind. +An old author has said: 'The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and +feeds the beautiful ideas of men.' I have lived delicious days in +Tuscany. I wish I could live them again." + +"Come and see me there." + +He sighed. + +The newspaper, books, and his daily work prevented him. + +M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that +one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M. +Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work. + +"Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is +impossible to express one's self. I know how to talk with my pen as well +as any other person; but, after all, to talk or to write, what futile +occupations! How wretchedly inadequate are the little signs which form +syllables, words, and phrases. What becomes of the idea, the beautiful +idea, which these miserable hieroglyphics hide? What does the reader +make of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and of +nonsense. To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful +translations, perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should I +care for the admiration which they give to my books, since it is what +they themselves see in them that they admire? Every reader substitutes +his visions in the place of ours. We furnish him with the means to +quicken his imagination. It is a horrible thing to be a cause of such +exercises. It is an infamous profession." + +"You are jesting," said M. Martin-Belleme. + +"I do not think so," said Therese. "He recognizes that one mind is +impenetrable to another mind, and he suffers from this. He feels that he +is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may +do, one is always alone in the world. That is what he wishes to say. +He is right. You may always explain: you never are understood." + +"There are signs--" said Paul Vence. + +"Don't you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of +hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any +more." + +Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of +Saint Francis. + +"The idea, Madame, came to him in a marvellous fashion one day when he +had gone to call on his Maria in the street where she lives, behind the +public hospital--a street always damp, the houses on which are tottering. +You must know that he considers Maria the saint and martyr who is +responsible for the sins of the people. + +"He pulled the bell-rope, made greasy by two centuries of visitors. +Either because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly +known, or because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door. +Choulette rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope +remained in his hand. Skilful at understanding symbols and the hidden +meaning of things, he understood at once that this rope had not been +detached without the permission of spiritual powers. He made of it a +belt, and realized that he had been chosen to lead back into its +primitive purity the Third Order of Saint Francis. He renounced the +beauty of women, the delights of poetry, the brightness of glory, and +studied the life and the doctrine of Saint Francis. However, he has sold +to his editor a book entitled 'Les Blandices', which contains, he says, +the description of all sorts of loves. He flatters himself that in it he +has shown himself a criminal with some elegance. But far from harming +his mystic undertakings, this book favors them in this sense, that, +corrected by his later work, he will become honest and exemplary; and the +gold that he has received in payment, which would not have been paid to +him for a more chaste volume, will serve for a pilgrimage to Assisi." + +Madame Martin asked how much of this story was really true. Vence +replied that she must not try to learn. + +He confessed that he was the idealist historian of the poet, and that the +adventures which he related of him were not to be taken in the literal +and Judaic sense. + +He affirmed that at least Choulette was publishing Les Blandices, and +desired to visit the cell and the grave of St. Francis. + +"Then," exclaimed Madame Martin, "I will take him to Italy with me. +Find him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week." + +M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had +to finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day. + +Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette. +Paul Vence said that he was a singular specimen of humanity. + +"He is not very different from the saints of whose extraordinary lives +we read. He is as sincere as they. He has an exquisite delicacy of +sentiment and a terrible violence of mind. If he shocks one by many of +his acts, the reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps +less closely observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just as there +are bad angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems +are true poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops of the +seventeenth century." + +She interrupted him: + +"While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend +Dechartre. He has a charming mind." + +She added: + +"Perhaps he is a little too timid." + +Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre +interesting. + +"I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood." + +"You knew his parents?" + +"Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre." + +"The architect?" + +"The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and +churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge. +Solitary and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack Viollet- +le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to reestablish +buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or as they might +have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the contrary, wished +that everything which the lapse of centuries had added to a church, an +abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish anachronisms and +restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to him to be a +scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He said: 'It is a +crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone by the hands of our +ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false witnesses.' He wished +to limit the task of the archaeologic architect to that of supporting and +consolidating walls. He was right. Everybody said that he was wrong. +He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival triumphed. He +bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son. Jacques Dechartre +was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do not think that +maternal tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a charming +fellow; but he is a spoiled child." + +"Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from +everything." + +"Do not rely on this. He has a tormented and tormenting imagination." + +"Does he like women?" + +"Why do you ask?" + +"Oh, it isn't with any idea of match-making." + +"Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men +really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison +with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede." + +Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful +with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles. + +"They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil," Paul Vence +continued. "I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams, +forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with himself, +pursuing his idea, absolutely incapable of listening to anybody; she, +studying her roles, her complexion burned by rouge, her eyes tender, +pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She complained to +me that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable. She loved him and +deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived him, it was +done on the spur of the moment. Afterward she never thought of it. +A typical woman! But she was imprudent; she smiled upon Joseph Springer +in the hope that he would make her a member of the Comedie Francaise. +Dechartre left her. Now she finds it more practical to live with her +managers, and Jacques finds it more agreeable to travel." + +"Does he regret her?" + +"How can one know the things that agitate a mind anxious and mobile, +selfish and passionate, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in +disengaging itself, liking itself most of all among the beautiful things +that it finds in the world?" + +Brusquely she changed the subject. + +"And your novel, Monsieur Vence?" + +"I have reached the last chapter, Madame. My little workingman has been +guillotined. He died with that indifference of virgins without desire, +who never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The journals +and the public approve the act of justice which has just been +accomplished. But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and +a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory murder." + +He rose and said good-night. + +She called him back. + +"Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me." + +When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his +red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge's cap framing his pale and +hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of +his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue, +a collection of the annual budgets. Before she could reach her room he +motioned that he wished to speak to her. + +"My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It +does you a great deal of harm. You intend to leave your home without any +reason, without even a pretext. And you wish to run through Europe with +whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard--that man Choulette." + +She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there +could be nothing objectionable. + +"But you announce your going to everybody, yet you do not even know +whether Madame Marmet can accompany you." + +"Oh, Madame Marmet will soon pack her boxes. Nothing keeps her in Paris +except her dog. She will leave it to you; you may take care of it." + +"Does your father know of your project?" + +It was his last resource to invoke the authority of Montessuy. He knew +that his wife feared to displease her father. He insisted: + +"Your father is full of sense and tact. I have been happy to find him +agreeing with me several times in the advices which I have permitted +myself to give you. He thinks as I do, that Madame Meillan's house is +not a fit place for you to visit. The company that meets there is mixed, +and the mistress of the house favors intrigue. You are wrong, I must +say, not to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your +father does not think it singular that you should go away with so much +frivolity, and the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since +circumstances have made me eminent in the course of this legislature. +My merit has nothing to do with the case, surely. But if you had +consented to listen to me at dinner I should have demonstrated to you +that the group of politicians to which I belong has almost reached power. +In such a moment you should not renounce your duties as mistress of the +house. You must understand this yourself." + +She replied "You annoy me." And, turning her back to him, she shut the +door of her room between them. That night in her bed she opened a book, +as she always did before going to sleep. It was a novel. She was +turning the leaves with indifference, when her eyes fell on these lines: + +"Love is like devotion: it comes late. A woman is hardly in love or +devout at twenty, unless she has a special disposition to be either, a +sort of native sanctity. Women who are predestined to love, themselves +struggle a long time against that grace of love which is more terrible +than the thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest +yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude does not frighten +her. Passion is an arid and burning desert. Passion is profane +asceticism, as harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as +rare as great penitent women. Those who know life well know that women +do not easily bind themselves in the chains of real love. They know that +nothing is less common than sacrifice among them. And consider how much +a worldly woman must sacrifice when she is in love--liberty, quietness, +the charming play of a free mind, coquetry, amusement, pleasure--she +loses everything. + +"Coquetry is permissible. One may conciliate that with all the +exigencies of fashionable life. Not so love. Love is the least mundane +of passions, the most anti-social, the most savage, the most barbarous. +So the world judges it more severely than mere gallantry or looseness of +manners. In one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays her +nature and fails in her function, which is to be admired by all men, like +a work of art. A woman is a work of art, the most marvellous that man's +industry ever has produced. A woman is a wonderful artifice, due to the +concourse of all the arts mechanical and of all the arts liberal. She is +the work of everybody, she belongs to the world." + +Therese closed the book and thought that these ideas were only the dreams +of novelists who did not know life. She knew very well that there was in +reality neither a Carmel of passion nor a chain of love, nor a beautiful +and terrible vocation against which the predestined one resisted in vain; +she knew very well that love was only a brief intoxication from which one +recovered a little sadder. And yet, perhaps, she did not know +everything; perhaps there were loves in which one was deliciously lost. +She put out her lamp. The dreams of her first youth came back to her. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +A DISTINGUISHED RELICT + +It was raining. Madame Martin-Belleme saw confusedly through the glass +of her coupe the multitude of passing umbrellas, like black turtles under +the watery skies. She was thinking. Her thoughts were gray and +indistinct, like the aspect of the streets and the squares. + +She no longer knew why the idea had come to her to spend a month with +Miss Bell. Truly, she never had known. The idea had been like a spring, +at first hidden by leaves, and now forming the current of a deep and +rapid stream. She remembered that Tuesday night at dinner she had said +suddenly that she wished to go, but she could not remember the first +flush of that desire. It was not the wish to act toward Robert Le Menil +as he was acting toward her. Doubtless she thought it excellent to go +travelling in Italy while he went fox-hunting. This seemed to her a fair +arrangement. Robert, who was always pleased to see her when he came +back, would not find her on his return. She thought this would be right. +She had not thought of it at first. And since then she had thought +little of it, and really she was not going for the pleasure of making him +grieve. She had against him a thought less piquant, and more harsh. +She did not wish to see him soon. He had become to her almost a +stranger. He seemed to her a man like others--better than most others-- +good-looking, estimable, and who did not displease her; but he did not +preoccupy her. Suddenly he had gone out of her life. She could not +remember how he had become mingled with it. The idea of belonging to him +shocked her. The thought that they might meet again in the small +apartment of the Rue Spontini was so painful to her that she discarded it +at once. She preferred to think that an unforeseen event would prevent +their meeting again--the end of the world, for example. M. Lagrange, +member of the Academie des Sciences, had told her the day before of a +comet which some day might meet the earth, envelop it with its flaming +hair, imbue animals and plants with unknown poisons, and make all men die +in a frenzy of laughter. She expected that this, or something else, +would happen next month. It was not inexplicable that she wished to go. +But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy, that she should +feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable to her. + +Her carriage left her at the corner of a street. + +There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small, +neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband. + +Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite +M. Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had +remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet's +funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech +delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet +thought that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They +dined together often with rich friends. + +Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a +flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes the +good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told her +the day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her whether +she had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth devoured by +flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her with affected +gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were not many +books in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor. It +amazed one to see in this good lady's house that Etruscan warrior wearing +a green bronze helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of bonbons, +vases of gilded porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin, picked up at +Lucerne and on the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood, had sold the +books which her husband had left. Of all the ancient objects collected +by the archaeologist, she had retained nothing except the Etruscan. Many +persons had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had obtained from the +administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but the good widow +would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost that warrior +with his green bronze helmet she would lose the name that she wore +worthily, and would cease to be the widow of Louis Marmet of the Academie +des Inscriptions. + +"Do not be afraid, Madame; a comet will not soon strike the earth. Such +a phenomenon is very improbable." + +Madame Martin replied that she knew no serious reason why the earth and +humanity should not be annihilated at once. + +Old Lagrange exclaimed with profound sincerity that he hoped the +cataclysm would come as late as possible. + +She looked at him. His bald head could boast only a few hairs dyed +black. His eyelids fell like rags over eyes still smiling; his cheeks +hung in loose folds, and one divined that his body was equally withered. +She thought, "And even he likes life!" + +Madame Marmet hoped, too, that the end of the world was not near at hand. + +"Monsieur Lagrange," said Madame Martin, "you live, do you not, in a +pretty little house, the windows of which overlook the Botanical Gardens? +It seems to me it must be a joy to live in that garden, which makes me +think of the Noah's Ark of my infancy, and of the terrestrial paradises +in the old Bibles." + +But he was not at all charmed with his house. It was small, unimproved, +infested with rats. + +She acknowledged that one seldom felt at home anywhere, and that rats +were found everywhere, either real or symbolical, legions of pests that +torment us. Yet she liked the Botanical Gardens; she had always wished +to go there, yet never had gone. There was also the museum, which she +was curious to visit. + +Smiling, happy, he offered to escort her there. He considered it his +house. He would show her rare specimens, some of which were superb. + +She did not know what a bolide was. She recalled that some one had said +to her that at the museum were bones carved by primitive men, and plaques +of ivory on which were engraved pictures of animals, which were long ago +extinct. She asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to smile. +He replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his +colleagues. + +"Ah!" said Madame Martin, "then they are not in your showcase." + +She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is indiscreet +to question them on things that are not in their own showcases. It is +true that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in studying meteors. +This had led him to study comets. But he was wise. For twenty years he +had been preoccupied by nothing except dining out. + +When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected of +her. + +"I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming +with me." + +The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent +for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +MADAME HAS HER WAY + +The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran, and +the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell from +the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came and +went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a small +rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one's hand. Countess Martin +and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under the +rack loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions. +Choulette had not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer. +Yet he had promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements +to go, and had received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices. +Paul Vence had brought him one evening to Madame Martin's house. He had +been sweet, polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had +promised herself much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius, +original, picturesquely ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child +prematurely old and abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree +of innocence. The doors closed. She expected him no longer. She should +not have counted on his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment +when the engine began to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was looking +out of the window, said, quietly: + +"I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming." + +He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his +head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost +repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so +clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been +retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express +the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist. When she saw him, +Therese regretted having invited so strange a companion. He walked +along, throwing a hasty glance into every carriage--a glance which, +little by little, became sullen and distrustful. But when he recognized +Madame Martin, he smiled so sweetly and said good-morning to her in so +caressing a voice that nothing was left of the ferocious old vagabond +walking on the quay, nothing except the old carpet-bag, the handles of +which were half broken. + +He placed it in the rack with great care, among the elegant bags +enveloped with gray cloth, beside which it looked conspicuously sordid. +It was studded with yellow flowers on a blood-colored background. + +He was soon perfectly at ease, and complimented Madame Martin on the +elegance of her travelling attire. + +"Excuse me, ladies," he added, "I was afraid I should be late. I went to +six o'clock mass at Saint Severin, my parish, in the Virgin Chapel, under +those pretty, but absurd columns that point toward heaven though frail as +reeds-like us, poor sinners that we are." + +"Ah," said Madame Martin, "you are pious to-day." + +And she asked him whether he wore the cordon of the order which he was +founding. He assumed a grave and penitent air. + +"I am afraid, Madame, that Monsieur Paul Vence has told you many absurd +stories about