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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..88710f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65887 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65887) diff --git a/old/65887-0.txt b/old/65887-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d6a34cd..0000000 --- a/old/65887-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10406 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Living Lie, by Paul Bourget - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Living Lie - -Author: Paul Bourget - -Translator: John De Villiers - -Release Date: July 21, 2021 [eBook #65887] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images - generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIVING LIE *** - -A LIVING LIE - - -(MENSONGES) - - - - -BY - -PAUL BOURGET - - - - -TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH - -BY - -JOHN DE VILLIERS - - - - -NEW YORK - -R. F. FENNO & COMPANY - -112 FIFTH AVENUE - -LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS - - - - -CONTENTS -I. A Provincial Corner of Paris -II. Simple Souls -III. A Lover and a Snob -IV. The 'Sigisbée' -V. The Dawn of Love -VI. An Observer's Logic -VII. The Face of a Madonna -VIII. The Other Side of the Picture -IX. An Actress in Real Life -X. In the Toils -XI. Declarations -XII. Cruel to be Kind -XIII. At Home -XIV. Happy Days -XV. Colette's Spite -XVI. The Story of a Suspicion -XVII. Proofs -XVIII. The Happiest of the Four -XIX. All or Nothing -XX. The Abbé Taconet - - - - -MY DEAR DE VILLIERS, - - -In the first place, you must let me thank you for having undertaken the -task of introducing 'Mensonges' to the English-reading public; and also -express the hope that this novel, which is no longer new, may not cause -a recurrence of that misconception which too often arises when a work -written in and for a Latin country is suddenly transplanted to -Anglo-Saxon soil. - -One of the most grievous results of such misconception, and one which -French writers--I speak from experience--feel most keenly, is the -reproach of immorality. Balzac spent a lifetime in defending himself -against that charge; so it was with Flaubert; so it is with Emile Zola. -I well remember how hurt I felt myself when, in the course of an action -brought some ten years since against a publishing firm in London--who -had, by the way, issued a translation of the work without my -permission--'Un Crime d'Amour' was harshly spoken of by one of your -judges. Not only then, but on many occasions, have I had an opportunity -of remarking that the English regard the novelist's art from a -standpoint differing entirely from that taken up by French writers. That -difference is well worth dwelling upon here, for the problem it raises -is neither more nor less than the problem of the whole art of -novel-writing. - -To French writers--and I refer more particularly to the great school -which follows Balzac and Stendhal--the first quality of that art is -analytical precision. Balzac called himself 'a doctor of social -sciences.' Stendhal-Beyle, when asked his profession, used to reply, -'Observer of the human heart'; and upon the title-page of 'Rouge et -Noir' he wrote as a motto the significant words, 'The truth, the ugly -truth.' Every word of Flaubert's correspondence breathes forth the -conviction that the novelist must always and before all else paint life -as it is. These writers and their disciples do but follow, consciously -or unconsciously, the scientific movement of the age. They are -sociologists and psychologists who write in an imaginative form. The -attitude they usually take up towards the object they are studying is -explained by the fact that, as analysts, they are obliged to assume that -absolute indifference to morality or immorality which should animate -every _savant_ whilst pursuing his investigations. - -For them the whole question resolves itself into this: they must look -the bare realities of life full in the face, reproduce them with -absolute fidelity, and reject nothing they find; it should be their aim -to produce a work of truth rather than a work of beauty. That is why -Balzac, for example, did not hesitate, in 'Splendeurs et Misères des -Courtisanes,' and in 'La Cousine Bette,' to lay bare with the brutal -bluntness of a police report the lowest depths of Parisian vice. That, -too, is why Flaubert had no compunction in placing before the readers of -his 'Madame Bovary' the repulsive picture of Emma and Léon meeting in a -house of ill-fame in Rouen. In his conception of imaginative literature -the writer takes no heed of what will please or displease, what will -comfort or afflict, what will affect or disgust. His aim is to add one -document more to the mass of information concerning mankind and society -collected by physiology, psychology, and the history of languages, -creeds, and institutions. The novelist is merely a chronicler of actual -life, and the value of his testimony lies in its truth. - -It is easy to see, as I shall presently prove, that these æsthetics are -intimately related to that great principle of intellectual -conscientiousness which, under the name of science, animates the present -age; and this relationship would in itself endow with idealism an art -which has apparently no ideal. But a big objection to these theories has -long been formulated--an objection that seems to spring up most readily -in English minds when confronted with the bold utterances such theories -authorise. The novel, it is said, necessarily appeals to the popular -taste and places its impress upon the imagination of readers who are -totally devoid of the ideal impartiality of those who take up a -scientific standpoint. When such readers dip into a work like -'Splendeurs et Misères' or 'Madame Bovary,' they at once enter into the -very life and spirit with which these books are permeated. The author's -genius, reproducing in vivid colours scenes of questionable morality, -makes them almost real, and to man, naturally imitative, such studies -form a standing danger. If a bad example is contagious in real life, -surely, it is urged, it is none the less so when enhanced by the magic -of a master's style. - -I do not think that, in stating the case for the other side I have -weakened their argument. At the first glance, it seems irrefutable. I -think, however, that novelists of the school of Balzac and Flaubert may -justly reply that the morality of a book is something totally distinct -from the danger that its perusal presents. Before deciding whether the -total effect of a certain class of literature is worth the danger it -incurs, it would be necessary to ascertain how far a work has been -properly or improperly understood by all its readers. I, for my part, am -fully convinced that the safety of society is absolutely dependent upon -a true knowledge of human life, and that every work composed in a spirit -of truth is on that account alone conducive of good. If the work -occasionally shocks or offends a reader, it is none the less certain -that it adds to the knowledge of the laws governing the minds and -passions of men. Now, it is impossible to cite an example where the -general conclusions drawn by a novelist of the analytical school have -ever been contrary to the eternal laws set forth in the Decalogue. - -Balzac might well have headed the last part of his 'Splendeurs et -Misères' with this prophetic admonition from the Scriptures, _The way -of the ungodly shall perish._ Flaubert could have chosen no better -epigraph for the title-page of 'Madame Bovary' than the Seventh -Commandment; and, if a modest disciple may be permitted to compare -himself with these great masters, and his humble productions with their -superior works, the novel now presented to the English public has its -moral in the words addressed by the Abbé Taconet to Claude Larcher and -in the lesson of social Christianity they teach. - -These few remarks are necessary for the comprehension of passages in the -following pages that might be considered crude outside the Parisian -circle in which they were written. When 'Mensonges' was first published, -nearly ten years ago, it was generally admitted that the picture was -very faithfully drawn. On the other hand, it evoked a lively discussion -in the Press concerning the value of the process by which this study had -been produced--in other words, the value of psychological analysis. - -Eminent critics reproached me with carrying the dissection of motives -too far, and with too frequently laying bare the exquisitely delicate -fibres of the heart. I well remember that amongst my masters Alexandre -Dumas was most assiduous in warning me of the dangers of my method. 'It -is a very fine thing to show how a watch works,' he would say to me, -'but not if by doing so you prevent it from telling the time.' - -That all life is, to a great extent, unconscious is perfectly true, and -a psychological analyst may therefore imperil the beauty of the -particular life he proposes to describe by bringing into undue -prominence and bestowing too much care upon its hidden workings. So far -as I am concerned, I am quite willing to own that in so doing I may have -deserved reproach; but I am persuaded that, if such be the case, the -fault is mine and not that of the method employed. Every work of art, if -critically considered, will be found to contain incongruities which the -genius of the artist must conceal. The drama, for instance, in its use -of dialogue, must compress into a few minutes conversations that would, -in reality, occupy whole hours. It would therefore seem _a priori_ as if -all semblance of truth were in that case impossible. In the same way a -lyric poet, by attempting to express in scholarly rhyme and in verse of -complicated structure the most simple and spontaneous feelings of the -heart, would seem to undertake a most paradoxical, I had almost said an -absurd, task. And yet the dialogue of a Shakespeare or of a Molière has -all the movement and colour of life itself. Heine's _Lieder_ and -Shelley's lyrics are real vibrations of the heart; and, to come back to -the psychological novel, I may surely hold up the works of George Eliot, -Tourguenieff, and Tolstoi in reply to the objection that a too minute -analysis of character and feeling substitutes a dry anatomical study for -the glow and ardour of passion. If 'Mensonges' may not be added to the -list, it can only be because its author has not the necessary skill to -wield what is, after all, a most excellent instrument. - -These are a few of the ideas which I beg you to lay before the readers -of the English version of my story in order that their hearts may be -inclined to indulgence before they turn to the work itself. Allow me to -thank you, as well as MM. Chatto and Windus, once more for having -thought this study of Parisian life worthy the distinction of such a -careful and masterly translation as yours. - -Believe me, - -Yours very faithfully, - -PAUL BOURGET. - -HYÈRES, _January_ 30, 1896. - - - - -A LIVING LIE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS - - -'The gates are closed, sir,' said the driver, bending down from his box. - -'Closed at half-past nine!' exclaimed a voice from the interior of the -cab. 'What a place to live in! You needn't trouble to get down. The -pavement's dry--I'll walk.' - -The door of the vehicle swung open, and a young man stepped gingerly -out, pulling the collar of his fur-lined coat a little more closely -about his throat. The dainty patent-leather shoes that left just an inch -of the embroidered silk socks visible, the plain black trousers and -opera hat, showed that the wearer was in evening dress. The cab was one -of those superior conveyances that ply for hire outside the Paris clubs, -and the driver, little accustomed to this provincial corner of the city, -began to peer, with almost as much interest as his fare, into the -strange street that, although situated on the borders of the Faubourg -Saint-Germain, had such an old-world look about it. At the time we write -of--the beginning of February, 1879--the Rue Coëtlogon, running from -the Rue d'Assas to the Rue de Rennes, still possessed the peculiarity of -being shut off from the rest of the world by gates, while at night it -was lit up by an oil lamp, hanging, in the old-fashioned way, from a -rope swung right across the roadway. Since then the appearance of the -place has changed a good deal. The mysterious-looking house on the -right, standing in its own bit of garden, and affording no doubt a quiet -retreat to some retiring old dame, has disappeared. The vacant land, -that rendered the Rue Coëtlogon as inaccessible to vehicles on the one -side as did the iron gates on the other, has been cleared of its heaps -of stones. Gas jets have taken the place of the oil lamp, and only a -slight unevenness in the pavement now marks the position of the posts -upon which the gates hung. These were never locked, but only swung to at -night; there was therefore no necessity for the young man to pull the -bell, but before entering the narrow lane he stopped for a few moments -to take in the strange scene presented by the dark outline of the houses -on the left, the garden on the right, a confused mass of unfinished -buildings at the bottom, and the old oil lamp in the middle. Overhead a -bright wintry moon hung in the vast expanse of the heavens, through -which sped a few swift-sailing clouds. As they scudded across the face -of the moon, and flew off into the dark immensity beyond, they seemed -only to enhance the metallic brilliancy of the luminary by the momentary -shadow they cast in sweeping by. - -'What a scene it would make for a parting!' murmured the young man, -adding, in a somewhat louder tone: - - -Until the hour when from the vault above us -Glares down the frowning visage of the moon . . . - - -Had any observant passer-by happened to hear these two lines from Victor -Hugo he would have recognised a man of letters by the way in which they -were delivered. The solitary speaker bore indeed a name well to the fore -in the literature of the day. But names so quickly disappear and get -forgotten in the incessant onward rush of new works, self-assertive -claims, and fleeting reputations that the successes of ten years ago -seem as distant and as vague as those of another age. Two dramas of -modern life, a little too directly inspired by the younger Dumas, had -brought this young man--he was thirty-five or more, but he looked barely -thirty--momentary renown, and he had not yet spoilt his name by putting -it at the bottom of hastily written articles or upon the covers of -indifferent novels. He was known only as the author of 'La Goule' and -'Entre Adultères,' two plays of unequal merit, full of a pessimism -frequently conventional, but powerful in their trenchant analysis, their -smart dialogue, and their painful striving after the Ideal. In 1879 -these plays were already three years old, and Claude Larcher, who had -allowed himself to drift into a life of idle pleasure, was beginning to -accept lucrative and easy work, being no longer fit to make any fresh -and long-sustained effort. - -Like many analytical writers, he was accustomed to study and probe -himself incessantly, though all his introspection had not the least -influence upon his actions. The most trifling occurrences served as a -pretext for indulging in examination of himself and his destiny, but -long-continued dualism of this kind only resulted in keeping his -perceptive faculties uselessly and painfully alert. The sight of this -peaceful street and the thought of Victor Hugo immediately reminded him -of the resolutions he had been vainly formulating for some months past -to lead a retired life of regular work. He reflected that he had a novel -on order for a magazine, a play to write that had already been accepted, -and reviews to send to a 'daily,' whilst, instead of being seated at his -table in the Rue de Varenne, here he was gadding about at ten o'clock at -night dressed like an idler and a snob. He would pass the remainder of -the evening and a part of the night at a _soirée_ given by the Comtesse -Komof, a Russian lady of fashion living in Paris, whose receptions at -the grand mansion in the Rue de Bel-Respiro were as magnificent as they -were mixed. He was about to do even worse. He had come to fetch another -writer, ten years younger than himself, who had till that moment led -precisely the noble life of hard work for which he himself so longed, in -one of the houses in this modest and quiet Rue Coëtlogon. - -René Vincy--that was the name of his young colleague--had just leapt -with one bound into the full glare of publicity, thanks to one of those -strokes of literary luck which do not occur twice in a generation. The -'Sigisbée,' a comedy in one act and in verse, a fanciful, dreamy work, -written without any hopes of practical success, had brought him sudden -fame. Like our dear François Coppée's 'Le Passant,' it had taken the -_blasé_ capital by storm, and had called forth not only unanimous -applause in the Théâtre Français, but a chorus of praise in the -newspapers next day. Of this astonishing success Claude could claim a -share. Was he not the first in whose hands the manuscript of the -'Sigisbée' had been placed? Had he not taken it to Colette Rigaud, the -famous actress of the House of Molière? And Colette, having fallen in -love with the principal part, had smoothed away all obstacles. It was -he, Claude Larcher, who, consulted by Madame Komof upon the choice of a -play to be performed in her _salon_, had suggested the 'Sigisbée;' the -Comtesse had acted upon his suggestion, and the performance was to take -place that evening. Claude, who had undertaken to chaperon the young -poet, had come at the appointed hour to the Rue Coëtlogon, where René -Vincy lived with his married sister. - -This extreme kindness of an already successful author towards a mere -novice was not entirely devoid of a tinge of irony and pride. Claude -Larcher, who spent his time in slandering the wealthy and cosmopolitan -world in which the Comtesse Komof moved, and in which he himself was -always mixing, felt his vanity slightly tickled by being able to dazzle -his friend with the glamour of his fashionable connections. At the same -time the malicious cynic was amused by the simplicity of the poet and by -his childish awe of that magic and meaningless word--Society. He had -already enjoyed, as much as a play, Vincy's shyness during their first -visit to the Comtesse a few days before, and thoughts of the fever of -expectancy in which René must now be made him smile as he approached -the house in which his young friend lived. - -'And to think that I was just as foolish as that once!' he murmured, -remembering that he, too, as well as René, had had his _début_; then -he thought, 'That is a feeling of which those who have always lived in -that kind of world have no idea; and how absurd it is for us to go and -visit these people!' - -Whilst philosophising in this manner Claude had stopped before another -gate on the left, and, finding it locked, had rung the bell. The passage -to which this gate gave access belonged to a three-storeyed house -separated from the street by a narrow strip of garden. The porter's -lodge was under the arch at the end of the passage, but either the -_concierge_ was absent or the pull at the bell had not been sufficiently -vigorous, for Claude was obliged to tug a second time at the rusty ring -that hung at the end of a long chain. He had time, therefore, to examine -this dull, dismal-looking house, in which there was only one window lit -up. This was on the ground floor, and belonged to the suite of rooms -occupied by the Fresneaus, four windows of which looked out upon the -little garden. - -Mademoiselle Emilie Vincy, the poet's sister, had married one Maurice -Fresneau, a teacher, whose colleague Claude had been upon first coming -to Paris--a _début_ of which the pampered author of 'La Goule' was weak -enough to be ashamed. How happy he would have been had he been able to -say that he had frittered away his patrimony at cards or upon women! He, -however, kept up a close acquaintance with his former colleague, out of -gratitude for pecuniary services rendered long ago. He had at first -interested himself in René chiefly for the sake of this old comrade of -less happy days, but had afterwards yielded to the charm of the young -man's nature. How often, when tired of his artificial life and tortured -by painful indolence and bitter passions, had he not come to obtain an -hour's rest in René's modest room, next to that in which the light was -now burning, and which was the dining-room. In the short interval that -elapsed between his two rings, and thanks to the swift imagination of -his artistic mind, this room suddenly rose up before him--symbolical of -the purity of soul hitherto preserved by his friend. The poet and his -sister had with their own hands nailed to the wall some thin red cloth -adorned here and there with a few engravings, chosen with the consummate -taste of a lonely thinker--some studies by Albert Dürer, Gustave -Moreau's 'Hélène' and 'Orphée,' and one or two etchings by Goya. The -iron bedstead, the neatly kept table, the bookcase filled with -well-bound books, the red parquetting of the floor forming a frame to -the carpet in the centre--how Claude had loved this familiar scene, with -these words from the 'Imitatio' written over the door by René in his -boyish days: _Cella continuata dulcescit!_ Larcher's thoughts, at first -ironical, had become suddenly modified by the images his brain had -conjured up, and he felt moved by the idea that this entry into society -through the portals of the Komof mansion was after all a great event for -a child of twenty-five who had always lived in this house. What a heart -full of ideals he was about to carry into that pleasure-loving and -artificial Society that crowded the Comtesse's _salons!_ - -'What a pity he should have to go!' he exclaimed, his reverie broken by -the click of the lock, adding, as he pushed the gate open, 'But it was I -who advised him to accept the invitation, and who got him dressed for -to-night.' He had, indeed, taken René to his tailor, his hosier, his -bootmaker, and even his hatter, in order to proceed to what he jestingly -called his investiture. 'The dangers of contact with the world ought to -have been thought of before. . . . But how foolish of me to meet -troubles half way! He will be presented to four or five women, he will -be invited to dinner two or three times, he will forget to call again, -he will forget--and he will be forgotten.' - -By this time he was half way down the passage, and had knocked at the -first door on the right before coming to the porter's lodge, which it -was not necessary to pass. His knock was answered by a big fat maid of -about thirty, with a short waist, square shoulders, and a great round -face surmounted by a huge Auvergne cap and lit up by two brown eyes -betraying animal simplicity. Instinctive distrust was expressed not only -in the woman's physiognomy, but also by the manner in which she held the -door instead of opening it wide, and by the way she blinked her eyes as -she raised the lamp to throw the light upon the visitor's features. On -recognising Claude her big face expressed a degree of satisfaction that -told plainly how welcome the writer was in the Fresneau household. - -'Good evening, Françoise,' said the young man; 'is your master ready?' - -'Oh!--it's Monsieur Larcher,' exclaimed the maid, with a joyful smile, -showing all her sharp little white teeth, of which she had lost one on -each side of the top row. 