me. I have heard that he goes about circulating rumors +that my ribbon is a bell-rope--and of what a bell! I should be pained if +anybody believed so wretched a story. My ribbon, Madame, is a symbolical +ribbon. It is represented by a simple thread, which one wears under +one's clothes after a pauper has touched it, as a sign that poverty is +holy, and that it will save the world. There is nothing good except in +poverty; and since I have received the price of Les Blandices, I feel +that I am unjust and harsh. It is a good thing that I have placed in my +bag several of these mystic ribbons." + +And, pointing to the horrible carpet-bag: + +"I have also placed in it a host which a bad priest gave to me, the works +of Monsieur de Maistre, shirts, and several other things:" + +Madame Martin lifted her eyebrows, a little ill at ease. But the good +Madame Marmet retained her habitual placidity. + +As the train rolled through the homely scenes of the outskirts, that +black fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city, Choulette took +from his pocket an old book which he began to fumble. The writer, hidden +under the vagabond, revealed himself. Choulette, without wishing to +appear to be careful of his papers, was very orderly about them. He +assured himself that he had not lost the pieces of paper on which he +noted at the coffeehouse his ideas for poems, nor the dozen of flattering +letters which, soiled and spotted, he carried with him continually, to +read them to his newly-made companions at night. After assuring himself +that nothing was missing, he took from the book a letter folded in an +open envelope. He waved it for a while, with an air of mysterious +impudence, then handed it to the Countess Martin. It was a letter of +introduction from the Marquise de Rieu to a princess of the House of +France, a near relative of the Comte de Chambord, who, old and a widow, +lived in retirement near the gates of Florence. Having enjoyed the +effect which he expected to produce, he said that he should perhaps visit +the Princess; that she was a good person, and pious. + +"A truly great lady," he added, "who does not show her magnificence in +gowns and hats. She wears her chemises for six weeks, and sometimes +longer. The gentlemen of her train have seen her wear very dirty white +stockings, which fell around her heels. The virtues of the great queens +of Spain are revived in her. Oh, those soiled stockings, what real glory +there is in them!" + +He took the letter and put it back in his book. Then, arming himself +with a horn-handled knife, he began, with its point, to finish a figure +sketched in the handle of his stick. He complimented himself on it: + +"I am skilful in all the arts of beggars and vagabonds. I know how to +open locks with a nail, and how to carve wood with a bad knife." + +The head began to appear. It was the head of a thin woman, weeping. + +Choulette wished to express in it human misery, not simple and touching, +such as men of other times may have felt it in a world of mingled +harshness and kindness; but hideous, and reflecting the state of ugliness +created by the free-thinking bourgeois and the military patriots of the +French Revolution. According to him the present regime embodied only +hypocrisy and brutality. + +"Their barracks are a hideous invention of modern times. They date from +the seventeenth century. Before that time there were only guard-houses +where the soldiers played cards and told tales. Louis XIV was a +precursor of Bonaparte. But the evil has attained its plenitude since +the monstrous institution of the obligatory enlistment. The shame of +emperors and of republics is to have made it an obligation for men to +kill. In the ages called barbarous, cities and princes entrusted their +defence to mercenaries, who fought prudently. In a great battle only +five or six men were killed. And when knights went to the wars, at least +they were not forced to do it; they died for their pleasure. They were +good for nothing else. Nobody in the time of Saint Louis would have +thought of sending to battle a man of learning. And the laborer was not +torn from the soil to be killed. Nowadays it is a duty for a poor +peasant to be a soldier. He is exiled from his house, the roof of which +smokes in the silence of night; from the fat prairies where the oxen +graze; from the fields and the paternal woods. He is taught how to kill +men; he is threatened, insulted, put in prison and told that it is an +honor; and, if he does not care for that sort of honor, he is fusilladed. +He obeys because he is terrorized, and is of all domestic animals the +gentlest and most docile. We are warlike in France, and we are citizens. +Another reason to be proud, this being a citizen! For the poor it +consists in sustaining and preserving the wealthy in their power and +their laziness. The poor must work for this, in presence of the majestic +quality of the law which prohibits the wealthy as well as the poor from +sleeping under the bridges, from begging in the streets, and from +stealing bread. That is one of the good effects of the Revolution. +As this Revolution was made by fools and idiots for the benefit of those +who acquired national lands, and resulted in nothing but making the +fortune of crafty peasants and financiering bourgeois, the Revolution +only made stronger, under the pretence of making all men equal, the +empire of wealth. It has betrayed France into the hands of the men of +wealth. They are masters and lords. The apparent government, composed +of poor devils, is in the pay of the financiers. For one hundred years, +in this poisoned country, whoever has loved the poor has been considered +a traitor to society. A man is called dangerous when he says that there +are wretched people. There are laws against indignation and pity, and +what I say here could not go into print." + +Choulette became excited and waved his knife, while under the wintry +sunlight passed fields of brown earth, trees despoiled by winter, and +curtains of poplars beside silvery rivers. + +He looked with tenderness at the figure carved on his stick. + +"Here you are," he said, "poor humanity, thin and weeping, stupid with +shame and misery, as you were made by your masters--soldiers and men of +wealth." + +The good Madame Marmet, whose nephew was a captain in the artillery, was +shocked at the violence with which Choulette attacked the army. Madame +Martin saw in this only an amusing fantasy. Choulette's ideas did not +frighten her. She was afraid of nothing. But she thought they were a +little absurd. She did not think that the past had ever been better than +the present. + +"I believe, Monsieur Choulette, that men were always as they are to-day, +selfish, avaricious, and pitiless. I believe that laws and manners were +always harsh and cruel to the unfortunate." + +Between La Roche and Dijon they took breakfast in the dining-car, and +left Choulette in it, alone with his pipe, his glass of benedictine, and +his irritation. + +In the carriage, Madame Marmet talked with peaceful tenderness of the +husband she had lost. He had married her for love; he had written +admirable verses to her, which she had kept, and never shown to any one. +He was lively and very gay. One would not have thought it who had seen +him later, tired by work and weakened by illness. He studied until the +last moment. Two hours before he died he was trying to read again. He +was affectionate and kind. Even in suffering he retained all his +sweetness. Madame Martin said to her: + +"You have had long years of happiness; you have kept the reminiscence of +them; that is a share of happiness in this world." + +But good Madame Marmet sighed; a cloud passed over her quiet brow. + +"Yes," she said, "Louis was the best of men and the best of husbands. +Yet he made me very miserable. He had only one fault, but I suffered +from it cruelly. He was jealous. Good, kind, tender, and generous as +he was, this horrible passion made him unjust, ironical, and violent. +I can assure you that my behavior gave not the least cause for suspicion. +I was not a coquette. But I was young, fresh; I passed for beautiful. +That was enough. He would not let me go out alone, and would not let me +receive calls in his absence. Whenever we went to a reception, I +trembled in advance with the fear of the scene which he would make later +in the carriage." + +And the good Madame Marmet added, with a sigh: + +"It is true that I liked to dance. But I had to renounce going to balls; +it made him suffer too much." + +Countess Martin expressed astonishment. She had always imagined Marmet +as an old man, timid, and absorbed by his thoughts; a little ridiculous, +between his wife, plump, white, and amiable, and the skeleton wearing a +helmet of bronze and gold. But the excellent widow confided to her that, +at fifty-five years of age, when she was fifty-three, Louis was just as +jealous as on the first day of their marriage. + +And Therese thought that Robert had never tormented her with jealousy. +Was it on his part a proof of tact and good taste, a mark of confidence, +or was it that he did not love her enough to make her suffer? She did +not know, and she did not have the heart to try to know. She would have +to look through recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open. + +She murmured carelessly: + +"We long to be loved, and when we are loved we are tormented or worried." + +The day was finished in reading and thinking. Choulette did not +reappear. Night covered little by little with its gray clouds the +mulberry-trees of the Dauphine. Madame Marmet went to sleep peacefully, +resting on herself as on a mass of pillows. Therese looked at her and +thought: + +"She is happy, since she likes to remember." + +The sadness of night penetrated her heart. And when the moon rose on the +fields of olive-trees, seeing the soft lines of plains and of hills pass, +Therese, in this landscape wherein everything spoke of peace and +oblivion, and nothing spoke of her, regretted the Seine, the Arc de +Triomphe with its radiating avenues, and the alleys of the park where, +at least, the trees and the stones knew her. + +Suddenly Choulette threw himself into the carriage. Armed with his +knotty stick, his face and head enveloped in red wool and a fur cap, he +almost frightened her. It was what he wished to do. His violent +attitudes and his savage dress were studied. Always seeking to produce +effects, it pleased him to seem frightful. + +He was a coward himself, and was glad to inspire the fears he often felt. +A moment before, as he was smoking his pipe, he had felt, while seeing +the moon swallowed up by the clouds, one of those childish frights that +tormented his light mind. He had come near the Countess to be reassured. + +"Arles," he said. "Do you know Arles? It is a place of pure beauty. +I have seen, in the cloister, doves resting on the shoulders of statues, +and I have seen the little gray lizards warming themselves in the sun on +the tombs. The tombs are now in two rows on the road that leads to the +church. They are formed like cisterns, and serve as beds for the poor at +night. One night, when I was walking among them, I met a good old woman +who was placing dried herbs in the tomb of an old maid who had died on +her wedding-day. We said goodnight to her. She replied: 'May God hear- +you! but fate wills that this tomb should open on the side of the +northwest wind. If only it were open on the other side, I should be +lying as comfortably as Queen Jeanne.'" + +Therese made no answer. She was dozing. And Choulette shivered in the +cold of the night, in the fear of death. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE LADY OF THE BELLS + +In her English cart, which she drove herself, Miss Bell had brought over +the hills, from the railway station at Florence, the Countess Martin- +Belleme and Madame Marmet to her pink-tinted house at Fiesole, which, +crowned with a long balustrade, overlooked the incomparable city. The +maid followed with the luggage. Choulette, lodged, by Miss Bell's +attention, in the house of a sacristan's widow, in the shadow of the +cathedral of Fiesole, was not expected until dinner. Plain and gentle, +wearing short hair, a waistcoat, a man's shirt on a chest like a boy's, +almost graceful, with small hips, the poetess was doing for her French +friends the honors of the house, which reflected the ardent delicacy of +her taste. On the walls of the drawing-room were pale Virgins, with long +hands, reigning peacefully among angels, patriarchs, and saints in +beautiful gilded frames. On a pedestal stood a Magdalena, clothed only +with her hair, frightful with thinness and old age, some beggar of the +road to Pistoia, burned by the suns and the snows, whom some unknown +precursor of Donatello had moulded. And everywhere were Miss Bell's +chosen arms-bells and cymbals. The largest lifted their bronze clappers +at the angles of the room; others formed a chain at the foot of the +walls. Smaller ones ran along the cornices. There were bells over the +hearth, on the cabinets, and on the chairs. The shelves were full of +silver and golden bells. There were big bronze bells marked with the +Florentine lily; bells of the Renaissance, representing a lady wearing a +white gown; bells of the dead, decorated with tears and bones; bells +covered with symbolical animals and leaves, which had rung in the +churches in the time of St. Louis; table-bells of the seventeenth +century, having a statuette for a handle; the flat, clear cow-bells of +the Ruth Valley; Hindu bells; Chinese bells formed like cylinders--they +had come from all countries and all times, at the magic call of little +Miss Bell. + +"You look at my speaking arms," she said to Madame Martin. "I think that +all these Misses Bell are pleased to be here, and I should not be +astonished if some day they all began to sing together. But you must not +admire them all equally. Reserve your purest and most fervent praise for +this one." + +And striking with her finger a dark, bare bell which gave a faint sound: + +"This one," she said, "is a holy village-bell of the fifth century. +She is a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to +make the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show +to you a gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I +bore you, darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame +Marmet. It is wrong." + +She escorted them to their rooms. + +An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and +lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her. The humid +air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring. +Therese, resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light. At her +feet, the cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees +looked like sheep on the hills. In the valley, Florence extended its +domes, its towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which the +Arno showed its undulating line. Beyond were the soft blue hills. + +She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her +first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace. Then +the charming infinity of the sky attracted her. She looked at the forms +in the clouds. + +After a long silence, Vivian Bell extended her hand toward the horizon. + +"Darling, I do not know how to say what I wish. But look, darling, look +again. What you see there is unique in the world. Nature is nowhere +else so subtle, elegant, and fine. The god who made the hills of +Florence was an artist. Oh, he was a jeweller, an engraver, a sculptor, +a bronze-founder, and a painter; he was a Florentine. He did nothing +else in the world, darling. The rest was made by a hand less delicate, +whose work was less perfect. How can you think that that violet hill of +San Miniato, so firm and so pure in relief, was made by the author of +Mont Blanc? It is not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an +antique medal and of a precious painting. It is a perfect and measured +work of art. And here is another thing that I do not know how to say, +that I can not even understand, but which is a real thing. In this +country I feel--and you will feel as I do, darling--half alive and half +dead; in a condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look +again; you will realize the melancholy of those hills that surround +Florence, and see a delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead." + +The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the mountain- +peaks faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky. Madame Marmet +sneezed. + +Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the +evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous. + +Then suddenly she said: + +"Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that +he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre +is to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and to +the museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful +things, because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a +sculptor. His figures in medallions are admired more in England than in +France. Oh, I am so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet +at Florence, darling!" + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND + +She next day, as they were traversing the square where are planted, in +imitation of antique amphitheatres, two marble pillars, Madame Marmet +said to the Countess Martin: + +"I think I see Monsieur Choulette." + +Seated in a shoemaker's shop, his pipe in his hand, Choulette was making +rhythmic gestures, and appeared to be reciting verses. The Florentine +cobbler listened with a kind smile. He was a little, bald man, and +represented one of the types familiar to Flemish painters. On a table, +among wooden lasts, nails, leather, and wax, a basilic plant displayed +its round green head. A sparrow, lacking a leg, which had been replaced +by a match, hopped on the old man's shoulder and head. + +Madame Martin, amused by this spectacle, called Choulette from the +threshold. He was softly humming a tune, and she asked him why he had +not gone with her to visit the Spanish chapel. + +He arose and replied: + +"Madame, you are preoccupied by vain images; but I live in life and in +truth." + +He shook the cobbler's hand and followed the two ladies. + +"While going to church," he said, "I saw this old man, who, bending over +his work, and pressing a last between his knees as in a vise, was sewing +coarse shoes. I felt that he was simple and kind. I said to him, in +Italian: 'My father, will you drink with me a glass of Chianti?' He +consented. He went for a flagon and some glasses, and I kept the shop." + +And Choulette pointed to two glasses and a flagon placed on a stove. + +"When he came back we drank together; I said vague but kind things to +him, and I charmed him by the sweetness of sounds. I will go again to +his shop; I will learn from him how to make shoes, and how to live +without desire. After which, I shall not be sad again. For desire and +idleness alone make us sad." + +The Countess Martin smiled. + +"Monsieur Choulette, I desire nothing, and, nevertheless, I am not +joyful. Must I make shoes, too?" + +Choulette replied, gravely: + +"It is not yet time for that." + +When they reached the gardens of the Oricellari, Madame Marmet sank +on a bench. She had examined at Santa Maria-Novella the frescoes of +Ghirlandajo, the stalls of the choir, the Virgin of Cimabue, the +paintings in the cloister. She had done this carefully, in memory of her +husband, who had greatly liked Italian art. She was tired. Choulette +sat by her and said: + +"Madame, could you tell me whether it is true that the Pope's gowns are +made by Worth?" + +Madame Marmet thought not. Nevertheless, Choulette had heard people say +this in cafes. Madame Marmet was astonished that Choulette, a Catholic +and a socialist, should speak so disrespectfully of a pope friendly to +the republic. But he did not like Leo XIII. + +"The wisdom of princes is shortsighted," he said; "the salvation of the +Church must come from the Italian republic, as Leo XIII believes and +wishes; but the Church will not be saved in the manner which this pious +Machiavelli thinks. The revolution will make the Pope lose his last sou, +with the rest of his patrimony. And it will be salvation. The Pope, +destitute and poor, will then become powerful. He will agitate the +world. We shall see again Peter, Lin, Clet, Anaclet, and Clement; the +humble, the ignorant; men like the early saints will change the face of +the earth. If to-morrow, in the chair of Peter, came to sit a real +bishop, a real Christian, I would go to him, and say: 'Do not be an old +man buried alive in a golden tomb; quit your noble guards and your +cardinals; quit your court and its similacrums of power. Take my arm and +come with me to beg for your bread among the nations. Covered with rags, +poor, ill, dying, go on the highways, showing in yourself the image of +Jesus. Say, "I am begging my bread for the condemnation of the wealthy." +Go into the cities, and shout from door to door, with a sublime +stupidity, "Be humble, be gentle, be poor!" Announce peace and charity +to the cities, to the dens, and to the barracks. You will be disdained; +the mob will throw stones at you. Policemen will drag you into prison. +You shall be for the humble as for the powerful, for the poor as for the +rich, a subject of laughter, an object of disgust and of pity. Your +priests will dethrone you, and elevate against you an anti-pope, or will +say that you are crazy. And it is necessary that they should tell the +truth; it is necessary that you should be crazy; the lunatics have saved +the world. Men will give to you the crown of thorns and the reed +sceptre, and they will spit in your face, and it is by that sign that you +will appear as Christ and true king; and it is by such means that you +will establish Christian socialism, which is the kingdom of God on +earth.'" + +Having spoken in this way, Choulette lighted one of those long and +tortuous Italian cigars, which are pierced with a straw. He drew from it +several puffs of infectious vapor, then he continued, tranquilly: + +"And it would be practical. You may refuse to acknowledge any quality in +me except my clear view of situations. Ah, Madame Marmet, you will never +know how true it is that the great works of this world were always +achieved by madmen. Do you think, Madame Martin, that if Saint Francis +of Assisi had been reasonable, he would have poured upon the earth, for +the refreshment of peoples, the living water of charity and all the +perfumes of love?" + +"I do not know," replied Madame Martin; "but reasonable people have +always seemed to me to be bores. I can say this to you, Monsieur +Choulette." + +They returned to Fiesole by the steam tramway which goes up the hill. +The rain fell. Madame Marmet went to sleep and Choulette complained. +All his ills came to attack him at once: the humidity in the air gave him +a pain in the knee, and he could not bend his leg; his carpet-bag, lost +the day before in the trip from the station to Fiesole, had not been +found, and it was an irreparable disaster; a Paris review had just +published one of his poems, with typographical errors as glaring as +Aphrodite's shell. + +He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile, +absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened, +thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found +Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of +parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses which +she had composed in the night. At her friend's coming she raised her +little face, plain but illuminated by splendid eyes. + +"Darling, permit me to introduce to you the Prince Albertinelli." + +The Prince possessed a certain youthful, godlike beauty, that his black +beard intensified. He bowed. + +"Madame, you would make