'He is quite ready,' she added, 'and looks -like an angel. You will find _la compagnie_ in the dining-room. Let me -take your coat for you . . . Saints preserve us! My dear gentleman, what -a weight this must be on your back!' - -The familiarity of this maid-of-all-work, who had come straight to the -Fresneaus from the professor's native village in Auvergne, and who had -made herself thoroughly at home with them for the past fifteen years, -was a constant source of amusement to Claude Larcher. He was one of -those deep thinkers who worship utter simplicity, no doubt because they -find in it a relief from the incessant and exhaustive labour of their -own brain. Françoise would sometimes speak to him of his works in most -droll and grotesque terms, or with great ingenuousness express the fear -with which she was always haunted--that the author was going to put her -into one of his plays; or, again, she would, after the manner of her -kind, give a most ludicrous turn to some literary phrase she had picked -up in waiting at table. Claude remembered how he had once heard her say, -in praising René's ardour for work: 'He dentifries himself with his -heroes.' He could not help laughing at it even now. She would say -_ceuiller_ for _cuiller_, _engratigner_ for _égratigner_, _archeduc_ -for _aqueduc_, to travel in _coquelicot_ for _incognito_, and a heap of -other similar slips which the writer would amuse himself by jotting down -in one of his innumerable notebooks for a novel that he would never -finish. He was therefore as a rule glad to provoke the woman's gossip; -but that evening he was not in a mood for it, being suddenly filled with -melancholy at the idea that he was playing the part of a vulgar worldly -tempter. Whilst Françoise was hanging up his coat for him he looked -down the corridor that he knew so well, with its doors on each side. -René's bedroom was on the right at the end of the passage, facing the -south; the Fresneaus were satisfied with a smaller apartment looking -north, the room next to this being occupied by their son Constant, a boy -six years old, of whom Emilie thought a good deal less than of René. -Claude was fully acquainted with all the reasons for this tender -sisterly love, as he was indeed with the whole history of this family. -It was that history, so touching in its modest simplicity, which amply -justified his remorse in dragging from this peaceful retreat the one in -whom all was centred. - -The father of Emilie and René, an attorney of Vouziers, had died a -wretched death from the effects of intemperate habits. The practice -having been sold and what little property there was realised, the widow, -after paying all debts, found herself in possession of about fifty -thousand francs. Feeling that life in Vouziers would recall too many -bitter memories, Madame Vincy went to live in Paris with her two young -children. She had a brother there, the Abbé Taconet, a priest of some -eminence, who, though educated in the Ecole Normale, had suddenly, and -without giving any reasons, entered into holy orders; the astonishment -of his former comrades was, if possible, increased when they saw him, -soon after leaving Saint-Sulpice, set up a school in the Rue Casette. A -conscientious but very liberal Catholic, with strong leanings to -Gallicanism, the Abbé Taconet had seen many families of the upper -middle class hesitate between purely secular and purely religious -colleges, not finding in either that combination of traditional -Christianity and modern development they sought, and he had taken orders -for the express purpose of carrying into effect a plan he had formed for -realising that combination. The height of his ambition was reached on -the day that he and two younger priests opened an ecclesiastical day -school, which he christened the Ecole Saint-André, after his patron -saint. The success that attended the Abbé's enterprise was so rapid -that already, in the third year, two small one-horse omnibuses were -required to fetch the pupils and take them back to their homes. - -This opportunity of giving her son, then ten years old, an exceptional -education, was one of the reasons that led Madame Vincy to choose Paris -for her residence, especially since Emilie's sixteen years promised the -mother valuable aid in the discharge of her household duties. By the -advice of the Abbé Taconet, whom the management of the school funds had -made quite a business man, she invested her fifty thousand francs in -Italian stocks, which at that time could be bought at sixty-five francs, -thus securing her an income of two thousand eight hundred francs per -year. The secret of the idolatrous affection which Emilie lavished upon -her young brother lay almost entirely in the innumerable daily -sacrifices entailed by the inadequacy of this amount, for in matters of -love we pursue our sufferings as at cards we pursue our losses. - -Almost immediately after her arrival in Paris--she had taken rooms in -this very house in the Rue Coëtlogon, but on the third floor--Madame -Vincy had become an invalid, so that from 1863 to 1871, when the poor -woman died, Emilie had discharged the triple duty of nursing her mother, -of carefully tending a household where fifty centimes meant much, and of -superintending step by step her brother's education. All this, too, she -had done without allowing the fatigue that stole the colour from her -cheeks to wring from her lips a single complaint. She resembled those -sempstresses in the old songs of Paris who consoled themselves in their -rude, incessant toil by cultivating some tender flower upon their window -sill. Her flower was her brother, a timid, loving child with wistful -eyes, and he had well repaid Emilie's devotion by his successes at -college--a source of great joy to women whose lives were so entirely -devoid of all pleasure. It was not long before René began to write -poems, and Emilie had been the happy confidante of the young man's first -attempts. Then, when Fresneau asked her to be his wife, not six months -after the death of her mother, she consented only on condition that the -professor, who had just passed his examinations, would not leave Paris, -and that René was to live with them, and devote himself to writing. -Fresneau joyfully acceded to these demands. He was one of those very -good and very simple men who are peculiarly fitted to be lovers, -granting blindly all that the object of their love desires. He had been -enamoured of Emilie, without daring to declare his passion, since first -making the acquaintance of the Vincys as René's master at the Ecole -Saint-André in 1865. This man, who was not far from forty, felt drawn -towards the girl by the strange similarity of their destinies. Had he -not also renounced all selfish ambition and all personal aspirations in -order to liquidate the debts which his father--a ruined -schoolmaster--had left behind? From 1851 to 1872, when he married, the -professor had paid twenty thousand francs to his father's creditors, and -that by giving lessons at five francs each, taking one with the other! -If we add to the number of working hours that produced this result the -time required for preparing the lessons, correcting exercises, and going -about from one place to another--Fresneau would sometimes have lessons -at all points of the Parisian compass on the same day--we shall have the -sketch of an existence, not uncommon in the profession of teaching, that -is capable of wearing out the strongest constitutions. His love for -Emilie had formed the one romance of Fresneau's life, too occupied as he -had been during his youth to find time for such sentiments. The Abbé -Taconet had given his blessing to their union, and an addition had been -made to the slaves of René's genius. - -Claude Larcher was not ignorant of any of these facts, which had all -been of importance in developing the character and talent of the young -poet. Whilst Françoise was hanging up his overcoat his rapid glance -travelled round the dimly-lighted passage and took in all those material -details which for him had a deeper and a moral signification. He knew -why, in the corner near the door, side by side with the professor's -stout alpaca umbrella with its clumsy handle, there stood a neat English -frame with an elegant stick, chosen by Madame Fresneau for her brother. -He knew, too, that it was the sister's love that had provided the dainty -Malacca that adorned the hall-stand, and which had probably cost thirty -times as much as the plain heavy stick carried by Fresneau when it was -fine. He knew that the professor's books, after having for a long time -been exposed to the dirt and dust on the blackened shelves of a bookcase -in this passage, had at length been banished even from that place to a -dark cupboard, and that the passage had then been given up to René's -decorative fancies. The walls were adorned with engravings of his -choosing--a whole row of Raffet's splendid studies of the great -Napoleon, which must have been very obnoxious to the Republican tastes -of the professor. But Claude knew well enough that Fresneau would be the -very last to notice the constant sacrifice of the whole household to -this brother, whom he, too, worshipped, out of love for Emilie, as -blindly as did the servant and even the uncle--the uncle, for the Abbé -Taconet had not been able to resist the influence of the young man's -disposition and talent. The Abbé did not forget that his nephew -possessed a modest income--the amount invested, by his advice, in -Italians, and afterwards transferred to safe French stocks, now bringing -in three thousand francs--and that he himself would double it at his -death. Was not René's Christian education a guarantee that his literary -talents would help to propagate the views of the Church? The priest had -therefore done what he could to start the poet on that difficult path of -letters where the fortunate youth had so far only met with happiness. - -Of this happiness, consisting of pure devotion, silent affection, loving -indulgence, and hearty, comforting confidence, Claude Larcher knew the -value better than anyone--he who, bereft of both his parents, had, from -his twentieth year, been compelled to battle alone against the -hardships, the disenchantments, and the contamination of a struggling -author's life in Paris. He never visited the Fresneaus without -experiencing a feeling of sadness, and to-night was no exception to the -rule. It was a feeling which generally made him laugh the louder and -exercise his most withering sarcasm. Too enervated to bear the slightest -emotion without feeling pain, he was, on such occasions, within an ace -of proclaiming his agony, and in view of the hopelessness of ever -conquering this excessive sensibility, ready, like a child, to be judged -by his words whilst uttering the most atrocious libels on his own heart. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -SIMPLE SOULS - - -When, with his usual bantering smile, Claude entered the small -dining-room he found that _la compagnie_, as Françoise called it, -comprised René--the hero of what seemed to his friends a most -remarkable adventure--Madame Fresneau and her husband, Madame Offarel, -the wife of a _sous-chef de bureau_ in the Ministère de la Guerre, and -her two daughters, Angélique and Rosalie. All these good people were -seated around the mahogany table on mahogany chairs, the horsehair seats -of which were glossy with the wear of years. This suite formed part of -the original household effects of the _avoué_ of Vouziers, and owed its -marvellous state of preservation to the care bestowed upon it by its -present owners. A portable stove, fixed upon the hearth, did not tend to -improve the air in the somewhat small apartment, though it testified to -the housewife's habits of thrift. Emilie would have no wood fires except -in René's room. A lamp suspended by a brass chain illumined the circle -of heads that was turned towards the visitor as he entered and cast a -feeble light upon the yellow flowers of the wall-paper, relieved here -and there by a piece of old china. The lamp-light revealed more clearly -to the new arrival the feelings expressed in the faces of the different -occupants of the room. Likes and dislikes are not so easily concealed by -those who move in humble circles--there the human animal is less tamed, -less accustomed to the mask continually worn in more polite society. -Emilie held out her hand to Claude--an unusual thing for her to do--with -a happy smile upon her lips, and a look of joy in her brown eyes, her -whole being expressing the sincere pleasure she felt at seeing someone -whom she knew to be interested in her brother. - -'Doesn't his coat fit him beautifully?' she asked impetuously, before -Larcher had taken a chair or even exchanged a word of greeting with the -other visitors. - -René, it was true, was a perfect specimen of the creature so seldom -seen in Paris--a handsome young man. At twenty-five the author of the -'Sigisbée' was still without a wrinkle on his brow, while the freshness -of his complexion and the look of purity in his clear blue eyes told of -a virgin soul and a mind unsullied by the world. He bore a great -resemblance to the medallion, but little known, which David, the -sculptor, has left of Alfred de Musset in his youth, though René's -wealth of hair, his fair and already full beard, and his broad shoulders -gave him an air of health and strength wanting in the somewhat -effeminate and almost too frail appearance of the great poet. His eyes, -generally serious, spoke at that moment of simple and unalloyed -happiness, and Emilie's admiration was justified by an innate grace that -revealed itself in spite of the levelling effect of a dress-coat. In her -tender solicitude the loving sister had even thought of gold studs and -links for his shirt-front and cuffs, and had bought them out of her -savings at a jeweller's in the Rue de la Paix, after a secret conference -with Claude. She had fastened his white tie with her own fingers, and -had bestowed as much care upon him that evening as when, fourteen years -ago, she had superintended the toilet of this idolised brother for his -first communion. - -'Poor Emilie,' said René, with a smile that disclosed two splendid rows -of teeth; 'you must excuse her, Claude; I am her only weakness.' - -'Well! So you are dragging René into dissipation too, eh?' cried -Fresneau, as he shook hands with Larcher. The professor was a tall, -broad-shouldered man, with a great head of hair just beginning to turn -grey, and an unkempt beard. Spread out before him, and covered with -pencil notes, were some large sheets of paper--the exercises he brought -home to correct. He gathered them up, saying, 'Lucky man! You've got rid -of this terrible job! Will you take a thimbleful just to warm you?' he -asked, holding up a decanter half filled with brandy, which was always -left on the table after coffee had been served--the family sitting here -in preference to moving into the _salon_, a room in the front of the -house used only on grand occasions. 'Or a cigarette?' he added, offering -Claude a bowl filled with tobacco. - -Claude thanked him with a deprecatory smile and turned to bow to the -three lady visitors, not one of whom offered him her hand. The mother, -who scratched her head every now and then with one of her -knitting-needles, was busily at work upon a blue woollen stocking, and -her two daughters were engaged upon some embroidery. Madame Offarel's -hair was quite white, and her face deeply wrinkled; through the round -glasses that she managed to balance somehow or other on her short nose -there flashed a glance of deep hatred upon Claude. Angélique, the elder -of the two girls, repressed a smile as she heard the writer make a -slight slip in his pronunciation; with her black eyes, that shot swift -sideward glances, with her blushes that came as readily as her smiles, -she belonged to the numerous family of shy but mocking females. Rosalie, -the younger of the two sisters, had returned Claude's salute without -raising her eyes, black as her sister's, but filled with a sweet, timid -expression. A few minutes later she stole a glance from beneath her long -lashes at René, and her fingers trembled as her needle followed the -tracing for the embroidery. She bent her head still lower until her -chestnut hair shone in the lamp-light. - -Not a whit of this by-play had been lost upon Claude. He was well -acquainted with the habits and disposition of _ces dames Offarel_, as -Fresneau called them in his provincial way. They had probably arrived at -about seven o'clock, soon after dinner. Old Offarel, after having -accompanied them here from the Rue Bagneux, had gone on to the Café -Tabourey, at the corner of the Odéon, where he conscientiously waded -through all the daily papers. Claude had long guessed that Madame -Offarel cherished the idea of a marriage between Rosalie and René; he -suspected his young friend of having encouraged these hopes by an innate -taste for the romantic, and it was only too evident that Rosalie had -been captivated by the mental qualities and physical attractions of the -poet. He, Claude Larcher, knew well enough, too, that he himself was -both liked and feared by the girl. She liked him because he was devoted -to René, and feared him because he was dragging the latter into a fresh -current of events. To this innocent child, as well as to all the members -of this small circle, the _soirée_ at Madame Komof's seemed like a -fairy expedition to distant and unexplored lands. In each of them it -conjured up chimerical hopes or foolish fears. Emilie Fresneau had -always cherished the most ambitious dreams for her brother, and she now -pictured him leaning against a mantelpiece reciting verses in the midst -of a crowd of duchesses, and beloved by a 'Russian princess.' These two -words expressed the highest form of social superiority that her mind was -capable of imagining. Rosalie was the victim of the keenest -perspicacity--that of the woman who loves. Although she reproached -herself for her folly, René's eyes frightened her with the joy they -expressed, and that joy was at going into a world which she, almost his -betrothed, could not enter. A bond, stronger than Claude had imagined, -already united them, for secret vows had been exchanged by the pair one -spring evening in the preceding year. René was then still unknown. She -had him to herself. When by her side he thought all things charming; -without her, all was insipid. To-day, her confidence disturbed by -unconscious jealousy, she began to see what dangerous comparisons -threatened her love. With her home-made dresses that spoilt the beauty -of her figure, with her ready-made boots in which her dainty feet were -lost, with her modest white collars and cuffs, she felt herself grow -small by the side of the grand ladies whom René would meet. That was -why her fingers trembled and why a vague terror shot through her heart, -causing it to beat quicker, whilst the professor pressed Claude to drink -a glass of _liqueur_ and to make himself a cigarette. - -'I assure you it's excellent _eau-de-vie_, sent me from Normandy by one -of my pupils. Really not? You used to be so fond of it once. Do you -remember when we gave lessons at Vanaboste's? Four hours a day, -Thursdays included, corrections to be done at home, for a hundred and -fifty francs a month! And yet how happy we were in those days! We had a -quarter of an hour's interval between the classes, and I remember the -little _café_ we used to go to in the Rue Saint-Jacques to get a glass -of this _eau-de-vie_ to keep us going. You used to call it hardening the -arteries, under the pretence that a man is only as old as his arteries, -and that alcohol diminishes their elasticity.' - -'I was twelve years younger then,' said Claude, as he laughed at the -other's reminiscences, 'and had no rheumatism.' - -'It can't be very good for one's health,' interposed Madame Offarel with -some asperity, 'to go out nearly every night; and these big dinners, -with their fine wines and highly-seasoned dishes, impoverish the blood -terribly!' - -'Don't be absurd,' said Emilie, interposing; 'we have had the honour of -Monsieur Larcher's company to dinner, and you would be surprised to see -what a modest meal he makes. And people can afford to go to bed a little -late when they are free to sleep long in the morning. René tells us -that it is so delightfully quiet in your house,' she added, addressing -the writer. - -'Yes, so it is. I happened to come across some rooms in an old house in -the Rue de Varenne, and I find that at present I am the only tenant in -the place. When the blinds are drawn I can fancy it is the middle of the -night. I can hear nothing but the ringing of the bells in a convent -close by and the roar of the city far, far away.' - -'I have always heard it said that one hour's sleep before midnight is -worth more than two afterwards,' broke in the old lady, exasperated by -Claude's imperturbability. She was incensed against him without knowing -exactly why--this feeling being inspired less by the influence he -exercised upon René than by deep natural antipathy. She felt that she -was being studied by this individual with the inquisitorial eyes, -perfect manners, and unfathomable smiles. His presence produced in her a -feeling of uneasiness that found vent in sharp words. She therefore -added, 'Besides, Monsieur René cannot have such rest here. At what time -will this Countess's _soirée_ be over?' - -'I don't know,' replied Claude, amused by the ill-concealed rancour of -his adversary; 'the "Sigisbée" will be performed about half-past ten, -and I suppose we shall sit down to supper about half-past twelve or -one.' - -'Monsieur René will be in bed about two o'clock, then,' rejoined Madame -Offarel, with the visible satisfaction of an aggressive person bringing -forward an irrefutable argument; 'and as Monsieur Fresneau goes out -about seven, and Françoise begins to potter about at six----' - -'Come, come, once in a way!' exclaimed Emilie with some impatience, -cutting short the other's words. She feared the old lady's indiscreet -tongue, and changed the topic by flattering her pet mania. 'You have not -told us whether Cendrillon came back for good?' - -Cendrillon was a grey cat presented by Madame Offarel to a young man -named Jacques Passart, a teacher of drawing, between whom and the -_sous-chef de bureau_ a friendship had sprung up, born of their mutual -taste for _aquarelles._ These were the two family vices--a love for -painting in the husband, who daubed his canvases even in his office; and -a love of cats in the wife, who had had as many as five such boarders in -her flat--a ground floor like that of the Fresneaus, also with its bit -of garden. Jacques Passart, who nursed an unrequited affection for -Rosalie, had so often gone into rhapsodies over the pretty ways of -Cendrette or Cendrinette, as Madame Offarel called her, that he had been -presented with the animal. After a stay of three months in the room -occupied by Passart on a fifth floor in the Rue du Cherche-Midi, -Cendrillon had become a mother. Out of her three kittens two had been -killed, and, doubtlessly thinking the third in danger, she had run away -with it. Passart had been afraid to speak of his loss, but two days -later Madame Offarel heard a scratching at the garden door. - -'That's strange,' she said, verifying the number of her cats--one of -which was lying at full length on the counterpane of her bed, another on -the only sofa, and a third on the marble chimney-piece. 'They are all -here, and yet I hear a scratching.' She opened the door, and Cendrillon -walked in, purring, arching her back, and rubbing her head against her -old mistress with a thousand pretty little ways that charmed the good -lady. The next morning Cendrillon had once more vanished. This visit, -rendered more mysterious by the avowal Passart had been obliged to make -of his negligence, had on the previous day been the sole theme of Madame -Offarel's conversation, and the fact that she had not even alluded to -the circumstance that evening revealed more than her epigrams the -importance attached by Rosalie's mother to René's entry into society. - -'Ah! Cendrillon,' she replied, her ill-humour tinged with the enthusiasm -evoked by the mention of the dear creature. 'I don't suppose Monsieur -René remembers anything about it?' Upon a sign of reassurance from the -young man that he had not forgotten the interesting event, she -continued: 'Well, she came back this morning, carrying her little one in -her mouth, and laid it at my feet like an offering, with such a look in -her eyes! The day before she had come to see whether I still cared for -her, and now she came to ask me to take her kitten too. It's better to -bestow one's affections upon animals than upon human beings,' she added, -by way of conclusion; 'they are much more faithful.' - -'What a wonderful trait of instinct!' cried Fresneau, beginning once -more to disfigure his exercises with cabalistic signs. 'I will make a -note of it for my class.' The poor man, a real Jack-of-all-trades in his -profession, taught philosophy in a preparatory school for B.A.'s, Latin -in another, history in another, and even English, which he could -scarcely pronounce. In this way he had contracted the habit, peculiar to -old schoolmen, of holding forth at length at every possible opportunity. -This marvellous return of Cendrillon to her native hearth was a text to -be elaborated _ad infinitum._ He went on telling anecdote after -anecdote, and forgetting his exercises--to all appearances. The -excellent man, so weak that he had never been able to keep a class of -ten boys in order, was a marvel of observation where his wife was -concerned. Whilst his pencil was running over the margins of the sheets -of foolscap he had distinctly perceived Madame Offarel's hostility. From -Emilie's tone of voice, too, it was clear to him that she was somewhat -uneasy as to the turn that such a conversation might take. So the -professor prolonged his monologue in order to give the nerves of the -sour-tempered _bourgeoise_ time to steady themselves. He was not called -upon to play his part long, for there came another ring at the bell. - -'That's papa!' exclaimed Rosalie; 'it must be a quarter to ten.' She, -too, had suffered from her mother's show of temper towards Claude and -René, and the arrival of her father, which was the signal for -departure, seemed like a deliverance--to her, too, for whom parting from -the Fresneaus was generally an ordeal. But she knew her mother, and -felt, by instinct rather than by reasoning, how mean and distasteful the -bitterness of her remarks must seem to René. There were only too many -reasons why he should no longer care for their company. She therefore -rose as her father entered the room. M. Offarel was a tall, -withered-looking man, with one of those pinched faces that irresistibly -remind one of the immortal type of Don Quixote; an aquiline nose, hollow -temples, a harshly drawn mouth, and, to crown all, one of those receding -brows the wrinkles and bumps of which represent so many chimerical -fancies and false ideas within. To his innocent mania for _aquarelles_ -he added the ridiculous weakness of incessantly talking about his -imaginary complaints. - -'It's very cold to-night,' were his first words, and, addressing his -wife, he added, 'Adelaide, have you any tincture of iodine in the house? -I am sure I shall have my attack of rheumatism in the morning.' - -'Is your cab warmed?' asked Emilie, turning to Claude. - -'Oh, yes,' replied the writer, pulling out his watch; 'and I see that -it's time to get into it, if we don't want to be late.' Whilst he was -taking leave of the little circle René disappeared through the door -that led from the dining-room to his bedroom without bidding anyone good -night. - -'He has probably only gone to get his coat,' thought Rosalie; 'he cannot -possibly have gone without saying good-bye, especially as he has not -looked at me at all to-night.' She went on with her work whilst Fresneau -received the _sous-chef de bureau_ with the same questions he had put to -his friend: 'Just a thimbleful to keep the cold out?' - -'Only a suspicion,' answered Offarel. - -'That's right,' rejoined the professor, 'you are not like Larcher, who -despised my _eau-de-vie!_' - -'Monsieur Larcher!' observed the other. 'Don't you know his usual drink? -Why'--he added, in a lower key, and prudently looking towards the -passage--'I read an article in the paper only this evening that shows -him up well.' - -'Tell us all about it, _petit père_,' exclaimed Madame Offarel, -dropping her work for the first time that evening, and artlessly -allowing her rancorous feelings to betray themselves as openly as her -simple affection for her cat. - -'It appears,' said the old man, emphasising his words, 'that wherever -Monsieur Larcher appears, they offer him blood to drink instead of tea -or other things.' - -'Blood!' exclaimed Fresneau, taken aback by this astounding statement. -'What for?' - -'To sustain him, of course,' said Madame Offarel quickly; 'didn't you -notice his face? What a life he must lead!' - -'It also appears,' continued Offarel, anxious to gratify that low taste -for senseless gossip peculiar to a _bourgeois_ as soon as he gets hold -of one of the innumerable calumnies to which well-known men are -exposed--'it appears that he lives surrounded by a court of women who -adore him, and that he has discovered an infallible method of making -whatever he writes a success. He has a dozen copies of his proofs struck -off at once, and takes one to each of the ladies he knows. They spread -them out on their knees, and "_Mon petit_ Larcher here, and _mon petit_ -Larcher there--you must alter this and you must cut out that." So he -alters this and he cuts out that, and the ladies imagine that they have -written his work for him.' - -'I am not at all surprised,' said Madame Offarel; 'he looks like a bold -deceiver.' - -'I must confess,' replied Fresneau, 'that I don't like his writings -much; but as for being a deceiver--that's another matter. My dear Madame -Offarel, I assure you he's a perfect child. How it amuses me when the -newspapers say that he knows women's hearts! I've always found him in -love with the worst creatures on earth, whom he conscientiously believed -to be angels, and who deceive him and fool him as much as they please. -René told us the other day that he spends his time in dallying with -little Colette Rigaud, who plays in the "Sigisbée"--a false hussy -who'll worm his last shilling out of him.' - -'Hush!' exclaimed Emilie, entering just in time to hear the end of this -little speech, and placing her hand on her husband's lips. 'Monsieur -Claude is a friend of ours, and I won't have him discussed. My brother -desires to be excused for not saying "good night" to you all,' she -added; 'they hadn't noticed that it was so late, and left in a hurry. -And when am I to have that drawing of the last scene in the -"Sigisbée?"' she asked, turning to the _sous-chef de bureau._ - -'It's a bad time of year for water-colours,' replied the latter; 'it -gets dark so soon, and we are overwhelmed with work--but you shall have -it. Why, what's the matter, Rosalie? You are quite white.' - -The poor girl was indeed suffering tortures on finding that René had -left her without so much as a look or a word. A great lump rose in her -throat, and her eyes filled with tears. She had strength enough, -however, to repress her sobs and to reply that she was overcome by the -heat of the stove. Her mother darted a look at Emilie containing such a -direct reproach that Madame Fresneau turned away her eyes involuntarily. -She, too, was deeply grieved; for, although she had always been opposed -to this marriage, which was quite out of keeping with the ambitious -plans she vaguely cherished for her brother, she loved Rosalie. When the -mother and her two daughters had put on their bonnets and were at last -ready to go, Emilie's feelings led her to embrace Rosalie more -affectionately than was her wont. She was quite ready to pity the girl's -sufferings, but that pity was not entirely devoid of a sad kind of -satisfaction at seeing René's manifest indifference, and as the door -closed behind her visitors she turned to Françoise with unalloyed joy -in her honest brown eyes. - -'You will take care not to make any noise in the morning, won't you?' - -'No more than a mouse,' replied the girl. - -'And you too, my big beauty,' she said to her husband, on entering the -dining-room, where the professor was once more at his exercises. 'I have -told Constant to get up and dress quietly,' adding, with a proud smile, -'what a triumph for René to-night, provided that these grand folks -don't turn up their noses at his verse! But I'm sure they'll not do -that; his poetry is too good--almost as good as he is himself!' - -'It is to be hoped that all these fine ladies will not spoil him as you -do,' exclaimed Fresneau, 'for it would end by his losing his head. No, -no,' he went on, in order to flatter his wife's feelings, 'it is a -pleasure to see how modest he is, even in success.' - -And Emilie kissed her husband tenderly for those words. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -A LOVER AND A SNOB - - -The two young men got into the cab and were soon being rapidly driven -along the Rue du Cherche-Midi in order to reach the Boulevard du -Montparnasse, and so follow, by way of the Invalides, the long line of -avenues that crosses the Seine by the Pont de l'Alma and leads almost -direct to the Arc de Triomphe. At first both remained perfectly silent, -René amusing himself by watching for the well-known landmarks of a -neighbourhood in which all the reminiscences of his childhood and youth -were centred. The pane of glass through which he gazed was clouded with -a thin vapour, a fitting symbol of the cloud that separated the world he -had just left from that which lay before him. There was not an angle in -the Rue du Cherche-Midi that was not as familiar to him as the walls of -his own room--from the tall dark building of the military prison to the -corner of the quiet Rue de Bagneux, where Rosalie dwelt. The remembrance -of the charming girl whom he had so unceremoniously quitted that evening -passed through his mind, but caused him no pain. The sensation he felt -was like dreaming with open eyes, so little did the individual who had -trodden these streets in his dreary and obscure youth resemble the rich -and celebrated writer now seated next to Claude Larcher. Celebrated--for -all Paris had flocked to see his piece; rich--for 'Le Sigisbée,' first -performed in September, had already brought him in twenty-five thousand -francs by February. Nor was this source of revenue likely to be soon -exhausted. 'Le Sigisbée' had been put into the same bill with 'Le -Jumeau,' a three-act comedy by a well-known author that would have a -long run. The play, too, was selling well in book form, and the rights -of translation and of representation in the provinces were being turned -to good account. But all this was only a beginning, for René had -several other works in reserve--a volume of philosophical poems entitled -'On the Heights,' a drama in verse dealing with the Renaissance, to be -called 'Savonarola,' and a half-finished story of deep passion for which -the writer had as yet found no title. - -As the cab rolled along, the intoxication produced by thoughts of past -success, as well as by ambitious plans for the future, was intensified -by the excitement of his entering into Society. The feelings of this -grown-up child were similar to those of a girl going to her first ball. -He was a prey to a fit of nerves that almost made him feel beside -himself. This power of amplifying even to fanciful dimensions -impressions of utter mediocrity in themselves is both the misfortune and -happiness of poets. To that power is due those transitions, almost -startling in their suddenness, from the heights of optimism to the -depths of pessimism, from exultation to despair; these lend to the -imagination, and consequently to the disposition and feelings, a -continual pendulum-like motion--an instability of terrible portent to -the women who become attached to these vacillating souls. Amongst such -souls, however, there are some in whom this dangerous quality does not -exclude true affection. This was the case with René. The involuntary -comparison between the present and the past so suddenly provoked by the -familiar aspect of the streets brought his thoughts round to the more -experienced friend who had witnessed his rapid change of fortune. In -obedience to one of those simple impulses which form such a charming -trait in the young--affording as they do a beautiful but rare example of -the invincible bond between the inner and the outer man--he grasped the -hand of his silent companion, saying: 'How kind you have been to -me!'. . . And seeing Claude's eyes turned upon him in some astonishment, -he continued: 'If you had not been so encouraging when I made my first -attempts I should never have brought you "Le Sigisbée," and if you had -not recommended it to Mademoiselle Rigaud it would now be mouldering on -some manager's shelf. If you had not spoken to the Comtesse Komof my -piece would not be performed at her house, and I should not be going -there this evening. I am happy, very happy, and I owe it all to you! Ah! -_mon ami_, you may think me as silly as a schoolboy, but you cannot -imagine how often I have dreamt of that world into which you are now -taking me, where the mere dresses of the women are poems, and where joy -and grief are set in exquisite frames!' - -'Would that these women had souls of the same stuff as their dresses!' -exclaimed Claude with a smile. 'But you surprise me,' he went on; 'do -you think that you will be in Society because you are received by Madame -Komof, a foreign countess who keeps open house, or by any of the -lion-hunters whom you will meet there, and who will tell you that they -are at home every afternoon? You will go out a good deal, if you like -that kind of thing, but you will be no more in Society than I or any -other artist or even genius, simply because you were not born in it, and -because your family is not in it. You will be received and made much of. -But try to marry into one of these families and you will see what they -will tell you. And a good thing for you, too. Good heavens! if you only -knew these women whom you picture to yourself as being so refined, so -elegant, so aristocratic! Mere bundles of vanity, dressed by Worth or -Laferrière . . . Why, there are not ten in the whole of Paris capable -of true feeling. The most honest are those who take a lover because they -like him. Were you to dissect them, you would find in place of a heart a -dressmaker's bill, half-a-dozen prejudices which serve as principles, -and a mad desire to eclipse some other woman. What fools we are to be -here in this vehicle--two fairly sensible men with work to do at -home--you all of a tremble at the idea of mixing with so-called _grandes -dames_, and I . . .!' - -'What has Colette been doing to-day?' asked René quietly, a little put -out by the asperity of his friend's words, though not laying much weight -upon arguments applied with such evident rancour. These furious -outbursts were nearly always caused, as he knew, by some coquetry on the -part of the actress with whom Claude was madly in love, and who -delighted in fooling him, though loving him in her way. It was one of -those attachments, based on hatred and sensuality, which both torture -and degrade the heart, and which transform their victim into a wild -beast, one of the features peculiar to this sort of passion being the -frequency with which it is liable to suffer crises as sharp and violent -as the physical ideas on which it feeds. - -The image of his mistress had probably flashed across Claude's brain, -and the happy frame of mind called forth by his last visit had -immediately yielded to sudden rage--rage which he would have satisfied -at that moment by no matter what outrageous paradox. He fell headlong -into the trap laid for him by his friend, and, grasping the arm of the -latter tightly, he said with a sickly laugh: 'What has she been doing -to-day? . . . Are you anxious to know the depth of this keen analyst of -women's hearts, this subtle psychologist as the papers call me, this -unmitigated ass as I call myself? Alas! my wits have never served for -aught else than to convince me of my folly! . . . Have I told you,' he -added, dropping his voice, 'that I have grown to be jealous of -Salvaney? . . . I forgot, you don't know Salvaney--an up-to-date gallant -who goes about his love affairs cheque-book in hand! . . . With a nose like -a beetroot, a bald pate, eyes starting from their sockets, and a colour -like a drover! . . . But there you are--he is an _anglomane, anglomane_ -to such an extent that the Prince of Wales is a Frenchman by the side of -him. . . . Last year he spent three months in Florence, and I myself -heard him boast that in those three months he had never worn a shirt -that had not been washed in London. You must take my word for it that in -Society, which has such a fascination for you, one fact like that gives -a man more prestige than if he had written the "Nabab" or "L'Assommoir." -Well! this individual pleases Colette. He is to be found in her -dressing-room as often as I am, and gazes at her with his -whisky-drinker's eyes. It was he who introduced the custom of going to a -bar filled with jockeys and bookmakers, in order to sip most abominable -spirits after the Opera; I will take you there some evening, and you -will see the beauty for yourself. . . . Colette lets him take her even -there, and goes about everywhere with him in a brougham. . . . "Get -out!" she says, "you are not going to be jealous of a man like that, are -you? He smells of gin, to begin with." . . . Such women will tell you -these things without any ado, and pull to pieces in the most shameless -manner their lovers of yesterday. . . . To cut a long story short, I was -at her house this morning. Yes, yes--I knew all about these things, but -I didn't believe them. A fellow like Salvaney! If you were to see him -you would understand how incredible it seems, and as for her--well, you -know her with that soft look in her eyes, with her mouth _à la -Botticelli_ and her exquisite grace. What a pity it seems! Well, I was -with her when the servant, a fresh importation, who didn't know her -business, brought a letter in, saying, "It's from Monsieur Salvaney--his -man is waiting for an answer." In one of her fits of affection Colette -had just sworn to me that nothing, absolutely nothing, not even the -shadow of a shade of a flirtation had ever passed between them. As she -held the letter in her hand I was foolish enough to think, "She is going -to show me the letter, and I shall have written proofs that she has not -told me a lie--and proof positive, for Salvaney could not have known -that I should see this letter." She held the letter in her hand, and, -looking at me, said to the girl, "Very well, I'll answer it at once. You -will excuse me, won't you?" she added, passing into the other room--with -her letter! I suppose you think I took my hat and stick and left the -house for good with an oath on my lips? No, I stayed, _mon cher ami_. -She came back, rang the bell, gave the servant a note, and then, coming -towards me, said, "Are you angry?" Silence on my part. "Did you want to -read that letter?" I was still silent. "No, you sha'n't read it," she -continued, with a pretty little frown; "I have burnt it. He only asked -for the pattern of some stuff for a fancy dress; but I want you to -believe me on my bare word." All this was said as coolly as possible; I -have never seen her act better. Don't ask me what I said in reply. I -treated her as the vilest thing on earth. I flung into her teeth all the -disgust, hatred, and contempt I felt for her; and then, as she sat there -sobbing, I took her in my arms, and on the very spot where she had lied -to me, and I had treated her like the common thing she was, we kissed -and made it up. Do you think I have fallen low enough?' - -'But were your suspicions correct?' asked René. - -'Were they correct?' re-echoed Claude, with that accent of cruel triumph -affected by jealous lovers when their mad desire to know all has ended -in proving their worst suspicions up to the hilt. 