one love France, if that sentiment were not +already in our hearts." + +The Countess and Choulette asked Miss Bell to read to them the verses she +was writing. She excused herself from reciting her uncertain cadence to +the French poet, whom she liked best after Francois Villon. Then she +recited in her pretty, hissing, birdlike voice. + +"That is very pretty," said Choulette, "and bears the mark of Italy +softly veiled by the mists of Thule." + +"Yes," said the Countess Martin, "that is pretty. But why, dear Vivian, +did your two beautiful innocents wish to die?" + +"Oh, darling, because they felt as happy as possible, and desired nothing +more. It was discouraging, darling, discouraging. How is it that you do +not understand that?" + +"And do you think that if we live the reason is that we hope?" + +"Oh, yes. We live in the hope of what to-morrow, tomorrow, king of the +land of fairies, will bring in his black mantle studded with stars, +flowers, and tears. Oh, bright king, To-morrow!" + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +A hero must be human. Napoleon was human +Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere +Brilliancy of a fortune too new +Curious to know her face of that day +Do you think that people have not talked about us? +Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone +Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city +Gave value to her affability by not squandering it +He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions +He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes +He is not intelligent enough to doubt +He studied until the last moment +Her husband had become quite bearable +His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth +I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness +I gave myself to him because he loved me +I haven't a taste, I have tastes +It was too late: she did not wish to win +Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope +Laughing in every wrinkle of his face +Learn to live without desire +Life as a whole is too vast and too remote +Life is made up of just such trifles +Life is not a great thing +Love was only a brief intoxication +Made life give all it could yield +Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past +None but fools resisted the current +Not everything is known, but everything is said +One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars +Picturesquely ugly +Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open +Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her +She is happy, since she likes to remember +She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it +Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one +So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice +That if we live the reason is that we hope +That sort of cold charity which is called altruism +The discouragement which the irreparable gives +The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne +The violent pleasure of losing +Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies +Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? +Whether they know or do not know, they talk + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Red Lily, v1 +by Anatole France + + + + + + +THE RED LILY + +By ANATOLE FRANCE + + + +BOOK 2. + + +CHAPTER X + +DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE + +They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was sketching +monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know what they +would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express rare ideas in +odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in this way that +she often found her inspiration. + +Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian 'O Lola'! His +soft fingers hardly touched the keys. + +Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles +that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a +needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and +which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the +strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought he +had lost it in the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti Palace; +and he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian painters. + +Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said: + +"I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my +hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the reason +why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the +farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not +more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than +myself. The sacristan's widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not +permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work +which we can do ourselves with noble pride." + +The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who +for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company of +Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which her companion caused +her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances to +persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the frescoes +of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M. Schmoll, the +Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback. She was +terrified at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas back to +her little circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an easy +turn, which irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice the +public meetings at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne, the +evening receptions where shone the worldly and the spiritualist +philosophers. As for the women, they were all charming and +irreproachable. She dined with all of them. And Therese thought: "She +is too prudent. She bores me." And she thought of leaving her at +Fiesole and visiting the churches alone. Employing a word that Le Menil +had taught her, she said to herself: + +"I will 'plant' Madame Marmet." + +A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his white +imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed, +under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and +voluptuousness. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the +Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now celebrated +in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess Martin +at once. She questioned him on his methods, and on the results he +obtained from them. He said that he worked with prudent energy. "The +earth," he said, "is like women. The earth does not wish one to treat it +with either timidity or brutality." The Ave Maria rang in all the +campaniles, seeming to make of the sky an immense instrument of religious +music. "Darling," said Miss Bell, "do you observe that the air of +Florence is made sonorous and silvery at night by the sound of the +bells?" + +"It is singular," said Choulette, "we have the air of people who are +waiting for something." + +Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a +little late; she feared he had missed the train. + +Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely "Madame Marmet, is +it possible for you to look at a door--a simple, painted, wooden door +like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like any other +--without being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor who might, +at any moment, come in? The door of one's room, Madame Marmet, opens on +the infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one ever know the +true name of the man or woman, who, under a human guise, with a known +face, in ordinary clothes, comes into one's house?" + +He added that when he was closeted in his room he could not look at the +door without feeling his hair stand on end. But Madame Marmet saw the +doors of her rooms open without fear. She knew the name of every one who +came to see her--charming persons. + +Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: "Madame +Marmet, those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names +which you do not know, and which are their real names." + +Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to +cross the threshold in order to enter one's life. + +"Misfortune is ingenious and subtle. It comes by the window, it goes +through walls. It does not always show itself, but it is always there. +The poor doors are innocent of the coming of that unwelcome visitor." + +Choulette warned Madame Martin severely that she should not call +misfortune an unwelcome visitor. + +"Misfortune is our greatest master and our best friend. Misfortune +teaches us the meaning of life. Madame, when you suffer, you know what +you must know; you believe what you must believe; you do what you must +do; you are what you must be. And you shall have joy, which pleasure +expels. True joy is timid, and does not find pleasure among a multitude." + +Prince Albertinelli said that Miss Bell and her French friends did not +need to be unfortunate in order to be perfect, and that the doctrine of +perfection reached by suffering was a barbarous cruelty, held in horror +under the beautiful sky of Italy. When the conversation languished, he +prudently sought again at the piano the phrases of the graceful and banal +Sicilian air, fearing to slip into an air of Trovatore, which was written +in the same manner. + +Vivian Bell questioned the monsters she had created, and complained of +their absurd replies. + +"At this moment," she said, "I should like to hear speak only figures on +tapestries which should say tender things, ancient and precious as +themselves." + +And the handsome Prince, carried away by the flood of melody, sang. His +voice displayed itself like a peacock's plumage, and died in spasms of +"ohs" and "ahs." + +The good Madame Marmet, her eyes fixed on the door, said: + +"I think that Monsieur Dechartre is coming." + +He came in, animated, with joy on his usually grave face. + +Miss Bell welcomed him with birdlike cries. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, we were impatient to see you. Monsieur Choulette +was talking evil of doors--yes, of doors of houses; and he was saying +also that misfortune is a very obliging old gentleman. You have lost all +these beautiful things. You have made us wait very long, Monsieur +Dechartre. Why?" + +He apologized; he had taken only the time to go to his hotel and change +his dress. He had not even gone to bow to his old friend the bronze San +Marco, so imposing in his niche on the San Michele wall. He praised the +poetess and saluted the Countess Martin with joy hardly concealed. + +"Before quitting Paris I went to your house, where I was told you had +gone to wait for spring at Fiesole, with Miss Bell. I then had the hope +of finding you in this country, which I love now more than ever." + +She asked him whether he had gone to Venice, and whether he had seen +again at Ravenna the empresses wearing aureolas, and the phantoms that +had formerly dazzled him. + +No, he had not stopped anywhere. + +She said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the wall, on +the St. Paulin bell. + +He said to her: + +"You are looking at the Nolette." + +Vivian Bell laid aside her papers and her pencils. + +"You shall soon see a marvel, Monsieur Dechartre. I have found the queen +of small bells. I found it at Rimini, in an old building in ruins, which +is used as a warehouse. I bought it and packed it myself. I am waiting +for it. You shall see. It bears a Christ on a cross, between the Virgin +and Saint John, the date of 1400, and the arms of Malatesta--Monsieur +Dechartre, you are not listening enough. Listen to me attentively. In +1400 Lorenzo Ghiberti, fleeing from war and the plague, took refuge at +Rimini, at Paola Malatesta's house. It was he that modelled the figures +of my bell. And you shall see here, next week, Ghiberti's work." + +The servant announced that dinner was served. + +Miss Bell apologized for serving to them Italian dishes. Her cook was a +poet of Fiesole. + +At table, before the fiascani enveloped with corn straw, they talked of +the fifteenth century, which they loved. Prince Albertinelli praised the +artists of that epoch for their universality, for the fervent love they +gave to their art, and for the genius that devoured them. He talked with +emphasis, in a caressing voice. + +Dechartre admired them. But he admired them in another way. + +"To praise in a becoming manner," he said, "those men, who worked so +heartily, the praise should be modest and just. They should be placed in +their workshops, in the shops where they worked as artisans. It is there +that one may admire their simplicity and their genius. They were +ignorant and rude. They had read little and seen little. The hills that +surround Florence were the boundary of their horizon. They knew only +their city, the Holy Scriptures, and some fragments of antique +sculptures, studied and caressed lovingly." + +"You are right," said Professor Arrighi. "They had no other care than to +use the best processes. Their minds bent only on preparing varnish and +mixing colors. The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel, +in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split, +passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae." + +"Happy time," said Dechartre, "when nobody troubled himself about that +originality for which we are so avidly seeking to-day. The apprentice +tried to work like the master. He had no other ambition than to resemble +him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the +others. They worked not for glory, but to live." + +"They were right," said Choulette. "Nothing is better than to work for a +living." + +"The desire to attain fame," continued Dechartre, "did not trouble them. +As they did not know the past, they did not conceive the future; and +their dream did not go beyond their lives. They exercised a powerful +will in working well. Being simple, they made few mistakes, and saw the +truth which our intelligence conceals from us." + +Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he had +made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom the +Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction. He liked to +impress upon people the fact that he, the Bohemian and vagabond, had been +received by that royal Princess, at whose house neither Miss Bell nor the +Countess Martin would have been admitted, and whom Prince Albertinelli +prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony. + +"She devotes herself," said the Prince, "to the practices of piety." + +"She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity," said Choulette. +"In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes the +most rigorous etiquette to be observed, so that her grandeur is almost a +penance, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the church. It is +a village church, where the chickens roam, while the 'cure' plays +briscola with the sacristan." + +And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a +servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely: + +"After waiting in consecutive anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss +her hand." + +And he stopped. + +Madame Martin asked, impatiently: + +"What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility and +her simplicity?" + +"She said to me: 'Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently new +and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.' +She said also 'We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are +not better. He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous plaster which +has not yet come off.' Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned to +address to me. O simple grandeur! O Christian virtue! O daughter of +Saint Louis! O marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of +Hungary!" + +Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he +denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin was +wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people were +always jesting. + +Then they reverted to the subject of art, which in that country is +inhaled with the air. + +"As for me," said the Countess Martin, "I am not learned enough to admire +Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that art of +the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen piety +and purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they are very +pretty. The rest, those figures of Virgins and angels, are voluptuous, +caressing, and at times perversely ingenuous. What is there religious in +those young Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint Sebastian, +brilliant with youth, who seems merely the dolorous Bacchus of +Christianity?" + +Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be +right, she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and, finding +no piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all. + +"There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half +a Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect of Epicurus, and who +sought for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti +disdained the ignorant folk who believed in the immortality of the soul. +The following phrase by him was quoted: 'The death of man is exactly +similar to that of brutes.' Later, when antique beauty was excavated +from ruins, the Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that +worked in the churches and cloisters were neither devout nor chaste. +Perugino was an atheist, and did not conceal it." + +"Yes," said Miss Bell; "but it was said that his head was hard, and that +celestial truths, could not penetrate his thick cranium. He was harsh +and avaricious, and quite embedded in material interests. He thought +only of buying houses." + +Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia. + +"He was," he said, "an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of +Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk practised the art of +manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned lapis-lazuli. +Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the prior, who +doubtless had a secret, esteemed it more precious than rubies or +sapphires. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of his +convent, and he expected marvels, less from the skilfulness of the master +than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During all the +time that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history of Jesus +Christ, the prior kept by his side and presented to him the precious +powder in a bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it, under the +saintly man's eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his brush, loaded +with color, in a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall with it. He +used in that manner a great quantity of the powder. And the good father, +seeing his bag getting thinner, sighed: 'Jesus! How that lime devours +the ultramarine!' When the frescoes were finished, and Perugino had +received from the monk the agreed price, he placed in his hand a package +of blue powder: 'This is for you, father. Your ultramarine which I took +with my brush fell to the bottom of my cup, whence I gathered it every +day. I return it to you. Learn to trust honest people." + +"Oh," said Therese, "there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that +Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the +least scrupulous. There are many misers who are honest." + +"Naturally, darling," said Miss Bell. "Misers do not wish to owe +anything, and prodigal people can bear to have debts. They do not think +of the money they have, and they think less of the money they owe. +I did not say that Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property. +I said that he had a hard business head and that he bought houses. I am +very glad to hear that he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the +Gesuati." + +"Since your Pietro was rich," said Choulette, "it was his duty to return +the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are +not." + +At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver +bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase +which Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage, +after meals. + +"I wash my hands," he said, "of the evil that Madame Martin does or may +do by her speech, or otherwise." + +And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor +Arrighi. + +In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee: + +"Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn us to the savage sadness of +equality? Why, Daphnis's flute would not be melodious if it were made of +seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between +masters and servants, aristocrats and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad +barbarian, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in +need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this +world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate her, nude and +in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor +little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to +abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in +society, the humble with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor +and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race." + +"Enemies of the human race!" replied Choulette, while stirring his +coffee. "That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied to the Christians +who talked of divine love to him." + +Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes about +art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times +prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he had +seen, to love all that he loved. + +He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of spring. +He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw already the +light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow of laurel-trees +falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of Florence had +nothing more to do than to serve as an adornment to this young woman. + +He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics of +her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which +every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and +living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never +forgets. + +Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which had +pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure taste. +But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the +compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling +only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious details of +it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air. She +was resigned to the appreciation of women only, and these had in their +appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic +admiration of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received +agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was +too intimate and almost indiscreet. + +"So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?" + +No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, +even now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. +He found no pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a +woman having rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her. + +He continued, in a tone a little more elevated: + +"I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day, +without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. +She dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. +We must, like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. +To paint, carve, or write for posterity is only the silliness of +conceit." + +"Monsieur Dechartre," asked Prince Albertinelli, "how