'Do you know what -Salvaney's note contained? An appointment--and Colette's reply confirmed -the appointment. I know this, for I had her followed. Yes, I stooped -even to that. He met her coming from rehearsal, and they were together -until eight o'clock.' - -'And haven't you broken with her?' asked Vincy. - -'It's all over,' replied Claude, 'and for good, I promise you. But I -must tell her what I think of her, just for the last time. The wretch! -You'll see how I'll treat her to-night.' - -In telling his sad tale Claude had betrayed such intense grief that -René's former feelings of joy were quite disturbed. Pity for the man to -whom he was deeply attached by bonds of gratitude was mingled with -disgust for Colette's shameless duplicity. For a moment he felt, too, -some deep-lying remorse as he conjured up by way of contrast the pure -soul that shone in Rosalie's honest eyes. But it was only a passing -fancy, quickly dispelled by the sudden change in his companion. This -demon of a man, who was one bundle of nerves, possessed the gift of -changing his ideas and feelings with a rapidity that was perfectly -inexplicable. He had just been speaking in despairing accents and in a -voice broken with emotion, which his friend knew to be sincere. Snapping -his fingers as if to get rid of his trouble, he muttered, 'Come, come,' -and immediately brought the conversation round to literary topics, so -that the two writers were discussing the last novel when the sudden -stoppage of the vehicle as it fell in behind a long line of others told -them that they had arrived. - -René's heart began to beat afresh with short, convulsive throbs. The -cab stopped before a doorway protected by an awning, and again the -dreamlike feeling came over the young man on finding himself in the -ante-room which he had already once passed through. There were several -liveried footmen in the room, which was filled with flowers and heated -by invisible pipes. The coats and cloaks arranged on long tables and the -hum of conversation that came from the _salons_ made it evident that -most of the guests had arrived. In the ante-room there was only one -lady, whom an attendant was just helping off with her fur-lined cloak, -from which she emerged in an elegantly fitting low-necked dress of red -material. She had a very distinguished face, a nose slightly tipped, and -lips that denoted spirituality. A few diamonds sparkled amidst the -tresses of her fair silken hair. René saw Claude bow to her, and he -felt himself grow pale as her eyes rested indifferently upon him--eyes -of light blue set off by that complexion, found in blondes, which, in -spite of the hackneyed metaphor, can only be described as that of a -blush rose, possessing as it does all the freshness and delicacy of the -latter. - -'That's Madame Moraines,' said Claude, 'the daughter of Victor -Bois-Dauffin, a Minister during the Empire.' - -These words, spoken as if in reply to a mute question, were to come back -to René more than once. More than once was he to ask himself what -strange fate had brought him face to face, almost on the threshold of -this house, with the one woman who, of all those assembled in these -_salons_, was to exercise most influence upon him. But at the moment -itself he felt none of those presentiments which sometimes seize us on -meeting a creature who is to bring us either good or evil. The vision of -this beautiful woman of thirty, who had already disappeared whilst -Claude and he were waiting for the numbers of their coats, became lost -in the confused impression created by the novelty of everything around -him. Though it was impossible for him to analyse his feelings, the -richness of the carpets, the splendidly decorated vestibule, the lofty -halls, the livery of the footmen, the reflection of the lights, all went -a long way towards making this impression a strange medley of painful -timidity and delightful sensuality. - -On the occasion of his first visit he had already felt himself enveloped -by those thousand indescribable atoms that float in the atmosphere of -luxury. Persons born in opulence no more perceive these infinitely small -but subtle trifles than we perceive the weight of the air that surrounds -us. We cannot feel what we have always felt. Nor do _parvenus_ ever tell -us their impressions. Their instinct teaches them to swallow such -feelings and to keep them hidden in their hearts. Apart from all this, -René had no time to reflect upon the snobbishness of the feeling that -filled him. The doors were swung back, and he entered the first _salon_, -furnished in that sumptuous but stereotyped style peculiar to all the -big modern houses in Paris. Whoever has seen one has seen them all. A -novice like René, however, would discover signs of the purest -aristocracy in the smallest details of this furniture, in the antique -materials with which the arm-chairs were upholstered, and in the -tapestry that hung over the chimney-piece and represented a Triumph of -Bacchus. The first _salon_, of middling dimensions, communicated by -folding doors with another much larger, in which all the guests were -evidently assembled, judging by the hum of conversation. René's -perceptive faculties being in that state of intense excitement -frequently caused by extreme shyness, he was able to take in the whole -scene at a glance; he saw Madame Moraines in her red dress disappear -through the open folding doors, and the Comtesse Komof talking, with -violent and extravagant gesticulation, to a group of people before the -chimney-piece of the smaller _salon._ The Comtesse was a tall woman of -almost tragic appearance; she had shoulders too narrow for the rest of -her body, white hair, rather harsh features, and grey eyes of piercing -brilliancy. The sombre hue of her dress enhanced the magnificence of the -jewels with which she was covered, and her hands, as she waved them -about, displayed a wealth of enormous sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. -Acknowledging with a smile the bow that Claude and René made her, she -continued her account of a _séance_ of spiritualism--a favourite hobby -of hers. - -'The table went up, up, up,' she said, 'until our hands could scarcely -follow it. The candles were blown out by invisible lips, and in the -darkness I saw a hand pass up and down--an immense hand--it was that of -Peter the Great!' - -The muscles of her face grew rigid as she spoke, and her eyes became -fixed as if on a terrible apparition. Traces of that brutish and almost -half-witted creature of instinct that lurks even in the most refined -Russian appeared for a few seconds upon the surface. Then the Society -woman suddenly remembered that she had to perform the honours of her -house, and the smile came back to her lips and the gleam in her eyes -grew softer. Was it that intuition peculiar to elderly women which gives -them such a soothing influence over men of irritable nerves that -revealed to her how solitary René felt in the midst of these crowded -_salons_, where he knew not a soul? As soon as her story was ended she -was good enough to turn to him with a smile and say: 'Do you believe in -spirits, Monsieur Vincy? Of course you do--you are a poet. But we'll -talk of that some other day. You must come with me now, in spite of the -fact that I'm neither young nor pretty, and be presented to some of my -friends, who are already passionate admirers of yours.' - -She had taken the young man's arm, and, although he was above the middle -height, she was taller than he by half a head. Her tragic expression was -not deceptive. She had really lived through what the strange look in her -eyes and the determined set of her features led one to imagine. Her -husband had been murdered almost at her feet, and she herself had killed -the assassin. René had heard the story from Claude, and he could see -the scene before him--the Comte Komof, a distinguished diplomat, stabbed -to the heart by a Nihilist in his study; the Comtesse entering at the -moment and bringing down the murderer by a well-directed shot. While the -young man reflected that those tapering fingers, resplendent with rings -as they lay on his coat sleeve, had clutched the pistol, his partner had -already commenced some fresh story with that savage energy of expression -that in people of Slavonic race is not incompatible with the most -refined and elegant manners. - -'It was on my arrival in Paris about eight years ago, just after the -war. I had not been here since the first Exhibition, in 1855. Ah! my -dear sir, the Paris of those days was really charming . . . and your -Emperor . . . _idéal!_ She had a way of dwelling on her last syllables -when she wished to express her enthusiasm. 'My daughter, the Princess -Roudine, was with me--I don't think you know her; she lives in Florence -all the year round. She was taken ill, but Doctor Louvet--you know, the -little man who looks like a miniature edition of Henri III.--got her -over it. I always call him Louvetsky, because he only attends Russians. -I could not think of taking her away from Paris, so this house being for -sale, ready furnished, I bought it. But I've turned everything upside -down. Look here, this used to be the garden,' she added, showing René -the larger _salon_, which they had just entered. - -This _salon_ was a vast apartment, whose walls were hung with canvases -of all sizes and schools, picked up by the Comtesse in the course of her -European rambles. Though René had been strongly impressed from the -first by the general air of material well-being everywhere apparent, -this feeling was intensified by the spiritual luxury, if one may use -such a term, which such cosmopolitanism represents. The way in which the -Comtesse had mentioned Florence, as if it were a suburb of Paris, the -resources indicated by the improvements effected in the mansion, the -fluency with which this grand Russian lady spoke French--how could a -young man accustomed to the limited horizon of a struggling family of -modest _bourgeois_ fail to be struck with childlike wonder at the sight -of a world such as these details suggested? His eyes opened wide to take -in the whole of the charming scene before him. At the end of the _salon_ -heavy, dark red curtains hung across the usual entrance to the -dining-room, which apartment, approached by three broad stairs, had been -turned for the nonce into a stage. In the centre of the hall stood a -marble column surmounted by a bust in bronze of the famous Nicolas -Komof, the friend of Peter the Great--this ancestral kind of monument -being surrounded by a group of gigantic palms in huge pots of Indian -brass ware, whilst lines of chairs were drawn up between the column and -the stage. - -By this time nearly all the ladies were seated, and the lights shone -down upon a living sea of snowy arms and shoulders, some too robust, -others too lean, others again most exquisitely moulded; jewels sparkled -in tresses fair and dark, the flutter of fans tempered the glances that -shot from eloquent eyes, whilst words and laughter became blended in one -loud, harmonious murmur. In the ladies' dresses, too, lay a wonderful -play of colour, and one side of the _salon_ presented a striking -contrast to the other, where the men, in their swallow-tails, formed a -solid mass of black. A few women, however, had found their way amongst -the sterner sex, while here and there a dark patch amidst the seated -fair ones betrayed the presence of a male interloper. The whole of the -company, although somewhat mixed, was composed of people accustomed to -meet daily, and for years, in places that serve as common ground for -different sets of Society. There were blue-blooded duchesses from the -Faubourg Saint-Germain, whose sporting tastes and charity errands took -them to all kinds of places. There were also the wives of big financiers -and politicians, representing every degree of cosmopolitan elegance, and -there were even the wives of plain artists, following up their husbands' -successes through a string of fashionable dinners and receptions. - -But to a new-comer like René Vincy the social distinctions that broke -up the _salon_ into a series of very dissimilar groups were utterly -imperceptible. The spectacle upon which he gazed surpassed, in outward -magnificence, his wildest dreams. Amidst a hum of voices he allowed -himself to be presented to some of the men as they passed, and to a few -of the women seated on the back row of chairs, bowing and stammering out -a few words in reply to the compliments with which the more amiable ones -favoured him. Madame Komof, perceiving his timidity, was kind enough not -to leave him, especially since Claude, a prey to some fresh fit of his -amorous passion, had disappeared. He had probably gone behind the -scenes, and when the signal for raising the curtain was given the poet -found himself seated beside the Comtesse in the shadow of the palms that -surrounded the ancestral bust, happy that he was in a place where he -could escape notice. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE 'SIGISBÉE' - - -Two footmen in livery drew back the curtains from before the miniature -stage. The scene being laid 'In a garden, in Venice,' nothing had been -required in the way of scenery beyond a piece of cloth stretched across -the back of the stage and a bank formed of plants selected from the -hostess's famous conservatory. With the somewhat crude appearance of -their foliage under the glare of the light these exotic shrubs made a -setting very different to that which M. Perrin had arranged with so much -taste at the Comédie Française. That model of a manager, if ever there -was one, had hit upon the happy idea of placing before his audience one -of the terraces on the lagoon that lead by a flight of marble steps down -to the lapping waters, with the variegated façades of the palaces -standing out against the blue sky and the black gondolas flitting round -the corners of the tortuous canals. The change from the usual scenery, -the diminutive stage, the limited and eminently select audience, all -contributed to increase René's feeling of uneasiness, and he again felt -his heart beating as wildly as on the night of the first performance at -the theatre. - -The appearance of Colette Rigaud, dressed _à la Watteau_, was the -signal for a burst of applause, which the actress smilingly -acknowledged. Even in her gay attire, copied from one of the great -painter's _fêtes galantes_, and in spite of her powdered hair, her -patch, and her pale cheeks bedaubed with paint, there was a tone of -sadness about her--something in the dreamy look of the eyes and the -melancholy expression on the sensual lips that reminded one of -Botticelli's madonnas and angels. How many times had not René heard -Claude sigh: 'When she has been telling me lies, and then looks at me in -her own peculiar way, I begin to pity her instead of getting angry.' - -Colette had already attacked the first lines of her part and René's -anguish was at its highest pitch, while all around he heard the loud -remarks which even well-bred people will make when an artiste appears on -a drawing-room stage. 'She's very pretty. Do you think it's the same -dress she wears at the theatre? She's a little too thin for my taste. -What a sympathetic voice! No, she imitates Sarah Bernhardt too much. I'm -in love with the piece, aren't you? To tell you the truth, poetry always -sends me to sleep.' The poet's sharp ears caught all these exclamations -and many more. They were, however, soon silenced by a loud 'hush!' that -came from a knot of young men standing near René, conspicuous among -them being a bald-headed individual with rather a prominent nose and a -very red face. - -The Comtesse thanked him with a wave of her hand, and, turning to her -partner, said: 'That's M. Salvaney; he is madly in love with Colette.' -Silence was reestablished, a silence broken only by the rustle of -dresses and the unfurling of fans. - -René now listened in delightful intoxication to the music of his own -verses, for by the silence as well as by the murmurs of approval that -were occasionally heard he felt, he knew, that his work was as surely -captivating this select audience as it had captivated the 'house' on its -first night at the Théâtre Français, then filled with tired critics, -worn-out reporters, scoffing _boulevardiers_, and smart women. Gradually -his thoughts took him back, in spite of himself, to the period when he -had first thought out and then written the little play which was that -night procuring him such a new and delightful thrill of gratification, -after having so completely changed the tenor of his life. He saw himself -once more in the Luxembourg garden at the close of a bright spring day; -the charm of the deepening twilight, the smell of the flowers, the dark -blue sky seen through the spare foliage, and the marble statues of the -queens--all these things had deeply impressed him as he walked with -Rosalie, silent, by his side. She had such a simple way of looking up at -him with her great black eyes, in which he could read unconscious though -tender passion. - -It was on that evening that he had first spoken to her of love, there, -amidst the scent of the early lilac, whilst the voices of Madame Offarel -and Emilie could be heard, indistinctly, in the distance. He had -returned to the Rue Coëtlogon a prey to that fever of hope which brings -tears to one's eyes and moves one's nature to its inmost depths. Finding -it impossible to sleep, he had sat there alone in his room and drawn a -comparison between Rosalie and the object of an earlier but less -innocent attachment--a girl named Elise, living in the Quartier Latin. -He had met her in a _brasserie_, where he had been taken by the only two -comrades he possessed. Faded as she was, Elise could still boast of good -looks, in spite of the black under her eyes, the powder all over her -face, and the carmine on her lips. She had taken a fancy to him, and -although she shocked him dreadfully by her gestures and her mode of -thought, by her voice and her expressions, he had continued the -acquaintanceship for about six months--six months that had left him -nothing but a bitter memory. Being one of those in whom passion leads to -affection, he had become attached to the girl in spite of himself, and -he had suffered cruelly from her coquetry, the coarseness of her -feelings, and the stock of moral infamy that formed the groundwork of -the poor creature's nature. - -Seated at his writing-table that night, and dreaming ecstatically of -Rosalie's purity, he had conceived the idea of a poem in which he should -draw a contrast between a coquette and a true, tender-hearted girl. -Then, being an ardent admirer of Shakespeare and de Musset, his vulgar -love affair with Elise underwent a strange metamorphosis and became an -Italian romance. There and then he made a rough sketch of the -'Sigisbée,' and composed fifty lines. It was the simple story of a -young Venetian noble, named Lorenzo, who had fallen in love with -Princess Cœlia, a cold and cruel coquette. The unhappy swain, after -wasting much time and many tears in wooing this unrelenting beauty, was -advised by a young Marquis de Sénecé, a French _roué_ on a visit to -Venice, to affect an interest in the sweet and pretty Countess Beatrice -in order to awaken Cœlia's jealousy. He then discovered that the -Countess had long loved him, and when Cœlia, caught in the trap, tried -to lead him back, Lorenzo, profiting by experience, said the perfidious -lady nay, and gave himself up entirely to the charms of her who loved -him without guile. - -Colette, as Cœlia, was speaking while Lorenzo sat lamenting. The -_roué_ was cynical and Beatrice lost in dreams. These characters, -coming straight from the world of Benedict and Perdican, of Rosalind and -Fortunio, strutted on and off, enveloped in a ray of poetry as sweet and -light as a moonbeam. As René heard the frequent exclamations of -'Charming!' or 'Exquisite!' that escaped from the crowd of women before -him he recalled the nights of wakefulness that this or that passage had -cost him. There were these pathetic lines, for instance, written by -Lorenzo to Cœlia, and afterwards shown by the latter to Beatrice. How -sweet Colette's voice became, in spite of its mocking note, as she read -them out. - - -If kisses for kisses the roses could pay -When our lips o'er their petals in ecstasy stray; -If the lilacs and tall slender lilies could guess -How their sweet perfume fills us with sorrowfulness; -If the motionless sky and the sea never still -Could know how with joy at their beauties we thrill; -If all that we love in this strange world below -A soul in exchange on our souls could bestow: -But the sea set around us, the sky set above, -Lilacs, roses, and you, sweet, know nothing of love. - - -And as he listened the past returned to René more vividly than ever; he -was back in his peaceful room again, and felt once more the secret -pleasure of rising each morning to resume his unfinished task. By -Claude's advice, and from a childish desire to imitate the ways of -genius--a foolish but pretty trait in most young writers--he had adopted -the method formerly practised by Balzac. In bed by eight o'clock at -night, he would get up before four in the morning, and, lighting the -fire and the lamp, would make himself some coffee over a little -spirit-stove, all prepared for him by his sister in the evening. As the -fire burned up brightly and the aroma of the inspiring Mocha filled the -little room, he would sit down at the table with Rosalie's portrait -before him and begin work. Gradually the noises of Paris grew more -distinct as the great city awakened once more to life. Then he would put -down his pen and gaze at the engravings that adorned the wall or turn -over the leaves of a book. About six o'clock Emilie would make her -appearance. In spite of her household cares, this loving sister found -time to copy day by day the lines that her brother had written. For -nothing in the world would she have allowed one of René's manuscripts -to pass into the hands of the printers. Poor Emilie! How happy it would -have made her to hear the applause that drowned Colette's voice, and -what unalloyed pleasure René's would have been had not the change in -his feelings with respect to Rosalie sent a pang of sadness through his -heart at the very moment when the play was finishing amidst the -enthusiasm of the whole audience. - -'It is a glorious success,' said the Comtesse to the young author. 'You -will see how these people will fight for you.' And as if to corroborate -what might only have been the flattery of a gracious hostess, René -could hear, during the hubbub that succeeded the close of the piece, -broken sentences that came to him amid the _frou-frou_ of the dresses, -the noise of falling chairs, and the commonplaces of conversation. - -'That's the author! Where? That young man. So young! Do you know him? -He's a good-looking fellow. Why does he wear his hair so long? I rather -like to see it--it looks artistic. Well, a man may be clever, and still -have his hair cut. But his play is charming. Charming! Charming! Who -introduced him to the Comtesse? Claude Larcher. Poor Larcher! Look at -him hanging round Colette. He and Salvaney will come to blows one of -these days. So much the better; it will cool their blood. Are you going -to stay to supper?' - -These were a few of the snatches of conversation that reached the -author's sensitive ears as he bowed and blushed under the weight of the -compliments showered upon him by a woman who had carried him away from -Madame Komof almost by force. She was a long, lean creature of about -fifty, the widow of a M. de Sermoises, who, since his death, had been -promoted to 'my poor Sermoises,' after having been, while alive, the -laughing-stock of the clubs on account of his fair partner's behaviour. -The lady, as she grew older, had transferred her attention from men to -literature, but to literature of a serious and even devotional kind. She -had heard from the Comtesse in a vague sort of way that the author of -the 'Sigisbée' was the nephew of a priest, and the air of romance that -pervaded the little play gave her reason to think that the young writer -had nothing in common with the literature of the day, the tendencies of -which she held in virtuous execration. Turning to René with the -exaggerated tone of pomposity adopted by her in giving utterance to her -poor, prudish ideas--a judge passing sentence of death could scarcely be -more severe--she said: 'Ah, monsieur! what poetry! What divine grace! It -is Watteau on paper. And what sentiment! This piece is epoch-making, -sir--yes, epoch-making. We women are avenged by you upon those -self-styled analysts who seem to write their books with a scalpel in a -house of ill-fame.' - -'Madame,' stammered the young man, taken off his feet by this -astonishing phraseology. - -'You will come and see me, won't you?' she continued. 'I am at home on -Wednesdays from five to seven. I think you will prefer the people I -receive in my house to those you have met here to-night; the dear -Comtesse is a foreigner, you know. Some of the members of the _Institut_ -do me the honour of consulting me about their works. I have written a -few poems myself. Oh! quite unpretentious things--lines to the memory of -poor Monsieur de Sermoises--a small collection that I have called -"Lilies from the Grave." You must give me your candid opinion upon them. -Madame Hurault--Monsieur Vincy,' she added, presenting the writer to a -woman of about forty, whose face and figure were still elegant in -outline. 'Charming, wasn't it? Watteau on paper!' - -'You must be very fond of Alfred de Musset, sir, remarked this lady. She -was the wife of a Society man who, under the pseudonym of Florac, had -written several plays that had fallen flat in spite of the untiring -energy of Madame Hurault, who, for the past sixteen years, had not given -a single dinner at which some critic, some manager, or some person -connected with some critic or manager had not been present. - -'Who is not fond of him at my age?' replied the young man. - -'That is what I said to myself as I listened to your pretty verse,' -continued Madame Hurault; 'it produced the same effect as music already -heard.' Then, having launched her epigram, she remembered that in many a -young poet there lurks a future critic, and tried to smooth down by an -invitation the phrase that betrayed the cruel envy of a rival's wife. 'I -hope you will come and see us; my husband is not here, but he will be -glad to make your acquaintance. I am always at home on Thursdays from -five till seven.' - -'Madame Ethorel--Monsieur Vincy,' said Madame de Sermoises, again -introducing René, but this time to a very young and very pretty -woman--a pale brunette, with large dreamy eyes and a delicacy of -complexion that contrasted with her full, rich voice. - -'Ah! monsieur,' she began, 'how you appeal to the heart! I love that -sonnet which Lorenzo recites--let me see, how does it go?-- - - -The spectre of a year long dead.' - - -'"The phantom of a day long dead,"' said René, involuntarily correcting -the line which the pretty lips had misquoted; and with unconscious -pedantry he repressed a smile, for the passage in question, two verses -of five lines each, presented not the slightest resemblance to a sonnet. - -'That's it,' rejoined Madame Ethorel; 'divine, sir, divine! I am at home -on Saturdays from five till seven. A very small set, I assure you, if -you will do me the honour of calling.' - -René had no time to thank her, for Madame de Sermoises, a prey to that -strange form of vanity that delights in reflected glory, and which -inspires both men and women with an irresistible desire to constitute -themselves the showman of any interesting personage, was already -dragging him away to fresh introductions. In this way he had to bow -first to Madame Abel Mosé, the celebrated Israelitish beauty, all in -white; then to Madame de Suave all in pink, and to Madame Bernard all in -blue. Then Madame de Komof once more took possession of him in order to -present him to the Comtesse de Candale, the haughty descendant of the -terrible marshal of the fifteenth century, and to her sister the -Duchesse d'Arcole, these high-sounding French names being succeeded by -others impossible to catch, and belonging to some of the hostess's -relatives. René was also called upon to shake hands with the men who -were in attendance on these ladies, and thus made the acquaintance of -the Marquis de Hère, the most careful man in town, who with an income -of twenty thousand francs lived as though he had fifty; of the Vicomte -de Brèves, doing his best to ruin himself for the third time; of -Crucé, the collector; of San Giobbe, the famous Italian shot, and of -three or four Russians. - -The names of most of these Society women and clubmen were familiar to -the poet from his having read them, with childish avidity, in the -fashionable intelligence published by the newspapers for the edification -of young _bourgeois_ dreaming of high life. He had formed such grand and -entirely false notions of the 'upper ten' of Paris--a little world of -wealthy cosmopolitans rather than French aristocrats--that a feeling of -both rapture and disenchantment came over him at the realisation of one -of his earliest dreams. The splendour of his surroundings charmed him, -and his success soothed his professional vanity. There were smiles for -him on such tempting lips and kind looks in such glorious eyes. But -though all this was very flattering, it overwhelmed him with a sense of -shyness, and, whilst the crowd of strange faces struck a kind of terror -into his soul, the commonplace praise destroyed his illusions. What -makes Society--of whatever class it be--utterly insupportable to many -artists is the fact that they appear in it on rare occasions only, in -order to be lionised, and that they expect something extraordinary, -whilst those who really belong to Society move in the atmosphere of a -drawing-room with the natural ease that accompanies a daily habit. The -indescribable feeling of disenchantment, the daze of excitement produced -by endless introductions, the intoxication of flattery and the anguish -of timidity all made René eager to find his friend. Claude had -disappeared, but the poet's eyes fell upon Colette, who, having come -down from the stage in her bright-coloured dress of the last century and -her powdered hair, formed a striking contrast in colour to the black -coats of the men by whom she was surrounded. She, too, was evidently -embarrassed--a feeling betrayed by her somewhat nervous smile, by the -look of defiance in her eyes, and the rapid opening and shutting of her -fan. With her it was the embarrassment of an actress suddenly -transported beyond her sphere, proud of, and yet distressed by, the -attentions she commands. - -She met René with a smile that showed real pleasure in finding one of -her own set, and breaking off her conversation with the owner of a -terra-cotta complexion, who could be no other than Claude's rival, -Salvaney, she cried, 'Ah! here is my author!--Well,' she added, shaking -hands with the poet, 'I suppose you are quite satisfied? How well -everything has gone off! Come, Salvaney, compliment Monsieur Vincy, even -if you don't understand anything about it. And your friend Larcher,' she -went on, 'has he disappeared? Tell him for me that he nearly made me die -of laughing on the stage. He was wearing a love-lock and his -weeping-willow air. For whom was he acting his Antony?' - -A cruel look came into her greenish eyes, and in the curl of her lips -there was an expression of hatred called forth by the fact that the -unhappy Claude had gone without bidding her good night. Though she -deceived and tortured him, she loved him in her way, and loved above all -to bring him to her feet. She experienced a keen delight in making a -fool of him before Salvaney, and in thinking that the simple René would -repeat all her words to his friend. - -'Why do you say such things?' replied the young man in an undertone -while Colette's partner was shaking hands with a friend; 'you know very -well that he loves you.' - -'I know all about that,' said the actress with a harsh laugh. 'You -swallow all he tells you--I know the story. I am his evil genius, his -fatal woman, his Delilah. I have quite a heap of letters in which he -treats me to a lot of that kind of thing. That does not prevent him from -getting as drunk as a lord, under pretence of escaping from me. I -suppose it's my fault, too, that he gambles and drinks and uses morphia? -Get out!' And, shrugging her pretty shoulders, she added more gaily: -'The Comtesse is making signs for us to go down to supper. . . . -Salvaney, your arm!' - -The numerous introductions had taken up some time, and René, suddenly -called back to his surroundings by Colette's last words, saw that there -were but very few people left in the _salons._ The Comtesse had not -invited more than about thirty to stay, and gave the signal for -adjourning to the supper-room by taking the arm of the most illustrious -of her guests, an ambassador then much run after in fashionable circles. -The other couples marched off behind her, mounting a narrow staircase -adorned with some marvellous wood-carving brought from Italy. This led -to an apartment which, though furnished as a boudoir, was really a -_salon_ in size. In the centre was a long table, laden with flowers, and -fruit, and sparkling with crystal and silver. Near each plate stood a -small pink glow-lamp encircled with moss--an English novelty that called -forth the admiration of the guests as they sat down wherever they chose. - -René, having in his bashful way gone up alone among the last, chose an -empty seat between the Vicomte de Brèves and the fair woman in red whom -Larcher and he had met in the ante-room, and whom Claude had spoken of -as Madame Moraines, the daughter of the famous Bois-Dauffin, one of the -most unpopular ministers of Napoleon III. Feeling quite unobserved where -he was, for Madame Moraines was carrying on a conversation with her -neighbour on the left whilst the Vicomte de Brèves was busily engaged -with his partner on the right, René was at length able to collect his -thoughts and to take a look at the guests, behind whom the servants were -continually passing to and fro as they attended to their wants. His -glance wandered from Colette, who was laughing and flirting with -Salvaney, to Madame Komof, no doubt telling some fresh tale of her -spirit experiences, for her eyes had resumed their piercing brilliancy, -her looks were agitated, and her long bejewelled hands trembled as she -sat oblivious of all around her table--she generally so attentive and so -eager to please her guests! René's feeling of solitude had now become -almost painful in its intensity, either because the varied sensations -undergone that evening had tried his nerves or because the sudden -transition from flattery to neglect appeared to him a symbol of the -worthlessness of the world's applause. Some of the women who had -overwhelmed him with praise were gone; the others had naturally chosen -seats near their own friends. At the other end of the table he could see -himself reflected in the actor who had taken the part of Lorenzo, the -only one of the players besides Colette who had stayed to supper, and -who, looking very stiff and awkward in his gorgeous attire, was doing -justice to the viands without exchanging a word with anyone. - -In this frame of mind René began to look at his fair neighbour, whose -charms had made such an impression upon him during their momentary -encounter in the hall. He had not been mistaken in judging her at the -first glance as a creature of thoroughly aristocratic appearance. -Everything about her, from her delicately-cut features to her slim waist -and slender wrists, had an air of distinction and of almost excessive -grace. Her hands seemed fragile, so dainty were her fingers and so -transparent. The fault of such kind of beauty lies in the very qualities -that constitute its charm. Its exceeding daintiness is frequently too -pronounced, and what might really be graceful becomes peculiar. Closer -study of Madame Moraines showed that this ethereal beauty encased a -being of strength, and that beneath all this exquisite grace was hidden -a woman who lived well, and whose sound health was revealed in many -ways. Her shapely head was gracefully poised on a full neck, while her -well-rounded shoulders were not disfigured by a single angle. When she -smiled she showed a set of sharp white teeth, and the way in which she -did honour to the supper testified that her digestion had withstood the -innumerable dangers with which fashionable women are beset--from the -pressure of corsets to late suppers, to say nothing of the daily habit -of dining out. Her eyes, of a soft, pale blue, would remind a dreamer of -Ophelia and Desdemona, but possessed that perfect, humid setting in -which the physiognomists of yore saw signs of a full enjoyment of life, -the freshness of her eyelids telling of happy slumbers that recruit the -whole constitution, whilst her lovely complexion showed her rich blood -to be free of any taint of anæmia. - -To a philosophising physician, the contrast between the almost ideal -charm of this physiognomy and the evident materialism of this physiology -would have furnished food for reflections not altogether reassuring. But -the young man who was stealing glances at this beauty whilst toying with -the morsel of _chaufroid_ set before him was a poet--that is to say, -quite the opposite of a physician and a philosopher. Instead of -analysing, he was beginning to take a delight in this proximity. He had -that evening unwittingly succumbed to a spell of sensuality which was -personified, so to speak, in this captivating woman, around whom there -floated such a subtle and penetrating aroma. A faithful disciple of the -masters of Parnassus, he had in his youth possessed a childish mania for -perfumes, and he now inhaled with delight the rare and intoxicating -odour he recognised as white heliotrope, remembering how he had once, -when a prey to the nostalgia of refined passions, written a rhymed -conceit in which the following lines occurred: - - -Opoponax then sang, 'neath shades so sweet, -The story of those lips that never meet. - - -Once more, but more strongly than ever, there sprang up within him, the -simple wish he had expressed to Claude Larcher in the carriage that -evening--to be loved by a woman like the one whose sweet laughter was -that instant ringing in his ear. Dreams--idle dreams! That hour would -pass without his having even exchanged a word with this dreamlike -creature, as far from him here as if a thousand miles had lain between -them. Did she even know that he existed? But just as he was sadly asking -himself this question he felt his heart begin to beat more quickly. -Madame Komof, having by this time recovered from her excitement, had no -doubt perceived the distress depicted on the young man's face, and from -her place at the end of the table said to the Vicomte de Brèves: 'Will -you be good enough to introduce Monsieur Vincy to his neighbour?' - -René saw the glorious blue eyes turn towards him, the fair head bend -slightly forward, and a sympathetic smile come to those lips which he -had just mentally compared to a flower, so fresh, pure, and red were -they. He expected to hear from Madame Moraines one of the commonplace -compliments that had exasperated him all the evening, and he was -surprised to find that, instead of at once speaking of his play, she -simply continued the topic upon which she had been conversing with her -neighbour. - -'Monsieur Crucé and I were talking about the talent displayed by -Monsieur Perrin in putting plays on the stage. Do you remember the -scenery of the "Sphinx"?' - -She spoke in a low, sweet voice that matched her style of beauty, and -gave her that additional and indefinable attraction which helps to -render a woman's charms irresistible to those who come under their -spell. René felt that this voice was as intoxicating as the scent, -which now grew stronger as she turned towards him. He had to make an -effort to reply, so keen was the sensation that overpowered him. Did -Madame Moraines perceive his agitation? Was she flattered by it, as -every woman is flattered by receiving the homage of unconquerable -timidity? However that might be, she was such an adept in the art of -opening a conversation--no easy matter between a Society belle and a -timid admirer--that, before ten minutes were over, René was talking to -her almost confidentially, and expressing his own ideas on stage matters -with a certain amount of natural eloquence, growing quite enthusiastic -in his praise of the performances at Bayreuth, as described to him by -his friends. Madame Moraines sat and listened, putting on that peculiar -air worn by these thoroughbred hypocrites when they are looking at the -man they have determined to ensnare. Had anyone told René that this -ideal woman cared as much about Wagner or music as about her first -frock, and that she really enjoyed only light operettas, he would have -looked as blank as if the boisterous mirth going on around him had -suddenly changed into cries of terror. - -Colette, who had evidently had just a little more champagne than was -good for her, was laughing somewhat immoderately, and the guests were -already addressing each other by familiar appellations; amidst all this -noise René heard his neighbour say: 'How delightful it is to meet a -poet who is really what one expects a poet to be! I thought that the -species had died out. Do you know,' she added, with a smile that -reversed their parts, and turned her, the grand Society dame, into a -person intimidated by the indisputable superiority of another; 'do you -know that I was going to ask for an introduction to you just now in the -_salon?_ I had enjoyed the "Sigisbée" so much! But I said to -myself--what is the use? And now chance has brought us together. For a -man who has just had a triumph,' she continued, with a malicious little -smile, 'you were not looking very happy.' - -'Ah! madame,' he replied; 'if you only knew--'and in obedience to the -irresistible power this woman already exercised over him, he added: 'You -will think me very ungrateful. I cannot explain to you why, but their -compliments seemed to freeze me.' - -'Therefore I didn't pay you any,' she said, adding in a negligent tone, -'You don't go out much, I suppose?' 'You must not make fun of me,' he -replied with that natural grace that constituted his chief charm; 'this -is my first appearance in Society. Before this evening,' he went on, -seeing a look of curiosity come into the woman's eyes, 'I had only read -of it in novels. I am a real savage, you see.' - -'But,' she asked, 'how do you spend your evenings?' - -'I have worked very hard until lately,' he replied; 'I live with my -sister, and I know almost no one.' - -'Who introduced you to the Comtesse?' inquired Madame Moraines. - -'One of my friends, whom I dare say you know--Claude Larcher.' - -'A charming man,' she said, 'with only one fault--that of thinking very -badly of women. You must not believe all he says,' she added, again -assuming her timid smile; 'he would deprave you. The poor fellow has -always had the misfortune to fall in love with flirts and coquettes, and -is foolish enough to think that all women are like them.' - -As she uttered these words an expression of intense sadness came into -her eyes. Her handsome face betrayed all kinds of emotions, from the -pride of a woman who feels outraged by the cruel sayings of a misogynist -writer to pity for Claude, and even a kind of modest fear that René -might be led into similar errors--a fear that implied a mute esteem of -his character. A silence ensued, during which the young man was -surprised to find himself rejoicing in the absence of his friend. It -would have been painful to him to listen on his way home to the brutal -paradoxes with which Colette's jealous lover had regaled him during -their drive from the Rue Coëtlogon to the Rue du Bel-Respiro. He had -been right after all in silently protesting against Claude's withering -tirades, even before he had known a single one of these superior -creatures, towards whom he felt attracted by an irrepressible hope of -finding, amongst them, the woman he should love for life! And he sat -there listening to Madame Moraines as she spoke of secret troubles often -hidden by a life of pleasure, of virtues concealed under the mask of -frivolity, and of works of charity such as were undertaken by one or -other of the friends whom she named. She said all this so simply and so -sweetly that not a single intonation betrayed aught but a sincere love -of the good and the beautiful, and as the company rose from the table -she observed, with a kind of divine modesty at having thus laid bare her -inmost feelings: - -'This is a very strange conversation for a supper; you must have heard -of so many "fives to sevens" that I hardly dare to ask you to come and -see me. But in case you should be passing that way, pray remember that I -am always at home before dinner on Opera days. I should like you to see -my husband, who is not here this evening--he wasn't very well. He made -me come, because the Comtesse had asked us so often--which proves,' she -added, as she shook hands with René, 'that one is sometimes rewarded -for doing one's duty, even though it be a social one.' - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE DAWN OF LOVE - - -The shock of the novel and varied sensations experienced by René Vincy -on that eventful evening had been so great that it was impossible for -him to analyse them as he made his way on foot from the Rue du -Bel-Respiro to the Rue Coëtlogon. Had Claude not left the house so -suddenly, tortured by the pangs of jealousy, the two friends would have -returned together. Whilst walking along the deserted streets with the -silent stars shining above, they would have indulged in one of those -confidential talks in which, when young, we give full utterance to the -feelings inspired by the events of the past few hours. By the mere -mention of the name of Madame Moraines, René might then have discovered -what a hold on his thoughts had suddenly been secured by this rare -specimen of beauty, the living embodiment of all his ideas of -aristocracy. Perhaps from Claude, too, he might have gathered a few -correct notions concerning the lady, and the difference that existed -between a mere fashionable woman like Madame Moraines and a real _grande -dame_, he would then have been spared the dangerous fever of imagination -which, all along his route, conjured up to his delight visions of -Suzanne. He had heard the Comtesse call her by that pretty name as she -gave her a farewell kiss, and he could see her again in her long, -fur-lined cloak, her shapely head looking quite lost encircled by the -deep ermine collar. He could again see the slight inclination of that -dainty head in his direction before she got into the carriage. He could -see her still, as she sat at supper, with that look in her glorious -eyes, so full of intelligence, and that way she had of moving her lips -to utter words, very simple in themselves, but each of which proved that -this woman's soul matched her beauty, just as her beauty was worthy of -her surroundings. - -He was scarcely aware of the length of his journey, covering nearly a -third of Paris. He gazed up at the sky above, and down into the Seine -waters as they rolled darkly along, while the long lines of gas-lamps -before him seemed even to lengthen the dim, far-reaching perspective of -the streets. The night gave him an idea of immensity--a symbol, it -seemed to him then, of his own life. The mental formation peculiar to -poets who are poets only predisposes them to attacks of what, for want -of a more definite name, might be called the lyric state; this is -something like the intoxication produced by hope or despair, according -as the power of exaggerating present sensations to the highest degree is -applied to joy or sorrow. What, after all, was this entry into Society, -which for the moment seemed to this simple boy an entry upon a new life? -Scarcely a glance stolen through a half-open door, and which, to be of -any use at all, would have to be followed up by a course of petty -strategy that only an ambitious man would have dreamt of. A man eager to -make his way would have asked himself what impression he had created, -what kind of people he had met, which of the women who had invited him -were worth a single visit, and which of them deserved more assiduous -attentions. Instead of all that, the poet felt himself surrounded by an -atmosphere of happiness. The sweetness of the latter portion of the -evening spread itself over the whole, and he entirely forgot the -feelings of distress that had once or twice overwhelmed him. - -It was in this frame of mind that he reached home. As he pushed the -heavy house door open, and crept on tip-toe to his room, it pleased him -to compare the world he had left behind with the world to which he -returned. Was it not this very contrast that lent his pleasure a tinge -of romance? Being, however, at that age when the nervous system recruits -itself with perfect regularity in spite of the most disordered state of -the mind and feelings, his head had no sooner touched his pillow than he -was fast asleep. If he dreamt of the splendour he had seen, of the -applause that had filled the vast _salon_, of the sweet face of Madame -Moraines set in a wealth of fair tresses, he was oblivious of it all -when he awoke about ten o'clock next morning. - -A ray of sunlight came streaming through a narrow slit in the blinds. -All was quiet in the little street, and there was no noise in the -house--nothing to betray the necessary but exasperating performance of -matutinal household duties. This silence surprised the young man. He -looked at his watch to see how long he had slept, and once more he -experienced that feeling, of which he never tired--that of being beloved -by his sister with an idolatrous intensity extending to even the -smallest details of life. At the same time recollections of the -preceding evening came back to his mind. A score of faces rose up before -him, all gradually melting away into the delicate features, mobile lips, -and blue eyes of Madame Moraines. He saw her even more distinctly than -he had done a moment after leaving her, but neither the clearness of the -vision nor the infinite delight it afforded him to dwell upon it led him -to suspect the feelings that were awakening within him. It was an -artistic impression, nothing more--an embodiment, as it were, of all the -most beautiful ideals he had ever read into the lines of romancists and -poets. Idly reclining on his pillow, he enjoyed thinking of her in the -same way as he enjoyed looking round his old, familiar room, with its -air of peace and quiet. His gaze dwelt lovingly upon all the objects -visible in the subdued light--upon his table, put in order by Emilie's -hands, upon his engravings set off by the dark tone of the red cloth, -upon the bindings of his favourite books, upon the marble chimney-piece -with its row of photographs in leather frames. His mother's portrait was -among them--the poor mother who had died before seeing the realisation -of her most ardent hopes, she once so proud of the few scattered -fragments she had occasionally come across in tidying her son's room! -His father's likeness was there too, with its emaciated, drink-sodden -features. Often did René think that the want of will power, of which he -was dimly conscious, had been transmitted to him by his unhappy parent. -But that morning he was not in the humour to reflect upon the dark side -of life, and it was with childish glee that he gave two or three smart -raps on the bedside. This was his manner of summoning Françoise in the -morning to pull up the blinds and open the shutters. Instead of the -servant it was Emilie that entered, and as soon as the sunlight was let -into the room it was on his sister's face with its loving smile that the -young man gazed--a face now beaming with hopeful curiosity. - -'A triumph!' he cried, in reply to Emilie's mute interrogation. - -The kind-hearted creature clapped her hands for joy, and sitting down on -a low chair at the foot of the bedstead, said, in the tone that we use -to a spoilt child: 'You mustn't get up yet . . . Françoise will bring -you your coffee. I thought that you would wake up about ten, and I had -just ground it when you knocked. You shall have it quite fresh.' The -maid entering at that moment, holding in her big red hands the tray with -its little load of china, Emilie continued: 'I will serve you myself. -Fresneau has gone to take Constant to school--so we have plenty of -time--tell me all about it.' And René was obliged to give her a full -account of the _soirée_, without omitting any details. - -'What did Larcher say?' asked his sister. 