do you think a +mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?" + +"I think," said Choulette, "so little of a terrestrial future, that I +have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, +leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence." + +He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never +lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not +desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put +into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be +accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are +to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what +is, and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur +Dechartre? Beware, for God may hear you." + +Dechartre replied: + +"It would be enough for me to live one moment more." + +And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort Madame +Martin to the Brancacci chapel. + +An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon citron- +trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her head +on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was +thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life: +Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows, +ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad, +and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince +Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas, +and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face. + +She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those +that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer +tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She +discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful +to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered. +She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being. +She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. +He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could +not see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. +She was not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went +straight on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he +was only a black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps +she had been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of +farewell, without even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. +She never had had another. "I do not wish him to be unfortunate because +of me," she thought. + +Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was +not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said +to herself: + +"He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he +admires." She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety of +Florence. She had seen casually, at the Offices, a picture that +Dechartre liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein +Leonardo, the sculptor said, had expressed the minute profundity and +tragic refinement of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting +that she had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and +went to sleep. + +She dreamed that she met in a deserted church Robert Le Menil enveloped +in furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a +crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of +him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and +heard at the open window a sad, monotonous cry, and saw a humming-bird +darting about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began +to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +"THE DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE" + +She took pleasure in dressing early, with delicate and subtle taste. +Her dressing-room, an aesthetic fantasy of Vivian Bell, with its coarsely +varnished pottery, its tall copper pitchers, and its faience pavement, +like a chess-board, resembled a fairy's kitchen. It was rustic and +marvellous, and the Countess Martin could have in it the agreeable +surprise of mistaking herself for a fairy. While her maid was dressing +her hair, she heard Dechartre and Choulette talking under her windows. +She rearranged all the work Pauline had done, and uncovered the line of +her nape, which was fine and pure. She looked at herself in the glass, +and went into the garden. + +Dechartre was there, reciting verses of Dante, and looking at Florence: +"At the hour when our mind, a greater stranger to the flesh. . ." + +Near him, Choulette, seated on the balustrade of the terrace, his legs +hanging, and his nose in his beard, was still at work on the figure of +Misery on his stick. + +Dechartre resumed the rhymes of the canticle: "At the hour when our mind, +a greater stranger to the flesh; and less under the obsession of +thoughts, is almost divine in its visions, . . . ." + +She approached beside the boxwood hedge, holding a parasol and dressed in +a straw-colored gown. The faint sunlight of winter enveloped her in pale +gold. + +Dechartre greeted her joyfully. + +She said: + +"You are reciting verses that I do not know. I know only Metastasio. +My teacher liked only Metastasio. What is the hour when the mind has +divine visions?" + +"Madame, that hour is the dawn of the day. It may be also the dawn of +faith and of love." + +Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave +at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether +strangers to the flesh. But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the +pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the +golden hills. He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images +that one sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not +related to the object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the +contrary, to ideas abandoned during the day. + +Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket. + +"Yes," said Dechartre, "the things we see at night are unfortunate +remains of what we have neglected the day before. Dreams avenge things +one has disdained. They are reproaches of abandoned friends. Hence +their sadness." + +She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said: + +"That is perhaps true." + +Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait of +Misery on his stick. Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and +Choulette recognized the Virgin in it. He had even composed a quatrain +which he was to write on it in spiral form--a didactic and moral +quatrain. He would cease to write, except in the style of the +commandments of God rendered into French verses. The four lines +expressed simplicity and goodness. He consented to recite them. + +Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the +distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa, +almost as blue as the sky. Jacques Dechartre looked at her. It seemed +to him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he +discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested +with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace. The +daylight which she liked, was indulgent to her. And truly she was +pretty, bathed in that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms +and feeds noble thoughts. A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded +cheeks; her eyes, bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the +brilliancy of her teeth set off her lips of ardent sweetness. His look +embraced her supple bust, her full hips, and the bold attitude of her +waist. She held her parasol with her left hand, the other hand played +with violets. Dechartre had a mania for beautiful hands. Hands +presented to his eyes a physiognomy as striking as the face--a character, +a soul. These hands enchanted him. They were exquisite. He adored +their slender fingers, their pink nails, their palms soft and tender, +traversed by lines as elegant as arabesques, and rising at the base of +the fingers in harmonious mounts. He examined them with charmed +attention until she closed them on the handle of her umbrella. Then, +standing behind her, he looked at her again. Her bust and arms, graceful +and pure in line, her beautiful form, which was like that of a living +amphora, pleased him. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens, is +it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many flowers +in them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees." + +It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of +her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it. + +He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but +felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened, +seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things: + +"That view is beautiful, The weather is fine." + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HEARTS AWAKENED + +In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking +of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; +of the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy, +who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the +illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and +resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in +language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, +the adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark +and blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning +more charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those +magnificent forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was +through him, that she understood art and life. She took no interest in +things that did not interest him. How had this affection come to her? +She had no precise remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul +Vence wished to introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him, no +presentiment that he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze +statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked at +the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel's. But she did not imagine +that he could be agreeable to her, or more seductive than many artists +and lovers of art at whom she laughed with her friends. When she saw +him, he pleased her; she had a desire to attract him, to see him often. +The night he dined at her house she realized that she had for him a noble +and elevating affection. But soon after he irritated her a little; +it made her impatient to see him closeted within himself and too little +preoccupied by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in +that state of impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the +grille of the Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and +of the Empress seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him +serious and charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the +night, but too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had +felt a sort of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along +the boxwood bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every +day or never to see him again. + +Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near +her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new. +He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened +in her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was +determined never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; +her lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her. For a +moment she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, +a dreamer, exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous +without being exacting. But she did not wish to reassure herself with +that idea. If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She +did not dare to think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, +anxious, and closing her eyes. + +She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when +Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope +marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the +handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only +astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, when +the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson. + +In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without +saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to +Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was +happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two or +three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he +regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her +house. + +"I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. +He said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter +at Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked +pale and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had +not wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in +persuading you. + +"I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary, +that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter +resort. I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it. +Reassure me at once, I pray you. + +"Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your husband +and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it annoys +him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in Paris. +I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister. +This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among +fashionable people." + +Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three fox- +skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal which +he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand. + +In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. +He feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. +Under these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would +be taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be +very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return +soon. + +Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire, +and calmly watched it burn. + +Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had +complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer? +Should she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so +indifferent to her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she +had no desire to be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle +toward him! Seeing that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn +tranquillity, she became sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was +the same man he had been before. She was not the same woman. They were +separated now by imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in +the air that make one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she +had not begun to write an answer. + +Anxious, she thought: "He trusts me. He suspects nothing." This made +her more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there +were simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others. + +She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The +latter said: + +"Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you? +Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls +naturally expressed." + +Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend's shoulder, and +said: + +"May I look?" + +"Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the +popular songs of your country." + +"Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me." + +"Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several +meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very +clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly +disengage one's self from what one has taken into the heart." + +The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the +Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was +to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along +the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism. +As they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and terraces +ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend the +villa, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers of +the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and +diverted one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then +she confessed the thought which had come to her the day before. + +"You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had +left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate and +polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of distinction +who live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my cook +Pompaloni does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them, but he +puts the salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet's tongue is very sweet, +but the salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like +Pompaloni's dish, my love--each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like +Madame Marmet a great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found her +alone and sad in a corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking +mournfully of her husband. I said to her: 'Do you wish me to think of +your husband, too? I will think of him with you. I have been told that +he was a learned man, a member of the Royal Society of Paris. Madame +Marmet, talk to me of him.' She replied that he had devoted himself to +the Etruscans, and that he had given to them his entire life. Oh, +darling, I cherished at once the memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who +lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to me. I said to +Madame Marmet, 'We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, a modest +little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?' She +replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to the +Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze figures, +grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were a seriously gay +people. They made bronze caricatures. But the monkeys--some afflicted +with big stomachs, others astonished to show their bones--Madame Marmet +looked at them with reluctant admiration. She contemplated them like-- +there is a beautiful French word that escapes me--like the monuments and +the trophies of Monsieur Marmet." + +Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull, +the streets ugly, the passers-by common. + +"Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his palace." + +"I do not think so." + +"Why, darling, why?" + +"Because I do not please him much." + +Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great +admirer of the Countess Martin. + +The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade +were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held +rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the +most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. +The Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons +into the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had +not an attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio +Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now fallen, +had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering the works +of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin several +paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a Mantegna. + +The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection; +she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the +darkness a bit of armor and a white horse. + +A valet presented a card. + +The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he +was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression +of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors. +Dechartre was on the staircase. + +The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero, +but Antinous. + +"I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace," said +Miss Bell. "I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery." + +And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. +Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. + +Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old men +and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable +tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to +her, in a low tone: + +"This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world +hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that +Jews could not sell." + +He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green +velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo. + +"I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London, +of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that +it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to sell +it for fifty thousand francs." + +The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully. + +"There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm that +this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old +inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about +it." + +And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures +by the pre-Raphaelites. + +Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese. +He had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again, +delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had +imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and +also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed +cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her; +that he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He +murmured bitterly in her ear: "I have reflected. I did not wish to come. +Why did I come?" She understood at once what he meant, that he feared her +now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her that +he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the desires +he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to +understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and look at +bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not +interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt +reassured, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived +the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said "No, +nothing interesting." The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to +breakfast, asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused +himself. He was about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found +himself alone with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away +from her. He had no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled +to her that she was the next morning to visit the Bargello. "You have +permitted me to accompany you." She asked him if he had not found her +moody and tiresome. Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he +feared she was sad. + +"Alas," he added, "your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know +them." She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. "You do not think +that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?" And she walked away +brusquely. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!" + +After dinner, in the salon of the bells, under the lamps from which the +great shades permitted only an obscure light to filter, good Madame +Marmet was warming herself by the hearth, with a white cat on her knees. +The evening was cool. Madame Martin, her eyes reminiscent of the golden +light, the violet peaks, and the ancient trees of Florence, smiled with +happy fatigue. She had gone with Miss Bell, Dechartre, and Madame Marmet +to the Chartrist convent of Ema. And now, in the intoxication of her +visions, she forgot the care of the day before, the importunate letters, +the distant reproaches, and thought of nothing in the world but cloisters +chiselled and painted, villages with red roofs, and roads where she saw +the first blush of spring. Dechartre had modelled for Miss Bell a waxen +figure of Beatrice. Vivian was painting angels. Softly bent over her, +Prince Albertinelli caressed his beard and threw around him glances that +appeared to seek admiration. + +Replying to a reflection of Vivian Bell on marriage and love: + +"A woman must choose," he said. "With a man whom women love her heart is +not quiet. With a man whom the women do not love she is not happy." + +"Darling," asked Miss Bell, "what would you wish for a friend dear to +you?" + +"I should wish, Vivian, that my friend were happy. I should wish also +that she were quiet. She should be quiet in hatred of treason, +humiliating suspicions, and mistrust." + +"But, darling, since the Prince has said that a woman can not have at the +same time happiness and security, tell me what your friend should +choose." + +"One never chooses, Vivian; one never chooses. Do not make me say what I +think of marriage." + +At this moment Choulette appeared, wearing the magnificent air of those +beggars of whom small towns are proud. He had played briscola with +peasants in a coffeehouse of Fiesole. + +"Here is Monsieur Choulette," said Miss Bell. "He will teach what we are +to think of marriage. I am inclined to listen to him as to an oracle. +He does not see the things that we see, and he sees things that we do not +see. Monsieur Choulette, what do you think of marriage?" + +He took a seat and lifted in the air a Socratic finger: + +"Are you speaking, Mademoiselle, of the solemn union between man and +woman? In this sense, marriage is a sacrament. But sometimes, alas! +it is almost a sacrilege. As for civil marriage, it is a formality. +The importance given to it in our society is an idiotic thing which would +have made the women of other times laugh. We owe this prejudice, like +many others, to the bourgeois, to the mad performances of a lot of +financiers which have been called the Revolution, and which seem +admirable to those that have profited by it. Civil marriage is, +in reality, only registry, like many others which the State exacts in +order to be sure of the condition of persons: in every well organized +state everybody must be indexed. Morally, this registry in a big ledger +has not even the virtue of inducing a wife to take a lover. Who ever +thinks of betraying an oath taken before a mayor? In order to find joy +in adultery, one must be pious." + +"But, Monsieur," said Therese, "we were married at the church." + +Then, with an accent of sincerity: + +"I can not understand how a man ever makes up his mind to marry; nor how +a woman, after she has reached an age when she knows what she is doing, +can commit that folly." + +The Prince looked at her with distrust. He was clever, but he was +incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object, +disinterestedly, and to express general ideas. He imagined that Countess +Martin-Belleme was suggesting to him projects that she wished him to +consider. And as he was thinking of defending himself and also avenging +himself, he made velvet eyes at her and talked with tender gallantry: + +"You display, Madame, the pride of the beautiful and intelligent French +women whom subjection irritates. French women love liberty, and none of +them is as worthy of liberty as you. I have lived in France a little. +I have known and admired the elegant society of Paris, the salons, the +festivals, the conversations, the plays. But in our mountains, under our +olive-trees, we become rustic again. We assume golden-age manners, and +marriage is for us an idyl full of freshness." + +Vivian Bell examined the statuette which Dechartre had left on the table. + +"Oh! it was thus that Beatrice looked, I am sure. And do you know, +Monsieur Dechartre, there are wicked men who say that Beatrice never +existed?" + +Choulette declared he wished to be counted among those wicked men. +He did not believe that Beatrice had any more reality than other ladies +through whom ancient poets who sang of love represented some scholastic +idea, ridiculously subtle. + +Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself, jealous of Dante +as of the universe, a refined man of letters, Choulette continued: + +"I suspect that the little sister of the angels never lived, except in +the imagination of the poet. It seems a pure allegory, or, rather, an +exercise in arithmetic or a theme of astrology. Dante, who was a good +doctor of Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his pointed cap-- +Dante believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed mathematician +dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of arithmetic, that +is all." + +And he lighted his pipe. + +Vivian Bell exclaimed: + +"Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much, +and if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased +with you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the +canticle in which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the +Divine Comedy, Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table. +Open it and read it." + +During the Prince's reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near Countess +Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor among the +poets. He recalled to Therese the painting they had seen together two +days before, on the door of the Servi, a fresco almost obliterated, where +one hardly divined the presence of the poet wearing a laurel wreath, +Florence, and the seven circles. This was enough to exalt the artist. +But she had distinguished nothing, she had not been moved. And then she +confessed that Dante did not attract her. Dechartre, accustomed to her +sharing all his ideas of art and poetry, felt astonishment and some +discontent. He said, aloud: + +"There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel." + +Miss Bell, lifting her head, asked what were these things that "darling" +did not feel; and when she learned that it was the genius of Dante, she +exclaimed, in mock anger: + +"Oh, do you not honor the father, the master worthy of all praise, the +god? I do not love you any more, darling. I detest you." + +And, as a reproach to Choulette and to the Countess Martin, she recalled +the piety of that citizen of Florence who took from the altar the candles +that had been lighted in honor of Christ, and placed them before the bust +of Dante. + +The Prince resumed his interrupted reading. Dechartre persisted in +trying to make Therese admire what she did not know. Certainly he would +have easily sacrificed Dante and all the poets of the universe for her. +But near him, tranquil, and an object of desire, she irritated him, +almost without his realizing it, by the charm of her laughing beauty. +He persisted in imposing on her his ideas, his artistic passions, even +his fantasy, and his capriciousness. He insisted in a low tone, in +phrases concise and quarrelsome. She said: + +"Oh, how violent you are!" + +Then he bent to her ear, and in an ardent voice, which he tried to +soften: + +"You must take me with my own soul!" + +Therese felt a shiver of fear mingled with joy. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE AVOWAL + +She next day she said to herself that she would reply to Robert. It was +raining. She listened languidly to the drops falling on the terrace. +Vivian Bell, careful and refined, had placed on the table artistic +stationery, sheets imitating the vellum of missals, others of pale violet +powdered with silver dust; celluloid pens, white and light, which one had +to manage like brushes; an iris ink which, on a page, spread a mist of +azure and gold. Therese did not like such delicacy. It seemed to her +not appropriate for letters which she wished to make simple and modest. +When she saw that the name of "friend," given to Robert on the first +line, placed on the silvery paper, tinted itself like mother-of-pearl, +a half smile came to her lips. The first phrases were hard to write. +She hurried the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell and of Prince +Albertinelli, a little of Choulette, and that she had seen Dechartre at +Florence. She praised some pictures of the museums, but without +discrimination, and only to fill the pages. She knew that Robert had no +appreciation of painting; that he admired nothing except a little +cuirassier by Detaille, bought at Goupil's. + +She saw again in her mind this cuirassier, which he had shown to her one +day, with pride, in his bedroom, near the mirror, under family portraits. +All this, at a distance, seemed to her petty and tiresome. She finished +her letter with words of friendship, the sweetness of which was not +feigned. Truly, she had never felt more peaceful and gentle toward her +lover. In four pages she had said little and explained less. She +announced only that she should stay a month in Florence, the air of which +did her good. Then she wrote to her father, to her husband, and to +Princess Seniavine. She went down the stairway with the letters in her +hand. In the hall she threw three of them on the silver tray destined to +receive papers for the post-office. Mistrusting Madame Marmet, she +slipped into her pocket the letter to Le Menil, counting on chance to +throw it into a post-box. + +Almost at the same time Dechartre came to accompany the three friends in +a walk through the city. As he was waiting he saw the letters on the +tray. + +Without believing that characters could be divined through penmanship, +he was susceptible to the form of letters as to elegance of drawing. +The writing of Therese charmed him, and he liked its openness, the bold +and simple turn of its lines. He looked at the addresses without reading +them, with an artist's admiration. + +They visited, that morning, Santa Maria Novella, where the Countess +Martin had already gone with Madame Marmet. But Miss Bell had reproached +them for not observing the beautiful Ginevra of Benci on a fresco of the +choir. "You must visit that figure of the morning in a morning light," +said Vivian. While the poetess and Therese were talking together, +Dechartre listened patiently to Madame Marmet's conversation, filled with +anecdotes, wherein academicians dined with elegant women, and shared the +anxiety of that lady, much preoccupied for several days by the necessity +to buy a tulle veil. She could find none to her taste in the shops of +Florence. + +As they came out of the church they passed the cobbler's shop. The good +man was mending rustic shoes. Madame Martin asked the old man whether he +was well, whether he had enough work for a living, whether he was happy. +To all these questions he replied with the charming affirmative of Italy, +the musical si, which sounded melodious even in his toothless mouth. She +made him tell his sparrow's story. The poor bird had once dipped its leg +in burning wax. + +"I have made for my little companion a wooden leg out of a match, and he +hops upon my shoulder as formerly," said the cobbler. + +"It is this good old man," said Miss Bell, "who teaches wisdom to +Monsieur Choulette. There was at Athens a cobbler named Simon, who wrote +books on philosophy, and who was the friend of Socrates. I have always +thought that Monsieur Choulette resembled Socrates." + +Therese asked the cobbler to tell his name and his history. His name was +Serafino Stoppini, and he was a native of Stia. He was old. He had had +much trouble in his life. + +He lifted his spectacles to his forehead, uncovering blue eyes, very +soft, and almost extinguished under their red lids. + +"I have had a wife and children; I have none now. I have known things +which I know no more." + +Miss Bell and Madame Marmet went to look for a veil. + +"He has nothing in the world," thought Therese, "but his tools, a handful +of nails, the tub wherein he dips his leather, and a pot of basilick, yet +he is happy." + +She said to him: + +"This plant is fragrant, and it will soon be in bloom." + +He replied: + +"If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die." + +Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table. + +Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her: + +"You know . . . " + +She looked at him and waited. + +He finished his phrase: + +" . . . that I love you?" + +She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the +lids of which were trembling. Then she made a motion with her head that +meant Yes. And, without his trying to stop her, she rejoined Miss Bell +and Madame Marmet, who were waiting for her at the corner. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER + +Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend and +Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor Emmanuel +had loved when he was Duke of Savoy. For thirty years she had not once +gone out of her palace on the Arno, where, she painted, and wearing a +wig, she played the guitar in her spacious white salon. She received the +best society of Florence, and Miss Bell often called on her. At table +this recluse, eighty-seven years of age, questioned the Countess Martin +on the fashionable world of Paris, whose movement was familiar to her +through the journals. Solitary, she retained respect and a sort of +devotion for the world of pleasure. + +As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was +blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets with +black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in the pure +air, stands a hill with three slender trees. They walked; and Vivian +showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging, some marble +masterpiece--a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine. They walked through +these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or San Michele, where +it had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them. Therese was thinking +of him now with deepest interest. Madame Marmet was thinking of buying a +veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso. This affair recalled to her +M. Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day, took from his pocket a +veil with gold dots and wiped his forehead with it, thinking it was his +handkerchief. The audience was astonished, and whispered to one another. +It was a veil that had been confided to him the day before by his niece, +Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had accompanied to the theatre, +and Madame Marmet explained how, finding it in the pocket of his +overcoat, he had taken it to return it to his niece. + +At Lagrange's name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the +savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for +that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble. +But above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared of +clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold. Miss Bell +showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled niches, +ornament the facade of the church. + +"See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George. Saint George was +formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed." + +But "darling" said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn. At +this moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her +pocket. + +"Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre," said the good Madame Marmet. + +He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should +have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello's St. George +held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained +a particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could +see in his niche at the left. + +When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she +saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint. +Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his St. +Mark with abundant friendship. + +"It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to +do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is +not appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take +pleasure in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that +Donatello, after giving a soul to him, exclaimed: 'Mark, why do you not +speak?'" + +Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the +burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a +veil. + +Therese and Dechartre remained. + +"I like him," continued the sculptor; "I like Saint Mark because I feel +in him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of +Donatello, who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because +he recalls to me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler +to whom you were speaking so kindly this morning." + +"Ah," she said, "I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur +Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men of +that painter." + +As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she +found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it +seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it +under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark. + +Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at his +heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had +dropped the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in +the morning Therese's letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put that +one with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained +immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured; +perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from +the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet. + +"Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the +dressmaker's." + +Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of Madame +Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish. + +All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she +was saying to him: "I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in +love with me." But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a +lover. He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another +made him suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the +letter, remained in his eyes and made them burn. + +She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she +saw him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the +reason. She thought it odd that he should be jealous without having the +right to be jealous; but this did not displease her. + +When they reached the Corso, they saw Miss Bell and Madame Marmet coming +out of the dressmaker's shop. + +Dechartre said to Therese, in an imperious and supplicating voice: + +"I must speak to you. I must see you alone tomorrow; meet me at six +o'clock at the Lungarno Acciaoli." + +She made no reply. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +"TO-MORROW?" + +When, in her Carmelite mantle, she came to the Lungarno Acciaoli, at +about half-past six, Dechartre greeted her with a humble look that moved +her. The setting sun made the Arno purple. They remained silent for a +moment. While they were walking past the monotonous line of palaces to +the old bridge, she was the first to speak. + +"You see, I have come. I thought I ought to come. I do not think I am +altogether innocent of what has happened. I know: I have done what was +my fate in order that you should be to me what you are now. My attitude +has put thoughts into your head which you would not have had otherwise." + +He looked as if he did not understand. She continued: + +"I was selfish, I was imprudent. You were agreeable to me; I liked your +wit; I could not get along without you. I have done what I could to +attract you, to retain you. I was a coquette--not coldly, nor +perfidiously, but a coquette." + +He shook his head, denying that he ever had seen a sign of this. + +"Yes, I was a coquette. Yet it was not my habit. But I was a coquette +with you. I do not say that you have tried to take advantage of it, as +you had the right to do, nor that you are vain about it. I have not +remarked vanity in you. It may be possible that you had not noticed. +Superior men sometimes lack cleverness. But I know very well that I was +not as I should have been, and I beg your pardon. That is the reason why +I came. Let us be good friends, since there is yet time." + +He repeated, with sombre softness, that he loved her. The first hours of +that love had been easy and delightful. He had only desired to see her, +and to see her again. But soon she had troubled him. The evil had come +suddenly and violently one day on the terrace of Fiesole. And now he had +not the courage to suffer and say nothing. He had not come with a fixed +design. If he spoke of his passion he spoke by force and in spite of +himself; in the strong necessity of talking of her to herself, since she +was for him the only being in the world. His life was no longer in +himself, it was in her. She should know it, then, that he was in love +with her, not with vague tenderness, but with cruel ardor. Alas! his +imagination was exact and precise. He saw her continually, and she +tortured him. + +And then it seemed to him that they might have joys which should make +life worth living. Their existence might be a work of art, beautiful and +hidden. They would think, comprehend, and feel together. It would be a +marvellous world of emotions and ideas. + +"We could make of life a delightful garden." + +She feigned to think that the dream was innocent. + +"You know very well that I am susceptible to the charm of your mind. +It has become a necessity to see you and hear you. I have allowed this +to be only too plain to you. Count upon my friendship and do not torment +yourself." She extended her hand to him. He did not take it, but +replied, brusquely: + +"I do not desire your friendship. I will not have it. I must have you +entirely or never see you again. You know that very well. Why do you +extend your hand to me with derisive phrases? Whether you wished it or +not, you have made me desperately in love with you. You have become my +evil, my suffering, my torture, and you ask me to be an agreeable friend. +Now you are coquettish and cruel. If you can not love me, let me go; +I will go, I do not know where, to forget and hate you. For I have +against you a latent feeling of hatred and anger. Oh, I love you, I love +you!" + +She believed what he was saying, feared that he might go, and feared the +sadness of living without him. She replied: + +"I found you in my path. I do not wish to lose you. No, I do not wish +to lose you." + +Timid yet violent, he stammered; the words were stifled in his throat. +Twilight descended from the far-off mountains, and the last reflections +of the sun became pallid in the east. She said: + +"If you knew my life, if you had seen how empty it was before I knew you, +you would know what you are to me, and would not think of abandoning me." + +But, with the tranquil tone of her voice and with the rustle of her +skirts on the pavement, she irritated him. + +He told her how he suffered. He knew now the divine malady of love. + +"The grace of your thoughts, your magnificent courage, your superb pride, +I inhale them like a perfume. It seems to me when you speak that your +mind is floating on your lips. Your mind is for me only the odor of your +beauty. I have retained the instincts of a primitive man; you have +reawakened them. I feel that I love you with savage simplicity." + +She looked at him softly and said nothing. They saw the lights of +evening, and heard lugubrious songs coming toward them. And then, like +spectres chased by the wind, appeared the black penitents. The crucifix +was before them. They were Brothers of Mercy, holding torches, singing +psalms on the way to the cemetery. In accordance with the Italian +custom, the cortege marched quickly. The crosses, the coffin, the +banners, seemed to leap on the deserted quay. Jacques and Therese stood +against the wall in order that the funeral train might