'What was the courtyard like? -And the hall? What did the Comtesse wear?' She was highly amused by the -fantastic metaphors of Madame de Sermoises, and cried: 'What a wretch!' -when she heard the epigram of the unsuccessful playwriter's wife; she -laughed at the ignorance of pretty Madame Ethorel, and was indignant at -Colette's cruelty. But when the poet attempted to describe the dainty -features of Madame Moraines, and to give her an idea of their talk at -supper, she felt as though she would have liked to thank the exquisite -lady who had thus at the first glance discovered what René really was. -The habits she had contracted long years since of seeing everything -through her brother's eyes and senses made her the most dangerous of -confidantes for the poet. She possessed the same imaginative nature as -he himself--an artistic imagination yearning after the beautiful--and, -since it was all for another's sake, she gave herself up to it -unreservedly. There is a kind of impersonal feminine immorality peculiar -to mothers, sisters, and all women in love which ignores the laws of -conscience where the happiness of one particular man is at stake. -Emilie, who was all self-denial and modesty in what concerned herself, -indulged only in dreams of splendour and ambition for her brother, often -giving expression to thoughts which René dared hardly formulate. - -'Ah! I knew you would succeed,' she cried. 'It's all very well for the -Offarels to talk, but your place is not in our modest set. What you -writers want is all this grandeur and magnificence. Heavens! how I wish -you were rich! But you will be some day. One of these fine ladies will -fall in love with you and marry you, and even in a palace you will not -cease to be my loving brother, I know. Is it possible for you to go on -living like this for ever? Can you fancy yourself in a couple of rooms -on the fourth floor with a lot of crying children and a wife with a pair -of servant's hands like mine'--holding them out for his inspection--'and -being obliged to work by the hour, like a cab-driver, to earn your -living? Here, it is true, you have not lived in luxury, but you have had -your time to yourself. - -'Dear, good sister!' exclaimed René, moved to tears by the depths of -affection revealed in these words, and still more by the moral support -they lent to his secret desires. Although Rosalie's name had never been -mentioned between them in any particular way, and Emilie had never been -taken into her brother's confidence, René was well aware that his -sister had long guessed his innocent secret. He knew that, holding such -ambitious views, she would never have approved of such a marriage. But -would she have spoken as she did if she had known all the details? Would -she have advised him to commit an act of treachery--for that it was, and -of a kind, too, most repugnant to a heart born for noble deeds--the -treachery of a man who transfers his love, and foresees, nay, already -feels, the pain which his irresistible perfidy will necessarily inflict -upon himself? - -As soon as Emilie had gone René, his mind busied with the thoughts his -sister's last words had suggested, rose and dressed himself, and for the -first time found courage to look the situation well in the face. He -remembered the little garden in the Rue de Bagneux, and the evening when -he had first impressed a kiss upon the girl's blushing cheek. It is -true, he had never been her avowed lover; but what of those kisses and -their secret betrothal? One truth appeared to him indisputable--that a -man has no right to steal a maiden's love unless he feels strong enough -to cherish it for ever. But he also felt that his sister had given voice -to the thought that had filled him ever since the success of his play -had opened up such a horizon of hope. 'This grandeur and magnificence!' -Emilie had said, and again the vision of all the splendour he had -witnessed rose up before him--again, set in this rich frame, he saw the -face of Madame Moraines with that sweet smile of hers. In his loyalty -the young poet tried to banish this seductive apparition from his mind. - -'Poor Rosalie, how sweet she is, and how she loves me!' he said, finding -some sad satisfaction in the contemplation of the deep love he had -inspired, and carrying these feelings with him to the breakfast table. -How simply that table was laid, and how little resemblance it bore to -the splendid display of the previous night. The table-cover was of -oil-cloth, adorned with coloured flowers; on this stood a very modest -service of white china, the heavy glasses that accompanied it being -rendered necessary by the combined clumsiness of Fresneau, Constant, and -Françoise, which would have made the use of crystal too costly for the -family budget. Fresneau, with his long beard and his look of -distraction, ate quickly, leaning his elbows on the table and carrying -his knife to his mouth; he was as common in manners as he was kind of -heart, and, as if to emphasise more strongly by contrast the impression -which the idle cosmopolitanism of high life had made upon René, he -laughingly gave on account of his morning. - -At seven he had given a lesson at Ecole Saint-André. From eight to ten -he had taken a class of boys in the same school who were still too young -to follow the ordinary curriculum. Then he had just had time to jump -into a Pantheon omnibus which took him to a third lesson in the Rue -d'Astorg. 'I bought a paper on the way,' added the good man, 'to read -the account of last night's affair. Dear me,' he exclaimed, undoing the -strap that held his small parcel of books, 'I must have lost it.' - -'You are so careless,' said Emilie almost angrily. - -'Oh! it doesn't matter!' cried René gaily; 'Offarel will tell us all -about it. You know that he is my walking guide-book. By to-night he will -have read all the Paris and provincial newspapers.' - -Knowing that the smallest details of last night's performance would be -collected by Rosalie's father and commented upon by her mother, René -was the more anxious to give the girl a full account of it himself. -There is an instinct in man--is it hypocrisy or pity?--which impels him -to treat with the utmost regard the woman who no longer holds his -affections. Directly lunch was over he bent his steps towards the Rue de -Bagneux. It had formerly been his custom to call upon the Fresneaus -pretty frequently about that time. While covering the short distance he -had often extemporised a few verses, after the manner of Heine, which he -poured into Rosalie's ear when they were alone. The power of walking in -a day-dream had, however, long since left him, and rarely had the -vulgarity of this corner of Paris struck him to such a degree. All in it -was eloquent of the sordid lives of the _petit bourgeois_--from the -number of the little shops to the display of their cheap and varied -wares that covered half the pavement. In the windows of the restaurants -were bills of fare offering meals of various courses at extraordinarily -low prices. Even the cooking utensils on sale in the bazaars seemed to -have an air of poverty about them. - -These and a score of other details reminded the young man of the limited -resources of small incomes, of an existence reduced to that shabby -gentility which has not the horrible and attractive picturesqueness of -absolute want. When we begin to love we find in all the surroundings of -our beloved so many reasons for increased affection, and when we cease -to love these same details furnish the heart with as many reasons for -further hardening. Why did the impression made upon René by the -wretchedness of the neighbourhood cause him to feel annoyed with -Rosalie? Why did the appearance of the Rue de Bagneux make him as angry -with the girl as any personal wrong done to himself? This street, with -its line of old houses and a blank wall at the bottom, had a most -deserted and poverty-stricken air. At the moment when René entered it -one end was almost blocked up by a cart heavily laden with straw, the -three horses yoked to it, in country fashion, by stout ropes, standing -with their heads half hidden in their nosebags whilst the driver was -finishing his dinner in a small, greasy-looking cookshop. A Sister of -Mercy was walking along the pavement on the left carrying a large -umbrella under her arm; the wind flapped the wings of her immense white -cap up and down, and the cross of her rosary beat against her blue serge -dress. Why, after having heaped upon Rosalie all the displeasure caused -by the sight of her miserable surroundings, did René involuntarily -connect Madame Moraines with the religious ideas the good Sister's dress -evoked? The manner in which that beautiful creature had spoken only the -night before of the pious works performed by many so-called frivolous -women came back to him. Three times that day had Suzanne's image come -before him, and each time more distinctly. Great heavens! What joy were -his if his good genius brought him face to face with her in some retired -street like this as she was going to visit her poor! But that was out of -the question, so René turned down a passage at the end of which were -the ground floor apartments occupied by the Offarels. Profiting by the -example of the Fresneaus, they, too, had realised the ambition of every -family of the _petite bourgeoisie_ of Paris, and had found in this -deserted quarter of the capital a suite of rooms with a bit of garden as -large as a pocket-handkerchief. - -'Ah! Monsieur René!' exclaimed Rosalie, coming to the door in answer to -the young man's ring at the bell. The Offarels only employed the -services of a charwoman who left at twelve o'clock, and concerning whom -the old lady always had an inexhaustible stock of anecdotes. At the -sight of her lover, poor Rosalie, generally somewhat pale, coloured with -joy, and she could not repress the cry of pleasure that rose to her -lips. - -'How good of you to come and tell us so soon how your play got on!' she -said, taking the visitor into the dining-room, a dismal apartment with a -north light, and in which there was no fire. Madame Offarel was so -stingy that in winter, when the weather was not too cold, she would save -the expense of fuel, and make her daughters wear mittens and capes -instead! 'We are just going through the linen,' remarked the good lady, -motioning René to a chair. - -On the table lay the whole of the fortnightly washing, from the old -man's shirts to the girls' underclothes, the bluish whiteness of the -calicots and cottons being enhanced by the darkness of the room. It was -the poor linen of a family in straitened circumstances; there were -stockings evidently darned times out of number, serviettes full of -holes, cuffs and collars frayed at the edges--in fact, a whole heap of -things that Rosalie felt were not for a poet's eyes. She therefore gave -him no time to sit down, but said, 'Monsieur René had much better come -into the drawing-room--it's so dark here.' - -Before her mother had had time to say anything further she had pushed -the visitor into the apartment honoured by that pompous name, and which, -in reality, more often served as a workroom for Angélique. The latter -added a little to the income of the family by occasionally translating -an English novel, and was at that moment seated at a small table near -the window, writing. A dictionary was lying at her feet, those -extremities being encased in a pair of slippers the backs of which she -had trodden down for ease. No sooner had she caught sight of Vincy than -she gathered up her books and papers and fled. - -'Excuse me, Monsieur René,' she exclaimed, brushing back with one hand -the hair that hung about her head and casting an apologetic look at her -dress--a loose morning wrapper wanting some half-dozen buttons down the -front. 'I am a perfect fright--don't look at me, please.' - -The young man sat down and let his eyes wander round the well-known -room, whose chief ornament consisted in a row of aquarelles executed by -M. Offarel in Government time. There were about a dozen, some -representing bits of landscape that he had discovered in his Sunday -walks, others being copies of pictures he admired, and which René's -more modern taste therefore detested. A faded felt carpet, six -cloth-covered chairs and a sofa completed the furniture of this room, -which René had once looked upon as a symbol of almost idyllic -simplicity, but which now appeared doubly hateful to him in his present -state of mind, aggravated by the acidity of Madame Offarel's accents. - -'Well, did you enjoy yourself amongst all your grand folks last night? I -suppose your friend only visits people now who keep a carriage, eh? -Whenever he opens his mouth you hear of nothing but countesses and -princesses. Dear me! He needn't think himself as grand as all that--he -was giving lessons only ten years ago.' - -'Mamma!' exclaimed Rosalie in beseeching tones. - -'Well, what does he want to be so stuck up about?' continued the old -lady. 'He looks at us as much as to say "Poor devils!"' - -'How mistaken you are in him!' replied René. 'He is rather fond of -going into smart society, it is true, but that is only natural in an -artist. Why, it's the same with me,' he went on, with a smile. 'I was -delighted to go to this affair last night and see that magnificent house -filled with flowers and fine dresses. Do you think that prevents me -appreciating my modest home and my old friends? All writers have that -mad longing for splendour--even Balzac and Musset had it. It is a -childish fancy of no importance.' - -Whilst the young man was speaking Rosalie darted a look at her mother -that told of more happiness than her poor eyes had expressed for months -past. In thus confessing to and ridiculing his own inmost feelings, -René was obeying impulses too complicated for the simple girl to -understand. When Madame Offarel had spoken of 'your grand folks' the -young man had seen by the look of anguish in her daughter's eyes that -his love for the false glamour of elegance had not escaped Rosalie's -perspicacity. He was ashamed of being found guilty of such a plebeian -failing, and therefore laid bare his impressions as though he were not -their dupe--partly in order to reassure the girl and spare her -unnecessary pain, partly in order to indulge in a little weakness -without having to reproach himself unduly. - -Certain natures--and, owing to the habit of introspection, these are -frequently found amongst writers--find pardon for their sins in mere -confession. In defending Claude Larcher, René, with an irony that would -have escaped sharper critics than a trusting girl, managed to administer -a sharp rebuke to his own follies. Whilst openly ridiculing what he -himself called his snobbishness, he continued to make those -mean-spirited mental comparisons that would force themselves upon him -all that day. He could not help measuring the gulf that separated the -creatures he had seen at Madame Komof's--living blooms reared in the -hothouse of European aristocracy--from the pale-faced and simple-looking -creature before him, her hands spoilt by work, her hair tied back in a -knot, and dressed so plainly as to look almost uncouth. The comparison, -when dwelt upon, became quite painful, and caused the young man one of -those inexplicable fits of ill-humour that always nonplussed Rosalie. - -Knowing him as she did, she could always see when he had them, but she -never guessed their cause. She knew by instinct that there were two -Renés existing side by side--the one kind, tender, and good, easily -moved and unable to withstand grief--in a word, the René she loved; the -other cold, indifferent, and easily irritated. The bond that united -these two beings she was, however, unable to find. All she knew was that -before the triumphant success of the 'Sigisbée' she had seen only the -first of these two Renés, and since then only the second. She was -afraid to say 'the unfortunate success;' she had been so proud of it, -and yet she would have given so much to go back to the time when her -darling was poor and unknown, but all her own. How quickly he could make -his voice hard, so hard that even the words addressed to another seemed -by their intonation alone to be intended to wound her. At that moment, -for instance, he was talking to her mother, and the mere accent that he -gave to words empty in themselves touched Rosalie to the quick. - -Suddenly Madame Offarel, who had been listening intently for a few -seconds, started up. 'I can hear Cendrette scratching at the door,' she -said; 'the dear creature wants to go out.' - -With these words she returned to the dining-room in order to open the -yard door for her favourite cat. She was probably delighted to have an -excuse for leaving the two young people together; for, Cendrette having -gone off, she stood for some time stroking Raton, another of her feline -boarders. 'How clever you are, my Raton! How I love you, my little -demon!' These were some of the pet names that she had devised for her -cats, and as she repeated them and a dozen others in rather loud tones -she was saying to herself: 'If he has come at once, that proves he is -still faithful to her--but when will he propose? Poor girl! He'll not -find a jewel like her in any of his gilded saloons. She's pretty, -gentle, good, and true!' Then aloud: 'Isn't that so, my Raton? You -understand, don't you, my son?' And as the cat arched her back, rubbed -her head against her mistress's skirt, and purred voluptuously, the -mother's internal monologue went on: 'And he is a good match, too. We -didn't despise him before; so we have a right to set our caps at him -now. She won't have to drudge, as I do for Offarel. It's a pity that she -should have to spoil her pretty fingers botching up this old linen.' -With the mechanical activity of an old housewife, she made a small pile -of the handkerchiefs already gone through, and continued her thoughts: -'Her little dowry, too! What a surprise it will be!' By exercising the -most stringent economy, she had managed to save, out of her husband's -modest salary, some fifteen thousand francs, which she had invested -unknown to M. Offarel. She smiled to herself and listened with some -anxiety. 'I wonder what they are talking about!' - -She knew that her daughter was fond of René, but she was still ignorant -of the secret bonds that united the young people. What would have been -her astonishment had she known that Rosalie had already frequently but -timidly exchanged stolen kisses with her lover, and that immediately her -mother's back was turned she had taken René's hand in hers and murmured -in a voice of gentle reproach, 'How could you go off last night without -saying good-bye?' - -'Claude dragged me out,' said René, reddening, and pressing his -sweetheart's fingers. She was, however, not taken in either by the -excuse or the feigned caress, and, drawing back her hand, shook her head -sadly, while her words came out with an evident effort. - -'No,' she observed; 'you are not so nice to me as you used to be. How -long is it since you last wrote me a line of poetry?' - -'You're not so silly as to think people can sit down and write poetry -when they like?' replied the young man, almost harshly. He was seized by -that irritability which is a sure sign of the decline of love. The -obligation to make a show of sentiment--a most cruel duty--was felt by -him in one of its thousand forms. - -By an instinct which leads them to sound the depths of their present -misfortune whilst desperately clinging to their past happiness, the -women who feel love slipping from them formulate these small, -unpretending demands that have the same effect upon a man as a clumsy -tug at the curb has upon a restive horse. The lover who has come with -the firm intention of being gentle and affectionate immediately rears. -Rosalie had made a mistake; she felt that as plainly as she had felt -René's indifference a few minutes ago, and a feeling of despair, such -as she had never known before, crept over her. Since her lover's -departure on the previous evening she had been jealous--she had no -reason to be, and she would scarcely admit to herself that she was--but -she was jealous all the same. 'Whom will he meet there? To whom is he -talking?' she had asked herself again and again instead of going to -sleep. And now she thought, 'Ah! he is already unfaithful, or he would -not have spoken to me in this manner.' - -The silence that followed the harsh reply was so painful that she -timidly asked, 'Did the actors play their parts well last night?' - -Why was she hurt to see how eager René was to answer her question, and -to turn the conversation from a more serious subject? Because the heart -of a woman who is really in love--and that Rosalie was--is susceptible -to the lightest trifles, and in despair she heard René reply: 'They -acted divinely,' after which he immediately plunged into a dissertation -on the difference between acting on a stage some distance from the -audience and acting in the limited space of a drawing-room. - -'Poor child!' thought Madame Offarel as she returned to the _salon_, -'she is so simple; she has not got him to talk of anything but that -wretched play!' Then, in order to be revenged on some one for René's -procrastination in proposing, she added aloud, 'Tell me--isn't your -friend Larcher rather jealous of your success?' - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC - - -René had entered the house in the Rue de Bagneux a prey to painful -impressions, and when he left it his impressions were more painful -still. Then he had been discontented with his surroundings--now he was -discontented with himself. He had called on Rosalie with the idea of -giving her a little pleasure, and sparing her the trifling pain of -hearing all about his success from the mouth of another; instead of -which his visit had only caused the girl fresh grief. Although the poet -had never harboured aught else than an imaginary love for this child -with the beautiful black eyes, that love had gone deep enough to implant -in his breast what is last to die in the break-up of any passion--an -extraordinary power of following the least movements of that virgin -heart, and a pity, as unavailing as it was distressing, for all the pain -he had caused it. - -Once more he asked himself this question: 'Is it not my duty to tell her -I no longer love her?' An insoluble question, for it admits of only two -replies--both impossible ones--the first, cruel and brutal in its -egoism, if our feelings are plain; the second a frightful mixture of -pity and treachery, if they are complicated. The young man shook his -head as if to chase away the obtrusive thought, and muttering the -eternal 'We shall see--later on,' by which so many agonies have been -prolonged, forced himself to look about him. He had mechanically turned -his steps towards that portion of the Faubourg Saint-Germain where, in -younger days, he had loved to walk, and, inspired by Balzac, that -dangerous Iliad of poor plebeians, imagine that he saw the face of a -Duchesse de Langeais or de Maufrigneuse looking out from every window. - -He was now in that wide but desolate thoroughfare called Rue -Barbet-de-Jouy, which, by reason of the total absence of shops, the -grandeur of its buildings, and the countrified look of its enclosed -gardens, seems a fitting frame for some fine lady of artificial -aristocracy. An inevitable association of ideas brought René's mind -back to the Komof mansion, and the thought of that lordly dwelling -conjured up, for the fourth time that day, but more clearly than ever, -the image of Madame Moraines. This time, however, worn-out by the -fretful emotions through which he had passed, he became entirely -absorbed in the contemplation of that image instead of trying to dispel -it. To think of Madame Moraines was to forget Rosalie, and experience, -moreover, a peculiarly sweet sensation. - -After a few minutes of this mental contemplation the natural roamings of -his fancy led the young man to ask himself, 'When shall I see her -again?' He recalled the tone of her voice and her smile as she had said, -'On Opera days, before dinner.' Opera days? This novice of Society did -not even know them. He felt a childish pleasure, out of all proportion -to its ostensible cause--like that of a man who is realising his wildest -dreams--in gaining the Boulevard des Invalides as quickly as possible -and in finding one of the posts that display theatrical advertisements. -It was Friday, and the bills announced a performance of the _Huguenots_. -René's heart began to beat faster. He had forgotten Rosalie, his -remorse of a little while ago, and the question that he had put to -himself. That inner voice which whispers in our soul's ear such advice -as would, upon reflection, astonish us, had just said to him: 'Madame -Moraines will be at home to-day. What if you went?' - -'What if I went?' he repeated aloud, and the bare idea of this visit -parched his throat and set him trembling. It is the facility with which -extreme emotions are brought into play upon the slightest provocation -that makes the inner life of young men full of such strange and rapid -transitions from the heights of joy to the depths of misery. René had -no sooner put the temptation that beset him into words than he shrugged -his shoulders and said, 'It's madness.' Having arrived at that decision, -he commenced to plead the cause of his own desire under pretence of -summing up the objections. 'How would she receive me?' The remembrance -of her beautiful eyes and of her sweet smile made him reply, 'But she -was so gentle and so indulgent.' Then he resumed his questioning. 'What -could I say to justify a visit less than twenty-four hours after having -left her?' 'Pooh!' replied the tempting voice, 'the occasion brings its -own inspiration.' 'But I am not even dressed.' Well, he had only to go -to the Rue Coëtlogon. 'But I don't even know her address.' 'Claude -knows it--I have only to ask him.' - -The idea of calling on Larcher having once presented itself to his mind, -he felt that it would be impossible not to put at least that part of his -plan into execution. To call on Claude was the first step towards -reaching Madame Moraines; but, instead of confessing that, René was -hypocrite enough to pretend other reasons. Ought he not really to go and -obtain news of his friend? He had left him so unhappy, so truly -miserable, on the previous evening. Perhaps he was now fretting like a -child? Perhaps he was preparing to pick a quarrel with Salvaney? In this -way the poet excused himself for the haste with which he was now making -for the Rue de Varenne. It was not only Suzanne's address that he hoped -to obtain, but information about her too--and all the while he was -trying to persuade himself that he was simply fulfilling a duty of -friendship. - -In a very short time he had reached the corner of the Rue de -Bellechasse, and a few moments later he found himself before the great -doors of the strange house in which Larcher had taken up his abode. -Pushing these open, he entered an immense courtyard in which everything -spoke of desolation, from the grass that grew between the stones to the -cobwebs that covered the windows of the deserted stables on the left. At -the bottom of the courtyard stood a noble mansion, built in the reign of -Louis XIV., and bearing the proud motto of the Saint-Euvertes, whose -town house this had been, _Fortiter._ The stones of this building, -already bearing traces of the ravages of time, its long shuttered -windows and its silence were all in harmony with the solitude of the -courtyard. The old Faubourg Saint-Germain contains many such houses, -strange as the destiny of their owners, and which will always prove -peculiarly attractive to minds in search of the psychologically -picturesque--if we may unite these two words to define an almost -indefinable shade of meaning. - -René had heard the history of this mansion from his friend; how the old -Marquis de Saint-Euverte, reduced to despair by the almost simultaneous -loss of his wife, his three daughters, and their husbands, had, six -years ago, gone to live with his grandsons on his estates in Poitou. An -epidemic of typhoid fever suddenly breaking out in a small -watering-place where all the family were staying together had made this -happy old man the lonely guardian of a tribe of orphans. Even during the -lifetime of the Marquise--an excellent business woman--two small wings -in the house had been let to quiet tenants. These wings had also a -history of their own, the grandfather of the present Marquis having -placed them at the disposal of two cousins--Knights of Saint-Louis and -at one time political refugees--who, after a wretched, wandering -existence, had ended their days here. M. de Saint-Euverte had left -everything as his wife had arranged it. Claude therefore one day found -himself the only tenant in the whole of this silent, gloomy building, -for the occupant of the other wing had been scared away by the -loneliness of the place, and no one else had yet seemed anxious to bury -himself in this tomb, standing between a desolate courtyard and a still -more desolate garden. - -But all these points, that were so displeasing to others, were a source -of delight to Larcher. The oddness of the place appealed particularly to -this dreamer and maker of paradoxes. It pleased him to set his irregular -existence as an artist and a swell clubman in this framework of imposing -solitude; and here, too, he could shut himself up with his secret -agonies. The love of analytical introspection with which he knew he was -infected, and which, like a doctor cultivating his own disease for the -sake of a fine 'case,' he carefully nurtured, could not have found a -better home. Then, again, here Larcher enjoyed absolute freedom. The -_concierge_, won over by a few theatre tickets and fascinated by the -reputation of his tenant, would have allowed him to hold a saturnalian -feast in every hall of the Saint-Euverte mansion had Claude felt any -desire to found another _Club de Haschischins_ or to reproduce some -scene of literary orgies out of love for the romanticism of 1830. The -_concierge_ was absent from his post when René arrived, so that the -poet walked straight across the courtyard to the house. Entering the -main hall, where the magnificent lamps bore testimony to the grandeur of -the receptions once held here, he mounted the stone staircase, whose -wrought-iron balustrade formed a splendid ornament to the huge well of -the house. On the second floor he turned down a corridor, at the end of -which heavy curtains of Oriental texture proclaimed a modern -installation hidden in the depths of a mansion that seemed to be peopled -only with the bewigged ghosts of _grands seigneurs._ - -The man-servant who answered his ring possessed that type of face -peculiar to nearly all custodians of old buildings; it is met with both -in the guides of ruined castles and in the vergers of cathedrals, and -shows how vast must be the influence which places have on human beings. -It is a face with a greenish tint and with a hawk-like expression about -the eyes and mouth; from its appearance one would suppose that it smelt -damp. Ferdinand--that was the name of this individual--differed from his -kind only in dress, which, consisting as it did of Claude's cast off -clothes, was fashionable and smart. He had been valet to the late Comte -de Saint-Euverte, and, in addition to his duties as Larcher's servant, -he was a kind of housekeeper for the whole mansion, from which he seldom -emerged more than once a month. The _concierge_ went on all the writer's -errands, and his wife did the cooking. This little world lived entirely -under the spell of Claude, who, through his knowledge of character and -his infantile goodness of heart, possessed in a rare degree the gift of -winning the attachment of his inferiors. When Ferdinand saw who the -caller was he could not help showing great uneasiness. - -'They shouldn't have let you come up, sir!' he said. 'I shall get into -trouble.' - -'Is Monsieur Larcher at work?' asked René, smiling at the man's terror. - -'No,' replied Ferdinand in an undertone, and quite at a loss what to do -with a visitor whom his master had evidently not expected. 'But Madame -Colette is here.' - -'Ask him whether he can see me for a minute,' said the poet, curious to -know how the two lovers stood after the scene of the preceding evening; -and, in order to conquer the valet's hesitation, he added: 'I'll take -all the responsibility.' - -'You may come up, sir,' was the answer with which he returned, and, -preceding René through the ante-room, he took him up the small inner -staircase that led to the three apartments usually inhabited by Claude, -and which the writer either called his 'laboratory' or his -'torture-chamber,' according to the mood he was in. - -The staircase and the first two of the three rooms were remarkable for -the richness of their carpets and hangings. The faint light that -filtered through the stained-glass windows on this dull February -afternoon scarcely cast a shadow, either in the smoking-room with its -morocco-covered furniture or in the large _salon_ lined with books. -Claude's favourite nook was a den at the end, the walls of which were -hung with some dark material and adorned with a few canvases and -_aquarelles_ of the most modern painters of the day--these being what -the writer's extravagant fancy preferred. There were two opera boxes by -Forain, a dancing girl by Degas, a rural scene by Raffaelli, a sea-piece -by Monet, four etchings by Félicien Rops, and on a draped pedestal a -bust of Larcher himself by Rodin. The bust was a splendid piece of work, -in which the great sculptor had reproduced with marvellous skill all -that might be read in his model's face--qualms of morality mingled with -libertinism, bold reflection allied to a weak will, innate idealism hand -in hand with an almost systematically acquired corruption. A low -bookcase, a desk in one corner, three fauteuils in Venetian style with -negroes supporting the arms, and a wide green leather couch completed -the furniture of this retreat, clouded at that moment with the smoke of -Colette's Russian cigarette. - -The young lady was lying at full length on the couch, her fair hair -tumbling about her ears, and attired in somewhat masculine style, with a -stand-up collar and an open jacket. Her short plain cloth skirt revealed -a pair of neat ankles and long narrow feet encased in black silk -stockings and patent leather shoes. Her sunken cheeks were pale--that -pallor produced in most theatrical women by the constant use of paint, -by late hours, and by the fatigues of an arduous profession. - -'_Ah! mon petit Vincy_,' she cried, holding out her hand to the visitor, -'you have come just in time to save me from a beating. I only wish you -knew how badly this boy treats me! Come, Claudie,' she added, shaking -her finger at her lover, who was seated at her feet, 'say it's not true -if you dare.' And with a graceful movement of her lithe and supple -body--she herself would confess that she scarcely ever wore a -corset--the charming creature rose to a sitting posture, laid her fair -head on Claude's shoulder, and placed between his lips the cigarette she -had just been smoking. The wretched man looked at his young friend with -shame and supplication written on his face; then, turning to Colette, -his eyes filled with tears. At this the actress's behaviour became more -wanton still, and leaning forward upon her lover's shoulder, she gazed -into his eyes until she saw in them the look of passion that she knew so -well how to turn to her own advantage. - -A dead silence ensued. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and a -solitary sunbeam, making its way through the coloured glass, fell in a -long red streak upon the girl's face. René had been present at scenes -of this kind too often to feel surprised at the want of modesty of -either his friend or Colette. He was well acquainted with the strange -cynicism of their nature; but he also remembered Claude's terrible -language the night before, and the cruel words his mistress had uttered -after his disappearance. He was astounded to see to what depths of -degradation the writer's weakness dragged him down, and to witness such -proofs of this wretched woman's inconsistency. In the close atmosphere -of this room, impregnated with the perfume that Colette used, and before -the almost immodest attitude of the pair before him, there came over him -a feeling of sensuality with which he was already too familiar. The -sight of this depraved creature--though her depravity was generally -clothed in graceful forms--had often awakened in him ideas of a physical -passion very different from any he had hitherto known. She had -frequently received him in her dressing-room at the theatre, and as she -stood in careless dishabille before her glass putting the finishing -touches to her face, or completing, with unblushing indifference, the -more hidden details of her toilet, she had appeared to him like some -temptress personifying the highest forms of voluptuousness, and at such -times he would envy Claude as much as he sometimes pitied him. But these -feelings would soon be dispelled by the disgust with which the moral -degradation of the actress inspired him and by the burning scruples of -friendship that animate and restrain the young. René would have been -horrified to find himself, even for a moment, coveting what he -considered his friend's property, and perhaps the knowledge of this -delicacy of feeling went for something in Colette's behaviour. Out of -sheer wantonness she amused herself by displaying her beauty before him, -just as we hold up a flower to be smelt when we know the hands will not -be put out to seize it. Wantonness it was, too, that led the misguided -girl to dally with Claude and to lavish such caresses upon him before -René. - -All this, however, produced in the poet a vague physical longing that he -could not repress; it grew upon him unconsciously, and, by an -association of desires, more difficult to interrupt in its secret -workings than an association of ideas, the vision of Madame Moraines was -once more before him, surrounded by the halo of seduction that had so -completely dazzled him on the previous evening. Two things were now -obvious to René: one was, that he must go and call on that woman -to-day; the other, that he would never be able to utter her name and ask -for her address before the lascivious creature who was torturing Claude -with her kisses. - -'Get away,' said the writer, pushing her from him; 'I love you, and you -know it. Why, then, do you make me suffer so? Ask René what a state I -was in last night. Tell her, Vincy, and tell her she should not trifle -with me. After all,' he cried, burying his face in his hands, 'what does -it matter? If you became the most degraded wretch on earth, I should -still idolise you.' - -'These are some of the pretty things I have to hear all day long,' cried -Colette, rolling back on the cushions with a laugh. 'Well, René, tell -him about me too. Tell him how angry I was last night because he went -home without saying a word. And then he didn't write, so I came here. -Yes, I came to _him_, if you please. You savage!' she cried, taking -Larcher by the hair, 'do you think I should trouble to run after you if -I didn't love you?' - -Every feature of her face expressed the real nature of the feeling she -entertained for Claude--cruel sensuality, that sensuality which impels a -woman to make a martyr of the man from whose power she cannot free -herself. History tells of queens who loved in this fashion, and who -handed over to the headsman the men whom they hated and yet desired to -possess. René quietly observed: - -'I was uneasy about him last night, it is true, and you were very -cruel.' - -'That will do!' cried Colette, with a contemptuous laugh. 'I've already -told you that you swallow anything he says. I've given that up myself -long ago. One day he threatened to commit suicide, and when I came here -in my stage clothes, without even waiting to wash my paint off, I found -him--correcting proofs!' - -'But that I'm obliged to do,' replied Claude; 'you often have to smile -on the stage yourself when you're really in trouble.' - -'What does that prove?' she retorted sharply; 'that we are merely -acting. Only I take you for what you are, and you don't.' - -Whilst she rattled on, rating Claude with that savage rancour that a -woman takes no pains to conceal from the man with whom she is on -intimate terms, René's glance, as it wandered round the room, fell upon -a directory containing the addresses of the 'upper ten' and the -hangers-on of Society. - -Taking it up he turned over the leaves, and to offer some excuse for his -action, mendaciously remarked, 'Why, your name isn't here, Claude!' - -'I should think not,' said Colette; 'I won't let him send it. He sees -quite enough of the swells as it is.' - -'I thought you liked the society of that kind of man,' observed Claude. - -'What a clever thing to say!' she replied, with a graceful shrug of her -shoulders. 'They're smart, it's true--it's their business to be. They -know how to dress, to play tennis, to ride, and to talk of horses, -whilst you, with all your brains, will never be anything but a cad. How -I wish you were now what you were eight years ago when I first met you -in that restaurant at the corner of the Rue des Saints-Pères! I had -just come from the Conservatoire with my mother and Farguet, my -professor, and we were having some lunch. You looked so good, sitting in -the corner--as though you had come from a monastery, and were having -your first peep at the world. It was that, I think, that made me like -you. Are you coming to the theatre to-night?' she asked René, as he -closed the book and rose to go. He had found what he wanted; Madame -Moraines lived in the Rue Murillo, near the Parc Monceau. 'No? Well, -to-morrow then, and mind you don't get gadding about like this boy! Such -fine ladies as they are, too, your Society women--I know something of -them! Oh, look at his face--won't he storm as soon as you're gone! -You're surely not going to be jealous of women?' she said, lighting a -fresh cigarette. 'Good-bye, René.' - -'She is like that before you,' observed Claude, as he let his friend -out; 'but you wouldn't believe how gentle and affectionate she can be -when we are alone!' - -'And how about Salvaney?' asked René unthinkingly. - -Claude turned pale. 'She says that she merely went to his rooms to look -at some drawings for her next _rôle_: she swears that there was nothing -wrong in it With women, everything is possible--even what is good,' he -added, giving René a hand that was not very steady. 'I can't help it--I -must believe her when she looks at me in her peculiar way.' - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE FACE OF A MADONNA - - -'Can a man of sense, and a good fellow into the bargain, fall as low as -that?' René asked himself on leaving his unhappy friend. Then, thinking -of Colette's handsome face, he muttered, 'She is very pretty. Heavens! -if one could only get Rosalie's beauty of soul united to this creature's -incomparable grace and elegance!' - -But was not such union to be found? The inner or moral beauty, without -which a woman is more bitter than death to the heart of a right-thinking -man, and the outer or physical glamour that enables her to attract and -captivate his grosser nature--was not such complete and supreme harmony -to be found in those creatures whom the accidents of birth and fortune -have surrounded by the attributes of real aristocracy, and whose -personal charms are in keeping with their surroundings? Was not Madame -Moraines an example of this? In any case, that was the poet's first -impression of her, and he took a delight in strengthening this -impression by argument. Yes, he was sure that this woman, whose soothing -image floated through his brain, did indeed possess that double -charm--not only beauty and grace superior to Colette's, but a soul as -unsullied as Rosalie's. The refinement of her manners, the sweetness of -her voice, and the ideality of her conversation gave abundant proofs of -it. - -René walked on, his mind occupied with these thoughts, and his eyes -fixed upon a sort of mirage that made him insensible to all around him. -He awoke from this fit of somnambulism on reaching the end of the Pont -des Invalides, and found himself in the middle of the Avenue d'Antin. -His footsteps had mechanically turned towards the quarter where dwelt -the woman to whom his thoughts were so constantly recurring that day. He -smiled as he remembered how often he had made a pilgrimage to this Rue -Murillo when Gustave Flaubert still lived there. René was such an -ardent admirer of the author of the 'Tentation' that it had always been -a great treat to him to gaze up at the house of the eminent and powerful -writer. How long ago those times seemed now, and how rapturous they -would have been had he then known that the woman who was to realise his -fondest ideal would live in that very street! Should he go and see her -to-day? The question became more pressing as time advanced. One sweep -more of the large hand round the dial, and it would be five o'clock--he -could see her. He could see her! The idea of this being a real -possibility took such a hold upon his mind that all the objections his -timidity could devise arose at once. 