pass. + +The black avalanche had disappeared. There were women weeping behind the +coffin carried by the black phantoms, who wore heavy shoes. + +Therese sighed: + +"What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world?" + +He looked as if he had not heard, and said: + +"Before I knew you I was not unhappy. I liked life. I was retained in +it by dreams. I liked forms, and the mind in forms, the appearances that +caress and flatter. I had the joy of seeing and of dreaming. I enjoyed +everything and depended upon nothing. My desires, abundant and light, +I gratified without fatigue. I was interested in everything and wished +for nothing. One suffers only through the will. Without knowing it, +I was happy. Oh, it was not much, it was only enough to live. Now I +have no joy in life. My pleasures, the interest that I took in the +images of life and of art, the vivid amusement of creating with my hands +the figures of my dreams--you have made me lose everything and have not +left me even regret. I do not want my liberty and tranquillity again. +It seems to me that before I knew you I did not live; and now that I feel +that I am living, I can not live either far from you or near you. I am +more wretched than the beggars we saw on the road to Ema. They had air +to breathe, and I can breathe only you, whom I have not. Yet I am glad +to have known you. That alone counts in my existence. A moment ago I +thought I hated you. I was wrong; I adore you, and I bless you for the +harm you have done me. I love all that comes to me from you." + +They were nearing the black trees at the entrance to San Niccola bridge. +On the other side of the river the vague fields displayed their sadness, +intensified by night. Seeing that he was calm and full of a soft +languor, she thought that his love, all imagination, had fled in words, +and that his desires had become only a reverie. She had not expected so +prompt a resignation. It almost disappointed her to escape the danger +she had feared. + +She extended her hand to him, more boldly this time than before. + +"Then, let us be friends. It is late. Let us return. Take me to my +carriage. I shall be what I have been to you, an excellent friend. You +have not displeased me." + +But he led her to the fields, in the growing solitude of the shore. + +"No, I will not let you go without having told you what I wish to say. +But I know no longer how to speak; I can not find the words. I love you. +I wish to know that you are mine. I swear to you that I will not live +another night in the horror of doubting it." + +He pressed her in his arms; and seeking the light of her eyes through the +obscurity of her veil, said "You must love me. I desire you to love me, +and it is your fault, for you have desired it too. Say that you are +mine. Say it." + +Having gently disengaged herself, she replied, faintly and slowly "I can +not! I can not! You see I am acting frankly with you. I said to you a +moment ago that you had not displeased me. But I can not do as you +wish." + +And recalling to her thought the absent one who was waiting for her, she +repeated: "I can not!" Bending over her he anxiously questioned her eyes, +the double stars that trembled and veiled themselves. "Why? You love me, +I feel it, I see it. You love me. Why will you do me this wrong?" + +He drew her to him, wishing to lay his soul, with his lips, on her veiled +lips. She escaped him swiftly, saying: "I can not. Do not ask more. +I can not be yours." + +His lips trembled, his face was convulsed. He exclaimed "You have a +lover, and you love him. Why do you mock me?" + +"I swear to you I have no desire to mock you, and that if I loved any one +in the world it would be you." But he was not listening to her. + +"Leave me, leave me!" And he ran toward the dark fields. The Arno formed +lagoons, upon which the moon, half veiled, shone fitfully. He walked +through the water and the mud, with a step rapid, blind, like that of one +intoxicated. She took fright and shouted. She called him. But he did +not turn his head and made no answer. He fled with alarming +recklessness. She ran after him. Her feet were hurt by the stones, and +her skirt was heavy with water, but soon she overtook him. + +"What were you about to do?" + +He looked at her, and saw her fright in her eyes. "Do not be afraid," he +said. "I did not see where I was going. I assure you I did not intend +to kill myself. I am desperate, but I am calm. I was only trying to +escape from you. I beg your pardon. But I could not see you any longer. +Leave me, I pray you. Farewell!" + +She replied, agitated and trembling: "Come! We shall do what we can." + +He remained sombre and made no reply. She repeated "Come!" + +She took his arm. The living warmth of her hand animated him. He said: + +"Do you wish it?" + +"I can not leave you." + +"You promise?" + +"I must." + +And, in her anxiety and anguish, she almost smiled, in thinking that he +had succeeded so quickly by his folly. + +"To-morrow?" said he, inquiringly. + +She replied quickly, with a defensive instinct: + +"Oh, no; not to-morrow!" + +"You do not love me; you regret that you have promised." + +"No, I do not regret, but-- + +He implored, he supplicated her. She looked at him for a moment, turned +her head, hesitated, and said, in a low tone: + +"Saturday." + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION + +After dinner, Miss Bell was sketching in the drawing-room. She was +tracing, on canvas, profiles of bearded Etruscans for a cushion which +Madame Marmet was to embroider. Prince Albertinelli was selecting the +wool with an almost feminine knowledge of shades. It was late when +Choulette, having, as was his habit, played briscola with the cook at +the caterer's, appeared, as joyful as if he possessed the mind of a god. +He took a seat on a sofa, beside Madame Martin, and looked at her +tenderly. Voluptuousness shone in his green eyes. He enveloped her, +while talking to her, with poetic and picturesque phrases. It was like +the sketch of a lovesong that he was improvising for her. In oddly +involved sentences, he told her of the charm that she exhaled. + +"He, too!" said she to herself. + +She amused herself by teasing him. She asked whether he had not found in +Florence, in the low quarters, one of the kind of women whom he liked to +visit. His preferences were known. He could deny it as much as he +wished: no one was ignorant of the door where he had found the cordon of +his Third Order. His friends had met him on the boulevard. His taste +for unfortunate women was evident in his most beautiful poems. + +"Oh, Monsieur Choulette, so far as I am able to judge, you like very bad +women." + +He replied with solemnity: + +"Madame, you may collect the grain of calumiy sown by Monsieur Paul Vence +and throw handfuls of it at me. I will not try to avoid it. It is not +necessary you should know that I am chaste and that my mind is pure. +But do not judge lightly those whom you call unfortunate, and who should +be sacred to you, since they are unfortunate. The disdained and lost +girl is the docile clay under the finger of the Divine Potter: she is the +victim and the altar of the holocaust. The unfortunates are nearer God +than the honest women: they have lost conceit. They do not glorify +themselves with the untried virtue the matron prides herself on. +They possess humility, which is the cornerstone of virtues agreeable to +heaven. A short repentance will be sufficient for them to be the first +in heaven; for their sins, without malice and without joy, contain their +own forgiveness. Their faults, which are pains, participate in the +merits attached to pain; slaves to brutal passion, they are deprived of +all voluptuousness, and in this they are like the men who practise +continence for the kingdom of God. They are like us, culprits; but shame +falls on their crime like a balm, suffering purifies it like fire. That +is the reason why God will listen to the first voice which they shall +send to him. A throne is prepared for them at the right hand of the +Father. In the kingdom of God, the queen and the empress will be happy +to sit at the feet of the unfortunate; for you must not think that the +celestial house is built on a human plan. Far from it, Madame." + +Nevertheless, he conceded that more than one road led to salvation. One +could follow the road of love. + +"Man's love is earthly," he said, "but it rises by painful degrees, and +finally leads to God." + +The Prince had risen. Kissing Miss Bell's hand, he said: + +"Saturday." + +"Yes, the day after to-morrow, Saturday," replied Vivian. + +Therese started. Saturday! They were talking of Saturday quietly, as of +an ordinary day. Until then she had not wished to think that Saturday +would come so soon or so naturally. + +The guests had been gone for half an hour. Therese, tired, was thinking +in her bed, when she heard a knock at the door of her room. The panel +opened, and Vivian's little head appeared. + +"I am not intruding, darling? You are not sleepy?" + +No, Therese had no desire to sleep. She rose on her elbow. Vivian sat +on the bed, so light that she made no impression on it. + +"Darling, I am sure you have a great deal of reason. Oh, I am sure of +it. You are reasonable in the same way that Monsieur Sadler is a +violinist. He plays a little out of tune when he wishes. And you, +too, when you are not quite logical, it is for your own pleasure. +Oh, darling, you have a great deal of reason and of judgment, and I come +to ask your advice." + +Astonished, and a little anxious, Therese denied that she was logical. +She denied this very sincerely. But Vivian would not listen to her. + +"I have read Francois Rabelais a great deal, my love. It is in Rabelais +and in Villon that I studied French. They are good old masters of +language. But, darling, do you know the 'Pantagruel?' ' Pantagruel' is +like a beautiful and noble city, full of palaces, in the resplendent +dawn, before the street-sweepers of Paris have come. The sweepers have +not taken out the dirt, and the maids have not washed the marble steps. +And I have seen that French women do not read the 'Pantagruel.' You do +not know it? Well, it is not necessary. In the 'Pantagruel,' Panurge +asks whether he must marry, and he covers himself with ridicule, my love. +Well, I am quite as laughable as he, since I am asking the same question +of you." + +Therese replied with an uneasiness she did not try to conceal: + +"As for that, my dear, do not ask me. I have already told you my +opinion." + +"But, darling, you have said that only men are wrong to marry. I can not +take that advice for myself." + +Madame Martin looked at the little boyish face and head of Miss Bell, +which oddly expressed tenderness and modesty. + +Then she embraced her, saying: + +"Dear, there is not a man in the world exquisite and delicate enough for +you." + +She added, with an expression of affectionate gravity: + +"You are not a child. If some one loves you, and you love him, do what +you think you ought to do, without mingling interests and combinations +that have nothing to do with sentiment. This is the advice of a friend." + +Miss Bell hesitated a moment. Then she blushed and arose. She had been +a little shocked. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +"I KISS YOUR FEET BECAUSE THEY HAVE COME!" + +Saturday, at four o'clock, Therese went, as she had promised, to the gate +of the English cemetery. There she found Dechartre. He was serious and +agitated; he spoke little. She was glad he did not display his joy. +He led her by the deserted walls of the gardens to a narrow street which +she did not know. She read on a signboard: Via Alfieri. After they had +taken fifty steps, he stopped before a sombre alley: + +"It is in there," he said. + +She looked at him with infinite sadness. + +"You wish me to go in?" + +She saw he was resolute, and followed him without saying a word, into the +humid shadow of the alley. He traversed a courtyard where the grass grew +among the stones. In the back was a pavilion with three windows, with +columns and a front ornamented with goats and nymphs. On the moss-covered +steps he turned in the lock a key that creaked and resisted. He murmured + +"It is rusty." + +She replied, without thought "All the keys are rusty in this country." + +They went up a stairway so silent that it seemed to have forgotten the +sound of footsteps. He pushed open a door and made Therese enter the +room. She went straight to a window opening on the cemetery. Above the +wall rose the tops of pine-trees, which are not funereal in this land +where mourning is mingled with joy without troubling it, where the +sweetness of living extends to the city of the dead. He took her hand +and led her to an armchair. He remained standing, and looked at the room +which he had prepared so that she would not find herself lost in it. +Panels of old print cloth, with figures of Comedy, gave to the walls the +sadness of past gayeties. He had placed in a corner a dim pastel which +they had seen together at an antiquary's, and which, for its shadowy +grace, she called the shade of Rosalba. There was a grandmother's +armchair; white chairs; and on the table painted cups and Venetian +glasses. In all the corners were screens of colored paper, whereon were +masks, grotesque figures, the light soul of Florence, of Bologna, and of +Venice in the time of the Grand Dukes and of the last Doges. A mirror +and a carpet completed the furnishings. + +He closed the window and lighted the fire. She sat in the armchair, and +as she remained in it erect, he knelt before her, took her hands, kissed +them, and looked at her with a wondering expression, timorous and proud. +Then he pressed his lips to the tip of her boot. + +"What are you doing?" + +"I kiss your feet because they have come." + +He rose, drew her to him softly, and placed a long kiss on her lips. +She remained inert, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her toque +fell, her hair dropped on her shoulders. + +Two hours later, when the setting sun made immeasurably longer the +shadows on the stones, Therese, who had wished to walk alone in the city, +found herself in front of the two obelisks of Santa Maria Novella without +knowing how she had reached there. She saw at the corner of the square +the old cobbler drawing his string with his eternal gesture. He smiled, +bearing his sparrow on his shoulder. + +She went into the shop, and sat on a chair. She said in French: + +"Quentin Matsys, my friend, what have I done, and what will become of +me?" + +He looked at her quietly, with laughing kindness, not understanding nor +caring. Nothing astonished him. She shook her head. + +"What I did, my good Quentin, I did because he was suffering, and because +I loved him. I regret nothing." + +He replied, as was his habit, with the sonorous syllable of Italy: + +"Si! si!" + +"Is it not so, Quentin? I have not done wrong? But, my God! what will +happen now?" + +She prepared to go. He made her understand that he wished her to wait. +He culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her. + +"For its fragrance, signora!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +CHOULETTE TAKES A JOURNEY + +It was the next day. + +Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty stick, his +pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who +was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin +coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity. + +"Farewell, Madame. I am quitting Fiesole, you, Dechartre, the too +handsome Prince Albertinelli, and that gentle ogress, Miss Bell. I am +going to visit the Assisi mountain, which the poet says must be named no +longer Assisi, but the Orient, because it is there that the sun of love +rose. I am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is +resting in a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not +even take out of this world a shroud--out of this world where he left the +revelation of all joy and of all kindness." + +"Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like +Saint Clara a great deal." + +"You are right, Madame; she was a woman of strength and prudence. When +Saint Francis, ill and almost blind, came to spend a few days at Saint +Damien, near his friend, she built with her own hands a hut for him in +the garden. Pain, languor, and burning eyelids deprived him of sleep. +Enormous rats came to attack him at night. Then he composed a joyous +canticle in praise of our splendid brother the Sun, and our sister the +Water, chaste, useful, and pure. My most beautiful verses have less +charm and splendor. And it is just that it should be thus, for Saint +Francis's soul was more beautiful than his mind. I am better than all my +contemporaries whom I have known, yet I am worth nothing. When Saint +Francis had composed his Song of the Sun he rejoiced. He thought: +'We shall go, my brothers and I, into the cities, and stand in the public +squares, with a lute, on the market-day. Good people will come near us, +and we shall say to them: "We are the jugglers of God, and we shall sing +a lay to you. If you are pleased, you will reward us." They will +promise, and when we shall have sung, we shall recall their promise to +them. We shall say to them: "You owe a reward to us. And the one that +we ask of you is that you love one another." Doubtless, to keep their +word and not injure God's poor jugglers, they will avoid doing ill to +others.'" + +Madame Martin thought St. Francis was the most amiable of the saints. + +"His work," replied Choulette, "was destroyed while he lived. Yet he +died happy, because in him was joy with humility. He was, in fact, God's +sweet singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his +task and teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that +poet, Madame, if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit. For all +moral beauty is achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom +that comes from God and resembles folly." + +"I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about +the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You +will imprison them all in convents." + +"I confess," replied Choulette, "that they embarrass me a great deal in +my project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh +and injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead +to joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable +crimes of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to +supper, Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels." He took his pipe, +his carpet-bag, and his stick: + +"The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do +evil when one loves purely. But sensual love is formed of hatred, +selfishness, and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you +beautiful one night, on this sofa, I was assailed by a cloud of violent +thoughts. I had come from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell's +cook improvise magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was +inundated by a celestial joy which the sight of you made me lose. +It must be that a profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. +For, near you, I felt reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. +They were lies. I felt that I was your adversary and your enemy; I hated +you. When I saw you smile, I felt a desire to kill you." + +"Truly?" + +"Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have inspired +more than once. But common people feel it without being conscious of it, +while my vivid imagination represents me to myself incessantly. +I contemplate my mind, at times splendid, often hideous. If you had been +able to read my mind that night you would have screamed with fright." + +Therese smiled: + +"Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara." + +He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger: + +"You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and +who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame." + +He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form +disappear behind the bushes of the garden. + +In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for +her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an +anguish which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased. She did +not feel the stupor of the first time that she had yielded for love; she +did not feel the brusque vision of the irreparable. She was under +influences slower, more vague, and more powerful. This time a charming +reverie bathed the reminiscence of the caresses which she had received. +She was full of trouble and anxiety, but she felt no regret. She had +acted less through her will than through a force which she divined to be +higher. She absolved herself because of her disinterestedness. She +counted on nothing, having calculated nothing. + +Doubtless, she had been wrong to yield, since she was not free; but she +had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice. +She did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that +surpass immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went +away from her and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; +at least, she thought not. She would keep the reminiscence and the +imprint of the rarest and most precious thing one may find in the world. +Perhaps he was incapable of real attachment. He thought he loved her. +He had loved her for an hour. She dared not wish for more, in the +embarrassment of the false situation which irritated her frankness and +her pride, and which troubled the lucidity of her intelligence. While +the carriage was carrying her to San Marco, she persuaded herself that he +would say nothing to her of the day before, and that the room from which +one could see the pines rise to the sky would leave to them only the +dream of a dream. + +He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look +that he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same +time that she wished him to be thus. + +"You--" he said, "I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing +that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place where +I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you." + +"Then you still love me?" + +"It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a +phantom. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It +is true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the +only, good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered +think they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to +obtain you?" + +"Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly. If we have +reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always +confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I +never will reproach you for anything." + +An agile troupe of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them +with an importunity wherein was mingled the gracefulness which Italians +never lose. Their subtlety made them divine that these were lovers, and +they knew that lovers are prodigal. Dechartre threw coin to them, and +they all returned to their happy laziness. + +A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that +there was no monk. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautiful +under the arcades of the cloister! + +They visited the cells where, on the bare plaster, Fra Angelico, aided by +his brother Benedetto, painted innocent pictures for his companions. + +"Do you recall the winter night when, meeting you before the Guimet +Museum, I accompanied you to the narrow street bordered by small gardens +which leads to the Billy Quay? Before separating we stopped a moment on +the parapet along which runs a thin boxwood hedge. You looked at that +boxwood, dried by winter. And when you went away I looked at it for a +long time." + +They were in the cell wherein Savonarola lived. The guide showed to them +the portrait and the relics of the martyr. + +"What could there have been in me that you liked that day? It was dark." + +"I saw you walk. It is in movements that forms speak. Each one of your +steps told me the secrets of your charming beauty. Oh! my imagination +was never discreet in anything that concerned you. I did not dare to +speak to you. When I saw you, it frightened me. It frightened me +because you could do everything for me. When you were present, I adored +you tremblingly. When you were far from me, I felt all the impieties of +desire." + +"I did not suspect this. But do you recall the first time we saw each +other, when Paul Vence introduced you? You were seated near a screen. +You were looking at the miniatures. You said to me: 'This lady, painted +by Siccardi, resembles Andre Chenier's mother.' I replied to you: 'She +is my husband's great-grandmother. How did Andre Chenier's mother look?' +And you said: 'There is a portrait of her: a faded Levantine.'" + +He excused himself and thought that he had not spoken so impertinently. + +"You did. My memory is better than yours." + +They were walking in the white silence of the convent. They saw the cell +which Angelico had ornamented with the loveliest painting. And there, +before the Virgin who, in the pale sky, receives from God the Father the +immortal crown, he took Therese in his arms and placed a kiss on her +lips, almost in view of two Englishwomen who were walking through the +corridors, consulting their Baedeker. She said to him: + +"We must not forget Saint Anthony's cell." + +"Therese, I am suffering in my happiness from everything that is yours +and that escapes me. I am suffering because you do not live for me +alone. I wish to have you wholly, and to have had you in the past." + +She shrugged her shoulders a little. + +"Oh, the past!" + +"The past is the only human reality. Everything that is, is past." + +She raised toward him her eyes, which resembled bits of blue sky full of +mingled sun and rain. + +"Well, I may say this to you: I never have felt that I lived except with +you." + +When she returned to Fiesole, she found a brief and threatening letter +from Le Menil. He could not understand, her prolonged absence, her +silence. If she did not announce at once her return, he would go to +Florence for her. + +She read without astonishment, but was annoyed to see that everything +disagreeable that could happen was happening, and that nothing would be +spared to her of what she had feared. She could still calm him and +reassure him: she had only to say to him that she loved him; that she +would soon return to Paris; that he should renounce the foolish idea of +rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be +watched at once. But she would have to write: "I love you." She must +quiet him with caressing phrases. + +She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth. +She accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls +carried away by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving +ocean of events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of +her a fond reminiscence in a corner of his soul. + +She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square. +Children were playing in the twilight. She looked from the top of the +hill to the beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel. +And the peace of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the +box. Then only she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what +the result would be. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +WHAT IS FRANKNESS? + +In the square, where the spring sun scattered its yellow roses, the bells +at noon dispersed the rustic crowd of grain-merchants assembled to sell +their wares. At the foot of the Lanzi, before the statues, the venders +of ices had placed, on tables covered with red cotton, small castles +bearing the inscription: 'Bibite ghiacciate'. And joy descended from +heaven to earth. Therese and Jacques, returning from an early promenade +in the Boboli Gardens, were passing before the illustrious loggia. +Therese looked at the Sabine by John of Bologna with that interested +curiosity of a woman examining another woman. But Dechartre looked at +Therese only. He said to her: + +"It is marvellous how the vivid light of day flatters your beauty, loves +you, and caresses the mother-of-pearl on your cheeks." + +"Yes," she said. "Candle-light hardens my features. I have observed +this. I am not an evening woman, unfortunately. It is at night that +women have a chance to show themselves and to please. At night, Princess +Seniavine has a fine blond complexion; in the sun she is as yellow as a +lemon. It must be owned that she does not care. She is not a coquette." + +"And you are?" + +"Oh, yes. Formerly I was a coquette for myself, now I am a coquette for +you." + +She looked at the Sabine woman, who with her waving arms, long and +robust, tried to avoid the Roman's embraces. + +"To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form and that length of +limb? I am not shaped in that way." + +He took pains to reassure her. But she was not disturbed about it. She +was looking now at the little castle of the ice-vender. A sudden desire +had come to her to eat an ice standing there, as the working-girls of the +city stood. + +"Wait a moment," said Dechartre. + +He ran toward the street that follows the left side of the Lanzi, and +disappeared. + +After a moment he came back, and gave her a little gold spoon, the handle +of which was finished in a lily of Florence, with its chalice enamelled +in red. + +"You must eat your ice with this. The man does not give a spoon with his +ices. You would have had to put out your tongue. It would have been +pretty, but you are not accustomed to it." + +She recognized the spoon, a jewel which she had remarked the day before +in the showcase of an antiquarian. + +They were happy; they disseminated their joy, which was full and simple, +in light words which had no sense. And they laughed when the Florentine +repeated to them passages of the old Italian writers. She enjoyed the +play of his face, which was antique in style and jovial in expression. +But she did not always understand what he said. She asked Jacques: + +"What did he say?" + +"Do you really wish to know?" + +Yes, she wished to know. + +"Well, he said he should be happy if the fleas in his bed were shaped +like you!" + +When she had eaten the ice, he asked her to return to San Michele. It +was so near! They would cross the square and at once discover the +masterpiece in stone. They went. They looked at the St. George and at +the bronze St. Mark. Dechartre saw again on the wall the post-box, and +he recalled with painful exactitude the little gloved hand that had +dropped the letter. He thought it hideous, that copper mouth which had +swallowed Therese's secret. He could not turn his eyes away from it. +All his gayety had fled. She admired the rude statue of the Evangelist. + +"It is true that he looks honest and frank, and it seems that, if he +spoke, nothing but words of truth would come out of his mouth." + +He replied bitterly: + +"It is not a woman's mouth." + +She understood his thought, and said, in her soft tone: + +"My friend, why do you say this to me? I am frank." + +"What do you call frank? You know that a woman is obliged to lie." + +She hesitated. Then she said: + +"A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +"I NEVER HAVE LOVED ANY ONE BUT YOU!" + +Therese was dressed in sombre gray. The bushes on the border of the +terrace were covered with silver stars and on the hillsides the laurel- +trees threw their odoriferous flame. The cup of Florence was in bloom. + +Vivian Bell walked, arrayed in white, in the fragrant garden. + +"You see, darling, Florence is truly the city of flowers, and it is not +inappropriate that she should have a red lily for her emblem. It is a +festival to-day, darling." + +"A festival, to-day?" + +"Darling, do you not know this is the first day of May? You did not wake +this morning in a charming fairy spectacle? Do you not celebrate the +Festival of Flowers? Do you not feel joyful, you who love flowers? For +you love them, my love, I know it: you are very good to them. You said +to me that they feel joy and pain; that they suffer as we do." + +"Ah! I said that they suffer as we do?" + +"Yes, you said it. It is their festival to-day. We must celebrate it +with the rites consecrated by old painters." + +Therese heard without understanding. She was crumpling under her glove +a letter which she had just received, bearing the Italian postage-stamp, +and containing only these two lines: + +"I am staying at the Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli. I shall +expect you to-morrow morning. No. 18." + +"Darling, do you not know it is the custom of Florence to celebrate +spring on the first day of May every year? Then you did not understand +the meaning of Botticelli's picture consecrated to the Festival of +Flowers. Formerly, darling, on the first day of May the entire city gave +itself up to joy. Young girls, crowned with sweetbrier and other +flowers, made a long cortege through the Corso, under arches, and sang +choruses on the new grass. We shall do as they did. We shall dance in +the garden." + +"Ah, we shall dance in the garden?" + +"Yes, darling; and I will teach you Tuscan steps of the fifteenth century +which have been found in a manuscript by Mr. Morrison, the oldest +librarian in London. Come back soon, my love; we shall put on flower +hats and dance." + +"Yes, dear, we shall dance," said Therese. + +And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its +stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she +found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of +his whip: + +"Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli." + +She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli. She had gone there at +sunset, and she had seen the rays of the sun on the agitated surface of +the river. Then night had come, the murmur of the waters in the silence, +the words and the looks that had troubled her, the first kiss of her +lover, the beginning of incomparable love. Oh, yes, she recalled +Lungarno Acciaoli and the river-side beyond the old bridge--Great Britain +Hotel--she knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was fortunate, since +he would come, that he had gone there. He might as easily have gone to +the Hotel de la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was fortunate they were +not side by side in the same corridor. Lungarno Acciaoli! The dead body +which they had seen pass was at peace somewhere in the little flowery +cemetery. + +"Number 18." + +It was a bare hotel room, with a stove in the Italian fashion, a set of +brushes displayed on the table, and a time-table. Not a book, not a +journal. He was there; she saw suffering on his bony face, a look of +fever. This produced on her a sad impression. He waited a moment for a +word, a gesture; but she dared do nothing. He offered a chair. She +refused it and remained standing. + +"Therese, something has happened of which I do not know. Speak." + +After a moment of silence, she replied, with painful slowness: + +"My friend, when I was in Paris, why did you go away from me?" + +By the sadness of her accent he believed, he wished to believe, in the +expression of an affectionate reproach. His face colored. He replied, +ardently: + +"Ah, if I could have foreseen! That hunting party--I cared little for +it, as you may think! But you--your letter, that of the twenty-seventh" +--he had a gift for dates--"has thrown me into a horrible anxiety. +Something has happened. Tell me everything." + +"My friend, I believed you had ceased to love me." + +"But now that you know the contrary?" + +"Now--" + +She paused, her arms fell before her and her hands were joined. + +Then, with affected tranquillity, she continued: + +"Well, my friend, we took each other without knowing. One never knows. +You are young; younger than I, since we are of the same age. You have, +doubtless, projects for the future." + +He looked at her proudly. She continued: + +"Your family, your mother, your aunts, your uncle the General, have +projects for you. That is natural. I might have become an obstacle. +It is better that I should disappear from your life. We shall keep a +fond remembrance of each other." + +She extended her gloved hand. He folded his arms: + +"Then, you do not want me? You have made me happy, as no other man ever +was, and you think now to brush me aside? Truly, you seem to think you +have finished with me. What have you come to say to me? That it was a +liaison, which is easily broken? That people take each other, quit each +other--well, no! You are not a person whom one can easily quit." + +"Yes," said Therese, "you had perhaps given me more of your heart than +one does ordinarily in such 180 cases. I was more than an amusement for +you. But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived +you, if I am frivolous--you know people have said so--well, if I have not +been to you what I should have been--" + +She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she +said: + +"If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious; +if I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment--" + +He interrupted her: + +"You are not telling the truth." + +"No, I am not telling the truth. And I do not know how to lie. I wished +to spoil our past. I was wrong. It was--you know what it was. But--" + +"But?" + +"I have always told you I was not sure of myself. There are women, it is +said, who are sure of themselves. I warned you that I was not like +them." + +He shook his head violently, like an irritated animal. + +"What do you mean? I do not understand. I understand nothing. Speak +clearly. There is something between us. I do not know what. I demand +to know what it is. What is it?" + +"There is the fact that I am not a woman sure of herself, and that you +should not rely on me. No, you should not rely on me. I had promised +nothing--and then, if I had promised, what are words?" + +"You do not love me. Oh, you love me no more! I can see it. But it is +so much the worse for you! I love you. You should not have given +yourself to me. Do not think that you can take yourself back. I love +you and I shall keep you. So you thought you could get out of it very +quietly? Listen a moment. You have done everything to make me love you, +to attach me to you, to make it impossible for me to live without you. + +"Six weeks ago you asked for nothing better. You were everything for me, +I was everything for you. And now you desire suddenly that I should know +you no longer; that you should be to me a stranger, a lady whom one meets +in society. Ah, you have a fine audacity! Have I dreamed? All the past +is a dream? I invented it all? Oh, there can be no doubt of it. You +loved me. I feel it still. Well, I have not changed. I am what I was; +you have nothing to complain of. I have not betrayed you for other +women. It isn't credit that I claim. I could not have done it. When +one has known you, one finds the prettiest women insipid. I never have +had the idea of deceiving you. I have always acted well toward you. Why +should you not love me? Answer! Speak! Say you love me still. Say it, +since it is true. Come, Therese, you will feel at once that you love as +you loved me formerly in the little nest where we were so happy. Come!" + +He approached her ardently. She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him +away with a kind of horror. + +He understood, stopped, and said: + +"You have a lover." + +She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb. + +Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in +shame. He lowered his eyes and was silent. His fingers to his lips, +and biting his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on +her waist, and bled. He threw himself in an armchair, drew his +handkerchief to wipe off the blood, and remained indifferent and without +thought. + +She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look vague, +arranged her hat with instinctive care. At the noise, formerly +delicious, that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at her, +and asked furiously: + +"Who is he? I will know." + +She did not move. She replied with soft firmness: + +"I have told you all I can. Do not ask more; it would be useless." + +He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen before. + +"Oh, do not tell me his name. It will not be difficult for me to find +it." + +She said not a word, saddened for him, anxious for another, full of +anguish and fear, and yet without regret, without bitterness, because her +real soul was elsewhere. + +He had a vague sensation of what passed in her mind. In his anger to see +her so sweet and so serene, to find her beautiful, and beautiful for +another, he felt a desire to kill her, and he shouted at her: + +"Go!" + +Then, weakened by this effort of hatred, which was not natural to him, he +buried his head in his hands and sobbed. + +His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him. She thought she +might perhaps console him for her loss. Amicably and comfortably she +seated herself beside him. + +"My friend, blame me. I am to blame, but more to be pitied. Disdain me, +if you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the +plaything of life. In fine, judge me as you wish. But keep for me a +little friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence, +something like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong +wind. That is what I deserve. Do not be harsh to the agreeable but +frivolous visitor who passed through your life. Bid good-by to me as to +a traveller who goes one knows not where, and who is sad. There is so +much sadness in separation! You were irritated against me a moment ago. +Oh, I do not reproach you for it. I only suffer for it. Reserve a +little sympathy for me. Who knows? The future is always unknown. It is +very gray and obscure before me. Let me say to myself that I have been +kind, simple, frank with you, and that you have not forgotten it. In +time you will understand, you will forgive; to-day have a little pity." + +He was not listening to her words. He was appeased simply by the caress +of her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear. He exclaimed: + +"You do not love him. I am the one whom you love. Then--" + +She hesitated: + +"Ah, to say whom one loves or loves not is not an easy thing for a woman, +or at least for me. I do not know how other women do. But life is not +good to me. I am tossed to and fro by force of circumstances." + +He looked at her calmly. An idea came to him. He had taken a +resolution; he forgave, he forgot, provided she returned to him at once. + +"Therese, you do not love him. It was an error, a moment of +forgetfulness, a horrible and stupid thing that you did through weakness, +through surprise, perhaps in spite. Swear to me that you never will see +him again." + +He took her arm: + +"Swear to me!" + +She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He +wrenched her wrist. She exclaimed: + +"You hurt me!" + +However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near +the brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper +ornamented with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the +hotel, with innumerable windows. + +"Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take +the letter." + +And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and +determined, she said: + +"I can not, I will not." + +"Why?" + +"Because--do you wish to know?--because I love him." + +Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps +he would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by +sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die. + +"Is what you say true? Is it possible?" + +"How do I know? Can I say? Do I understand? Have I an idea, +a sentiment, about anything?" + +With an effort she added: + +"Am I at this moment aware of anything except my sadness and your +despair?" + +"You love him, you love him! What is he, who is he, that you should love +him?" + +His surprise made him stupid; he was in an abyss of astonishment. But +what she had said separated them. He dared not complain. He only +repeated: + +"You love him, you love him! But what has he done to you, what has he +said, to make you love him? I know you. I have not told you every time +your ideas shocked me. I would wager he is not even a man in society. +And you believe he loves you? You believe it? Well, you are deceiving +yourself. He does not love you. You flatter him, simply. He will quit +you at the first opportunity. When he shall have compromised you, he +will abandon you. Next year people will say of you: 'She is not at all +exclusive.' I am sorry for your father; he is one of my friends, and +will know of your behavior. You can not expect to deceive him." + +She listened, humiliated but consoled, thinking how she would have +suffered had she found him generous. + +In his simplicity he sincerely disdained her. This disdain relieved him. + +"How did the thing happen? You can tell me." + +She shrugged her shoulders with so much pity that he dared not continue. +He became contemptuous again. + +"Do you imagine that I shall aid you in saving appearances, that I shall +return to your house, that I shall continue to call on your husband?" + +"I think you will continue to do what a gentleman should. I ask nothing +of you. I should have liked to preserve of you the reminiscence of an +excellent friend. I thought you might be indulgent and kind to, me, but +it is not possible. I see that lovers never separate kindly. Later, you +will judge me better. Farewell!" + +He looked at her. Now his face expressed more pain than anger. She +never had seen his eyes so dry and so black. It seemed as if he had +grown old in an hour. + +"I prefer to tell you in advance. It will be impossible for me to see +you again. You are not a woman whom one may meet after one has been +loved by her. You are not like others. You have a poison of your own, +which you have given to me, and which I feel in me, in my veins. Why +have I known you?" + +She looked at him kindly. + +"Farewell! Say to yourself that I am not worthy of being regretted so +much." + +Then, when he saw that she placed her hand on the latch of the door, +when he felt at that gesture that he was to lose her, that he should +never have her again, he shouted. He forgot everything. There remained +in him only the dazed feeling of a great misfortune accomplished, +of an irreparable calamity. And from the depth of his stupor a desire +ascended. He desired to possess again the woman who was leaving him and +who would never return. He drew her to him. He desired her, with all +the strength of his animal nature. She resisted with all the force of +her will, which was free and on the alert. She disengaged herself, +crumpled, torn, without even having been afraid. + +He understood that everything was useless; he realized she was no longer +for him, because she belonged to another. As his suffering returned, he +pushed her out of the door. + +She remained a moment in the corridor, proudly waiting for a word. + +But he shouted again, "Go!" and shut the door violently. + +On the Via Alfieri, she saw again the pavilion in the rear of the +courtyard where pale grasses grew. She found it silent and tranquil, +faithful, with its goats and nymphs, to the lovers of the time of the +Grand Duchess Eliza. She felt at once freed from the painful, brutal +world, and transported to ages wherein she had not known the sadness of +life. At the foot of the stairs, the steps of which were covered with +roses, Dechartre was waiting. She threw herself in his arms. He carried +her inert, like a precious trophy before which he had become pallid and +trembling. She enjoyed, her eyelids half closed, the superb humiliation +of being a beautiful prey. Her fatigue, her sadness, her disgust with +the day, the reminiscence of violence, her regained liberty, the need of +forgetting, remains of fright, everything vivified, awakened her +tenderness. She threw her arms around the neck of her lover. + +They were as gay as children. They laughed, said tender nothings, +played, ate lemons, oranges, and other fruits piled up near-them on +painted plates. Her lips, half-open, showed her brilliant teeth. She +asked, with coquettish anxiety, if he were not disillusioned after the +beautiful dream he had made of her. + +In the caressing light of the day, for the enjoyment of which he had +arranged, he contemplated her with youthful joy. He lavished praise and +kisses upon her. They forgot themselves in caresses, in friendly +quarrels, in happy glances. + +He asked her how a little red mark on her temple had come there. She +replied that she had forgotten; that it was nothing. She hardly lied; +she had really forgotten. + +They recalled to each other their short but beautiful history, all their +life, which began upon the day when they had met. + +"You know, on the terrace, the day after your arrival, you said vague +things to me. I guessed that you loved me." + +"I was afraid to seem stupid to you." + +"You were, a little. It was my triumph. It made me impatient to see you +so little troubled near me. I loved you before you loved me. Oh, I do +not blush for it!" + +He gave her a glass of Asti. But there was a bottle of Trasimene. She +wished to taste it, in memory of the lake which she had seen silent and +beautiful at night in its opal cup. That was when she had first visited +Italy, six years before. + +He chided her for having discovered the beauty of things without his aid. + +She said: + +"Without you, I did not know how to see anything. Why did you not come +to me before?" + +He closed her lips with a kiss. Then she said: + +"Yes, I love you! Yes, I never have loved any one but you!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +A MEETING AT THE STATION + +Le Menil had written: "I leave tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Meet +me at the station." + +She had gone to meet him. She saw him in long coat and cape, precise and +calm, in front of the hotel stages. He said only: + +"Ah, you have come." + +"But, my friend, you called me." + +He did not confess that he had written in the absurd hope that she would +love him again and that the rest would be forgotten, or that she would +say to him: "It was only a trial of your love." + +If she had said so he would have believed her, however. + +Astonished because she did not speak, he said, dryly: + +"What have you to say to me? It is not for me to speak, but for you. +I have no explanations to give you. I have not to justify a betrayal." + +"My friend, do not be cruel, do not be ungrateful. This is what I had to +say to you. And I must repeat that I leave you with the sadness of a +real friend." + +"Is that all? Go and say this to the other man. It will interest him +more than it interests me." + +"You called me, and I came; do not make me regret it." + +"I am sorry to have disturbed you. You could doubtless find a better +employment for your time. I will not detain you. Rejoin him, since you +are longing to do so." + +At the thought that his unhappy words expressed a moment of eternal human +pain, and that tragedy had illustrated many similar griefs, she felt all +the sadness and irony of the situation, which a curl of her lips +betrayed. He thought she was laughing. + +"Do not laugh; listen to me. The other day, at the hotel, I wanted to +kill you. I came so near doing it that now I know what I escaped. +I will not do it. You may rest secure. What would be the use? As I +wish to keep up appearances, I shall call on you in Paris. It will +grieve me to learn that you can not receive me. I shall see your +husband, I shall see your father also. It will be to say good-by to +them, as I intend to go on a long voyage. Farewell, Madame!" + +At the moment when he turned his back to her, Therese saw Miss Bell and +Prince Albertinelli coming out of the freight-station toward her. The +Prince was very handsome. Vivian was walking by his side with the +lightness of chaste joy. + +"Oh, darling, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! The Prince, and +I have seen, at the customhouse, the new bell, which has just come." + +"Ah, the bell has come?" + +"It is here, darling, the Ghiberti bell. I saw it in its wooden cage. +It did not ring, because it was a prisoner. But it will have a campanile +in my Fiesole house. + +"When it feels the air of Florence, it will be happy to let its silvery +voice be heard. Visited by the doves, it will ring for all our joys and +all our sufferings. It will ring for you, for me, for the Prince, for +good Madame Marmet, for Monsieur Choulette, for all our friends." + +"Dear, bells never ring for real joys and for real sufferings. Bells are +honest functionaries, who know only official sentiments." + +"Oh, darling, you are much mistaken. Bells know the secrets of souls; +they know everything. But I am very glad to find you here. I know, my +love, why you came to the station. Your maid betrayed you. She told me +you were waiting for a pink gown which was delayed in coming and that you +were very impatient. But do not let that trouble you. You are always +beautiful, my love." + +She made Madame Martin enter her wagon. + +"Come, quick, darling; Monsieur Jacques Dechartre dines at the house to- +night, and I should not like to make him wait." + +And while they were driving through the silence of the night, through the +pathways full of the fresh perfume of wildflowers, she said: + +"Do you see over there, darling, the black distaffs of the Fates, the +cypresses of the cemetery? It is there I wish to sleep." + +But Therese thought anxiously: "They saw him. Did they recognize him? I +think not. The place was dark, and had only little blinding lights. Did +she know him? I do not recall whether she saw him at my house last +year." + +What made her anxious was a sly smile on the Prince's face. + +"Darling, do you wish a place near me in that rustic cemetery? Shall we +rest side by side under a little earth and a great deal of sky? But I do +wrong to extend to you an invitation which you can not accept. It will +not be permitted to you to sleep your eternal sleep at the foot of the +hill of Fiesole, my love. You must rest in Paris, in a handsome tomb, by +the side of Count Martin-Belleme." + +"Why? Do you think, dear, that the wife must be united to her husband +even after death?" + +"Certainly she must, darling. Marriage is for time and for eternity. +Do you not know the history of a young pair who loved each other in the +province of Auvergne? They died almost at the same time, and were placed +in two tombs separated by a road. But every night a sweetbrier bush +threw from one tomb to the other its flowery branches. The two coffins +had to be buried together." + +When they had passed the Badia, they saw a procession coming up the side +of the hill. The wind blew on the candles borne in gilded wooden +candlesticks. The girls of the societies, dressed in white and blue, +carried painted banners. Then came a little St. John, blond, curly- +haired, nude, under a lamb's fleece which showed his arms and shoulders; +and a St. Mary Magdalene, seven years old, crowned only with her waving +golden hair. The people of Fiesole followed. Countess Martin recognized +Choulette among them. With a candle in one hand, a book in the other, +and blue spectacles on the end of his nose, he was singing. His unkempt +beard moved up and down with the rhythm of the song. In the harshness of +light and shade that worked in his face, he had an air that suggested a +solitary monk capable of accomplishing a century of penance. + +"How amusing he is!" said Therese. "He is making a spectacle of himself +for himself. He is a great artist." + +"Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious man? +Why? There is much joy and much beauty in faith. Poets know this. If +Monsieur Choulette had not faith, he could not write the admirable verses +that he does." + +"And you, dear, have you faith?" + +"Oh, yes; I believe in God and in the word of Christ." + +Now the banners and the white veils had disappeared down the road. But +one could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle +reflected in rays of gold. + +Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden. Therese found him +resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first +sufferings of love. While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix +upon a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under +the trees. + +"You promised me that you would be in the garden when I came. I have +been waiting for you an hour, which seemed eternal. You were not to go +out. Your absence has surprised and grieved me." + +She replied vaguely that she had been compelled to go to the station, and +that Miss Bell had brought her back in the wagon. + +He begged her pardon for his anxiety, but everything alarmed him. His +happiness made him afraid. + +They were already at table when Choulette appeared, with the face of an +antique satyr. A terrible joy shone in his phosphorous eyes. Since his +return from Assisi, he lived only among paupers, drank chianti all day +with girls and artisans to whom he taught the beauty of joy and +innocence, the advent of Jesus Christ, and the imminent abolition of +taxes and military service. At the beginning of the procession he had +gathered vagabonds in the ruins of the Roman theatre, and had delivered +to them in a macaronic language, half French and half Tuscan, a sermon, +which he took pleasure in repeating: + +"Kings, senators, and judges have said: 'The life of nations is in us.' +Well, they lie; and they are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle.' + +"The life of nations is in the crops of the fields yellowing under the +eye of the Lord. It is in the vines, and in the smiles and tears with +which the sky bathes the fruits on the trees. + +"The life of nations is not in the laws, which were made by the rich and +powerful for the preservation of riches and power. + +"The chiefs of kingdoms and of republics have said in their books that +the right of peoples is the right of war, and they have glorified +violence. And they render honors unto conquerors, and they raise in the +public squares statues to the victorious man and horse. But one has not +the right to kill; that is the reason why the just man will not draw from +the urn a number that will send him to the war. The right is not to +pamper the folly and crimes of a prince raised over a kingdom or over a +republic; and that is the reason why the just man will not pay taxes and +will not give money to the publicans. He will enjoy in peace the fruit +of his work, and he will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and +he will eat the fruits of the trees that he has cut." + +"Ah, Monsieur Choulette," said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, "you are +right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which +taxes exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three +per cent. of its net income? The master and the servants are the prey of +the publicans." + +Dechartre and Madame Martin were struck by the unexpected sincerity of +his accent. + +He added: + +"I like the King. I am sure of my loyalty, but the misfortunes of the +peasants move me." + +The truth was, he pursued with obstinacy a single aim: to reestablish the +domain of Casentino that his father, Prince Carlo, an officer of Victor +Emmanuel, had left devoured by usurers. His affected gentleness +concealed his stubbornness. He had only useful vices. It was to become +a great Tuscan landowner that he had dealt in pictures, sold the famous +ceilings of his palace, made love to rich old women, and, finally, sought +the hand of Miss Bell, whom he knew to be skilful at earning money and +practised in the art of housekeeping. He really liked peasants. The +ardent praises of Choulette, which he understood vaguely, awakened this +affection in him. He forgot himself enough to express his mind: + +"In a country where master and servants form one family, the fate of the +one depends on that of the others. Taxes despoil us. How good are our +farmers! They are the best men in the world to till the soil." + +Madame Martin confessed that she should not have believed it. The +country of Lombardy alone seemed to her to be well cultivated. Tuscany +appeared a beautiful, wild orchard. + +The Prince replied, smilingly, that perhaps she would not speak in that +way if she had done him the honor of visiting his farms of Casentino, +although these had suffered from long and ruinous lawsuits. She would +have seen there what an Italian landscape really is. + +"I take a great deal of care of my domain. I was coming from it to-night +when I had the double pleasure of finding at the station Miss Bell, who +had gone there to find her Ghiberti bell, and you, Madame, who were +talking with a friend from Paris." + +He had the idea that it would be disagreeable to her to hear him speak of +that meeting. He looked around the table, and saw the expression of +anxious surprise which Dechartre could not restrain. He insisted: + +"Forgive, Madame, in a rustic, a certain pretension to knowing something +about the world. In the man who was talking to you I recognized a +Parisian, because he had an English air; and while he affected stiffness, +he showed perfect ease and particular vivacity." + +"Oh," said Therese, negligently, "I have not seen him for a long time. +I was much surprised to meet him at Florence at the moment of his +departure." + +She looked at Dechartre, who affected not to listen. + +"I know that gentleman," said Miss Bell. "It is Monsieur Le Menil. I +dined with him twice at Madame Martin's, and he talked to me very well. +He said he liked football; that he introduced the game in France, and +that now football is quite the fashion. He also related to me his +hunting adventures. He likes animals. I have observed that hunters like +animals. I assure you, darling, that Monsieur Le Menil talks admirably +about hares. He knows their habits. He said to me it was a pleasure to +look at them dancing in the moonlight on the plains. He assured me that +they were very intelligent, and that he had seen an old hare, pursued by +dogs, force another hare to get out of the trail so as to deceive the +hunters. Darling, did Monsieur Le Menil ever talk to you about hares?" + +Therese replied she did not know, and that she thought hunters were +tiresome. + +Miss Bell exclaimed. She did not think M. Le Menil was ever tiresome +when talking of the hares that danced in the moonlight on the plains and +among the vines. She would like to raise a hare, like Phanion. + +"Darling, you do not know Phanion. Oh, I am sure that Monsieur Dechartre +knows her. She was beautiful, and dear to poets. She lived in the +Island of Cos, beside a dell which, covered with lemon-trees, descended +to the blue sea. And they say that she looked at the blue waves. +I related Phanion's history to Monsieur Le Menil, and he was very glad to +hear it. She had received from some hunter a little hare with long ears. +She held it on her knees and fed it on spring flowers. It loved Phanion +and forgot its mother. It died before having eaten too many flowers. +Phanion lamented over its loss. She buried it in the lemon-grove, in a +grave which she could see from her bed. And the shade of the little hare +was consoled by the songs of the poets." + +The good Madame Marmet said that M. Le Menil pleased by his elegant and +discreet manners, which young men no longer practise. She would have +liked to see him. She wanted him to do something for her. + +"Or, rather, for my nephew," she said. "He is a captain in the +artillery, and his chiefs like him. His colonel was for a long time +under orders of Monsieur Le Menil's uncle, General La Briche. +If Monsieur Le Menil would ask his uncle to write to Colonel Faure in +favor of my nephew I should be grateful to him. My nephew is not a +stranger to Monsieur Le Menil. They met last year at the masked ball +which Captain de Lassay gave at the hotel at Caen." + +Madame Marmet cast down her eyes and added: + +"The invited guests, naturally, were not society women. But it is said +some of them were very pretty. They came from Paris. My nephew, who +gave these details to me, was dressed as a coachman. Monsieur Le Menil +was dressed as a Hussar of Death, and he had much success." + +Miss Bell said that she was sorry not to have known that M. Le Menil was +in Florence. Certainly, she should have invited him to come to Fiesole. + +Dechartre remained sombre and distant during the rest of the dinner: and +when, at the moment of leaving, Therese extended her hand to him, she +felt that he avoided pressing it in his. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly +Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared +Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality +He knew now the divine malady of love +I do not desire your friendship +I have known things which I know no more +I wished to spoil our past +Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself +Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object +Jealous without having the right to be jealous +Lovers never separate kindly +Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud +Nobody troubled himself about that originality +One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel +Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others +Superior men sometimes lack cleverness +The door of one's room opens on the infinite +The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you +The past is the only human reality--Everything that is, is past +There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel +They are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle' +To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form +Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know +Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life +What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world +Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault +You must take me with my own soul! + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Red Lily, v2 +by Anatole France + + + + + + +THE RED LILY + +By ANATOLE FRANCE + + + +BOOK 3. + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +"ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS IN LOVE" + +The next day, in the hidden pavilion of the Via Alfieri, she found him +preoccupied. She tried to distract him with ardent gayety, with the +sweetness of pressing intimacy, with superb humility. But he remained +sombre. 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 + + + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE RED LILY, ENTIRE: + +A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly +A hero must be human. Napoleon was human +Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere +Brilliancy of a fortune too new +Curious to know her face of that day +Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared +Do you think that people have not talked about us? +Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality +Does one ever possess what one loves? +Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone +Each was moved with self-pity +Everybody knows about that +Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city +Gave value to her affability by not squandering it +He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions +He studied until the last moment +He is not intelligent enough to doubt +He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes +He knew now the divine malady of love +Her husband had become quite bearable +His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth +(Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder +I love myself because you love me +I can forget you only when I am with you +I wished to spoil our past +I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness +I have to pay for the happiness you give me +I gave myself to him because he loved me +I haven't a taste, I have tastes +I have known things which I know no more +I do not desire your friendship +Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests +Immobility of time +Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself +Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object +It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him +It is an error to be in the right too soon +It was too late: she did not wish to win +Jealous without having the right to be jealous +Kissses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair +Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope +Laughing in every wrinkle of his face +Learn to live without desire +Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges +Life as a whole is too vast and too remote +Life is made up of just such trifles +Life is not a great thing +Little that we can do when we are powerful +Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty +Love was only a brief intoxication +Lovers never separate kindly +Made life give all it could yield +Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud +Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past +Nobody troubled himself about that originality +None but fools resisted the current +Not everything is known, but everything is said +Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain +One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars +One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel +One is never kind when one is in love +One should never leave the one whom one loves +Picturesquely ugly +Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open +Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her +Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill +She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it +She is happy, since she likes to remember +Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one +Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others +Since she was in love, she had lost prudence +So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice +Superior men sometimes lack cleverness +That sort of cold charity which is called altruism +That if we live the reason is that we hope +That absurd and generous fury for ownership +The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne +The door of one's room opens on the infinite +The past is the only human reality -- Everything that is, is past +The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you +The violent pleasure of losing +The discouragement which the irreparable gives +The real support of a government is the Opposition +The politician never should be in advance of circumstances +There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget +There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel +They are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle' +To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form +Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know +Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies +Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life +Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? +We are too happy; we are robbing life +What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world +Whether they know or do not know, they talk +Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault +You must take me with my own soul! + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Red Lily, entire +by Anatole France + diff --git a/old/im09b10.zip b/old/im09b10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e426736 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/im09b10.zip |