'No,' he muttered, 'I shall not go; -she would be surprised to see me so soon. She only asked me to come -because she knew all the others had invited me. She did not want to seem -less polite.' - -What had seemed in others an empty compliment became a delicate -attention in the case of the woman he was beginning to love--unknown to -himself. The discovery of an additional motive for distinguishing her -from all the women he had met on the previous evening made him feel less -able to resist the desire to be near her. He hailed a cab almost -mechanically, and on reaching home commenced to dress. His sister was -out, and Françoise was busy in the kitchen. Though he had still not the -courage to say to himself outright, 'I am going to the Rue Murillo,' he -paid as much attention to the minute details of his toilet as amorous -youths--at such times a deal more coquettish than women--are wont to do. -It was now no longer upon his timidity that he relied for help to battle -against the ever-increasing desire within him. Every object in the room -recalled memories of Rosalie. With the innate honesty of the young, he -for a long time tried to impress upon himself the duty he owed the poor -girl. 'What would I think of her if I heard that she was accepting the -attentions of a man whom she liked as much as I like Madame Moraines? -But then,' rejoined the tempting voice, 'you are an artist, and require -fresh sensations and experience of the world. And who says that you are -going to call on Madame Moraines only to make love to her?' - -He was just in the act of applying his handkerchief to a bottle of -'white rose' that stood on his dressing-table. The penetrating perfume -sent the warm blood coursing through his veins in that irresistible tide -of voluptuous desire that marks the nascent passions of ardent but -continent natures such as his. Since his secret engagement to Rosalie -his delicate scruples had led him to return to a life of absolute -purity. But the barriers of reserve gave way before this subtle perfume, -which awakened memories of all that was least ideal in her rival--the -golden ringlets in her neck, her ruby lips and pearly teeth, her snowy -rounded shoulders and the long bare arms with their tapering wrists. And -this, too, just as he was attempting to attribute his admiration for her -to intellectual motives. Of what avail were ideas of loyalty towards -Rosalie in the face of such visions? It was five o'clock. René left the -house, jumped into another cab, and told the man to drive to the Rue -Murillo. He kept his eyes closed the whole of the way, so intensely -painful was the sensation of suspense. Mingled with this was shame for -his own weakness, apprehension of what was in store for him, deep joy at -the thought that he was about to see that glorious face once more, and, -permeating all, a spice of that mad hope, intoxicating on account of its -very vagueness, that urges the young along fresh paths simply for the -sake of their novelty. The feeling of permanence, so indispensable to a -man of experience, who knows how short life really is, is hateful to the -very young. At twenty-five they are by nature changeable, and -consequently fickle. René, who was even better than a good many others, -had already irreparably betrayed in thoughts the girl who loved him when -his cab set him down at the door of the woman he had seen for one hour -on the previous night. He would rather have stepped upon Rosalie's heart -than not enter that door now. If a last thought of his betrothed did -trouble him at that moment, he no doubt dismissed it with the usual -phrase--'She won't know,' and passed on. - -The house in which Madame Moraines lived was one of those buildings to -be found in the fashionable quarters of Paris which, although parcelled -out into flats, have been made by the modern architect to look almost -like private mansions. The house was of noble elevation and stood back -some little distance from the street, the privacy of the courtyard being -insured by some railings that shut it off from the outside world. In the -centre of these railings was the porter's lodge, a sort of Gothic -pavilion, and as René inquired whether Madame Moraines was at home he -could see that the interior of this lodge was better furnished and -looked smarter and brighter than the drawing-room of the Offarels on -reception nights. The strain upon the young man's nerves had now become -so painful that if the veteran soldier who was ending his days in this -haven of rest had answered him in the negative he would almost have -thanked him. But what he heard was, 'Second floor up the steps at the -bottom of the courtyard.' - -He crossed the marble threshold and then mounted a wooden staircase -covered with a soft-toned carpet. The air that he breathed on the stairs -was warm, like that of a room. Here and there stood exotic plants, the -gaslight glinting on their green foliage. Chairs were placed at every -turn of the staircase, and twice did René sink down into one. His knees -trembled under him. If until then he had had any doubts respecting the -nature of the feelings he entertained for Madame Moraines, his present -state of excitement should have warned him that those feelings amounted -to something more than simple curiosity. But he went on as if he were in -a dream. He was in that state when he pressed the button at the side of -the door, when he heard the servant coming to open it, and when he gave -him his name; then, before he had recovered his wits, the man had shown -him into a small _salon_, where he found the dangerous creature whose -charms had so enslaved him, though he knew nothing of her except that -she was beautiful. Alas! that this beauty should so often be only a -mask, and a dangerous mask, too, when we give it credit for being more -than it really pretends to be. - -Had René in fancy painted any setting for this rare and majestic -beauty, he could have imagined no other than that in which he saw Madame -Moraines for the second time. She was seated at her writing-desk, on -which stood a lighted lamp covered with a lace shade, whilst an ivy -plant trained to creep along a gilded trellis formed a novel and -pleasing screen to the table. The small room was filled with a profusion -of ornaments and trifles indispensable to every modern interior. The -inevitable reclining-chair, with its heap of cushions, the whatnot -crowded with Japanese _netsukés_, the photographs in their frames of -filigree, the three or four _genre_ pictures, the lacquered boxes -standing on the little table covered with its strip of Oriental silk, -the flowers distributed here and there--who in Paris is unacquainted -with this refinement of comfort now so stereotyped as to be quite -commonplace? But all that René knew of Society life he had learnt -either from Balzac and other novelists of fifty years ago or from more -modern authors who had never seen the inside of a drawing-room; the -_ensemble_ of this apartment, beautifully harmonised by the soft tints -of the shaded lamp, was therefore to him like the revelation of a hidden -trait peculiar to the woman who had presided over its arrangement. The -charm of the moment was the more irresistible since the Madonna who -dwelt in this shrine, with its subdued light and its warm air heavy with -the scent of flowers, received him with a smile and a look in her eyes -that at once dispelled all his childish fears. - -The men whom Nature has endowed with that inexplicable power of pleasing -women, apart from whatever other qualities they may possess, either -mental or physical, are provided with a kind of antennæ of the soul to -warn them of the impressions they produce. The poet, in spite of his -complete ignorance both of Suzanne's disposition and of the customs of -the world she lived in, felt that he had done right in coming. This -knowledge served to soothe his overstrung nerves, and he gave himself up -entirely to the sweetness that emanated from this creature, the first of -her kind whom he had been permitted to approach. By merely looking at -her he saw that she was not the same woman as on the previous evening. -She had evidently but just come in; some pressing duty--a note, perhaps, -to be written--had only given her time to take off her hat and to -substitute a dainty pair of slippers for her outdoor boots, so that she -was still wearing a walking-dress of some dark material with a high -collar like Colette's. Her hair, René noticed, was of the same colour -as the actress's, and was twisted into a plain coil upon her head. Like -that, she seemed to René more approachable, less superhuman, less -surrounded by that impenetrable atmosphere in which the pomp of dress -and the ceremony of grand receptions envelop a woman of fashion. The few -traits that she possessed in common with the actress only added to her -charms. They enabled René to measure the distance that separated the -two beings, and whilst doing this he heard Suzanne say in that voice -which on the previous evening had proved so irresistibly seductive: 'How -good of you to come, Monsieur Vincy!' - -It was nothing--a mere figure of speech. Madame de Sermoises, and Madame -Ethorel, and even the spiteful Madame Hurault would have used the same -words. But, in the mouth of Madame Moraines, and for him to whom they -were addressed, they were expressive of deep and true sympathy, of -unbounded kindness, and of divine indulgence. The phrase had been -accompanied by a gesture of indescribable grace, by a slight look of -surprise in the pale blue eyes, and by a smile more seductive than ever. -Had René not come to the Rue Murillo fully prepared to seize upon the -slightest motives for admiring Suzanne still more, the tribute which she -paid to his vanity by this form of reception would alone have conquered -him. Do not the most celebrated authors and those most weary of -drawing-room sycophancy allow themselves to be captivated by attentions -of this kind? The author of the 'Sigisbée' was not inclined to look at -these things so critically, either. He had come in fear and trembling, -and his reception had shown him he was welcome. Since the morning he had -felt a passionate desire to see Suzanne again; he stood before her, and -she was glad to see him. - -There was a merry look in her eyes as her pretty lips now framed the -second sentence she had yet spoken: 'If you accepted all the invitations -which were showered upon you yesterday you must have had a hard day's -work?' - -'But you are the only one I have called upon, madame,' he replied -naïvely. He had scarcely uttered the words when a deep blush overspread -his face. The significance of his reply was so apparent, the sentiments -it expressed so sincere, that he felt quite abashed, like a child whose -simple nature has led it to tell what it wished to keep secret. Had he -not been guilty of familiarity that would shock this exquisite creature, -this woman whose delicate perception no shade of meaning could escape, -and upon whose sensitive nature the slightest want of tact would -certainly jar? The pale pink of her cheeks and the silken gloss of her -hair, the blue of her eyes, and the grace of all her person made her -appear to him for the few seconds that followed his exclamation like -some Titania, by the side of whom he was but an obscure and loutish -Bottom. Before her he felt as clumsy in mind as he would have been in -body had he tried to imitate any of her graceful movements--the way, for -instance, in which she closed her handsomely worked blotting-book and -with her fair hands put in order the knick-knacks that covered her -table. An imperceptible smile hovered about her lips as the young man -uttered his simple words. But how could he have seen that smile when his -eyes were modestly cast down at the moment? How could he have guessed -that his reply would be acceptable, although it was precisely the one -that had been expected and even provoked? René was only certain of one -thing--that Madame Moraines was as gentle and as kind as she was -beautiful; instead of appearing offended or drawing back she tried to -conquer the fresh fit of timidity that was beginning to seize him by -replying to his foolish remark. - -'Well, sir, I certainly deserve that preference, which would create a -deal of jealousy if it were known, for no one admires your talent as -much as I do. Your poetry contains such true and delicate sentiment. We -women, you know, never judge by reason; our hearts criticise for us, and -it is so seldom that a modern author manages to touch only the right -chords. How can it be otherwise? We are faithful to the old ideals--ah! -yes, I know that is not at all the fashion to-day--it makes one look -almost ridiculous. But we defy ridicule--and then, besides, I have -inherited these ideas from my poor father. It was always his fondest -wish to do something towards raising the literary tone in our unhappy -country. I thought of him as I listened to your verses; how he would -have enjoyed them!' - -She stopped, as if to banish these too melancholy recollections. On -hearing the way in which she pronounced her father's name one must needs -have been a monster of distrust not to believe that the incurable wound -caused by the death of that celebrated minister bled afresh every time -she thought of him. René was, nevertheless, a little surprised at the -tenor of her words. He remembered that one of the last things -Sainte-Beuve had written was a philippic against a copyright bill -proposed by Bois-Dauffin, and he had always looked upon the statesman as -one of the sworn enemies of literature, of whom there are thousands in -the political world. He, moreover, had a profound horror of the -conventional idealism to which Madame Moraines had alluded. In poetry, -his favourite author was Théophile Gautier, both on account of his -construction and the precision of his metaphors--in prose, the severe -Flaubert, on account of his wonderfully clear style, and his lack of all -mannerisms. - -It pleased him, however, that Suzanne should see in her father a liberal -protector of literature, for it proved the depth of her filial piety. He -was also pleased to find that she cherished an ideal of his art almost -childish in its simplicity. Such a comprehension of beauty, if sincere, -showed real inner purity. If sincere! René would have disdained to -entertain such a doubt in the presence of this ethereal angel with her -dreamy eyes. He stammered out some phrase as vague as that in which -Madame Moraines had expressed her idea, and spoke only of woman's fine -judgment in literature--he, the worshipper not only of Gautier, but of -Baudelaire! Was she quick enough to hear by his tone of voice that she -was on a wrong tack? Or did the profound ignorance in which, like so -many Society women, she was content to dwell--never reading anything -beyond a paper and a few third-rate novels when travelling--make it -impossible for her to keep up a conversation of this order and quote -names in support of her ideas? In any case, she soon dropped this -dangerous subject, and quickly passed from the ideal in art to another -more feminine problem, the ideal in love. In merely uttering the word -'love,' which, in itself, contains so much that is contradictory, she -managed to assume such an air of modesty that René felt as if he had -been taken into her confidence. It was evidently a subject upon which -this woman, so far above all ideas of gallantry, did not care to enter -unless she was in full sympathy with her hearer. - -'What pleases me, too, so much in the "Sigisbée,"' she observed, in her -sweet, musical voice, 'is the faith in love portrayed there--the horror -of coquetry, of lies, of all that dishonours the most divine sentiment -of which the human soul is capable. Believe me,' she added, resting her -head upon her hand as if in deep reflection, and regarding René with a -look of such seriousness that it seemed to concentrate all her thoughts; -'believe me, the day that you doubt the reality of love you will cease -to be a poet. But there is a God who watches over genius,' she went on, -with a kind of suppressed emotion. 'That God will not permit the -splendid gifts with which he has endowed you to be sterilised by -scepticism--for you are a believer, I am sure, and a good Catholic?' - -'I was,' he replied. - -'And now?' she asked, with a look almost of pain on her face. - -'I have my days of doubt,' he answered in simple fashion. She was -silent, whilst he sat gazing in speechless admiration at this woman who, -in the vortex of Society life, could still ascend to a world of higher -and nobler ideas. He did not stop to think that there was something -degrading--something like an attempt to gain cheap applause--in parading -before a stranger--and what else was he to her?--the most sacred -feelings of the heart. Although he had in his uncle, the Abbé Taconet, -a perfect example of a true Christian soul, he was not surprised to hear -Madame Moraines combine in one sentence two things so completely foreign -to each other as a belief in God and the gift of writing plays in verse. -He knew nothing except that to hear her voice once more, to see in her -blue eyes that expression of true faith, to gaze upon the curl of her -dainty lips, to feel her presence near him now, always, and for ever, he -would have braved the direst perils. Amid this silence the singing of -the tea urn in a corner of the little _salon_ became more perceptible. -Suzanne passed her hand with its well-polished nails over her eyes; -then, with a smile of apology for having dared, ignorant as she was, to -broach such serious problems to a great mind like his, she suddenly -changed her theme as lightly as some women will offer you a sandwich -after having discussed the immortality of the soul. - -'But you have not come here to be preached at,' she cried, 'and I am -forgetting that I am only a worldly woman after all. Will you have a cup -of tea? Then come and help me make it.' - -She rose; her step was so lithe and she walked with such an easy grace -that to René, who was already completely bewitched, it seemed as if her -very movements continued in some way the charm of her conversation. He -too had risen, and was now made to take a seat near the little table on -which the tea-kettle was singing merrily. He looked at her as her dainty -hands, so carefully tended, deftly moved amongst the fragile china with -which the tray was laden. She was talking, too, but now her talk ran -upon a score of details of every day life. As she poured the strong -liquor into the cups she told him where she got her tea; then, as she -added the boiling water, she questioned him upon the manner in which he -made his coffee when he wanted to work. She finished by taking a seat -beside him, after having spread a small cloth for the cups, the plates -of toast and cake, the pot of cream, and all the rest. She had set it -out as though it were for a young lady's tea party, and bestowed upon -her visitor those little attentions in which women excel. They know that -the most savage men often love to be petted and made much of, and that -they are so easily won by this false coinage of pretended affection. -Suzanne was now beginning to question the poet, and made him give her an -account of his feelings on the first night of the 'Sigisbée,' thus -completing her work of seduction by compelling him to talk about -himself. All René's timidity had disappeared, and he felt as if he had -known this woman for years, so rapidly had she succeeded in gaining an -ascendency over him in this first visit. It was therefore a cruel -sensation, like awaking from a heavenly dream, when the door opened to -admit a new-comer. - -'Oh! what a bother!' exclaimed Suzanne in an undertone. How sweet this -exclamation sounded in the poet's ears, and how he appreciated her -pretty look of annoyance, and the graceful shrug of her shoulders that -accompanied it! He rose to take his leave, but not before Madame -Moraines had introduced him to the unwelcome visitor. - -'Monsieur le Baron Desforges--Monsieur Vincy.' - -The poet caught a glance of a man of middle height attired in a -smart-fitting frock-coat. The man might have been fifty-five or -forty-five--in reality he was fifty-six--so difficult was it to read his -age from his impenetrable features. His moustache was still fair, and -though the Baron had managed to escape baldness, that plague common to -all Parisians, the colour of his hair, a decided grey, showed that he -made no attempt to hide his years. His face was a little too -full-blooded to be strictly in keeping with the rest of his appearance. -His searching gaze rested upon René with that air of profound -indifference which diplomatists by profession are so prone to affect, -and which seems to say to the man so regarded, 'If I chose to know you, -I should know you--but I do not choose to.' Was this really the meaning -of the look that rested on him, or was René merely put out by the -interruption to his charming _tête-à-tête?_ Be that as it might, the -poet felt an immediate and profound antipathy towards the Baron, who, on -hearing his name, had bowed without uttering a word to show whether he -knew him or not. But what did that matter to René, since Madame -Moraines had still managed to say with a smile as she gave him her hand: -'Thanks for your kind visit. I am so glad that you found me at home.' - -Glad! And what word should he use--he who, in an almost maudlin state of -intoxication, felt, as he left the house in which this delightful -creature lived, that before that day and that hour he had never really -loved! - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE - - -'It's Madame Komof's little poet,' said Suzanne, as soon as the door had -closed upon René. The tone in which she replied to the Baron's mute -interrogation indicated the familiar footing upon which Desforges stood -in this house. Then with that girlish smile she could so well -assume--one of those smiles in which the most distrustful men will -always believe, because they have seen their sisters smile like -that--she went on, 'Oh! I forgot--you wouldn't go last night. I looked -so nice--you would have been proud of me. I had my hair done just as you -like it. I expected to see you come in later on. This young man, who is -the author of the play, was introduced to me, and the poor fellow just -called to leave his card. He didn't know my hours, and came straight up. -You have done him a great service in giving him an opportunity to -escape. He had stayed so long that he was afraid to go.' - -'You see that I was right in setting my face against last night's -affair,' remarked the Baron. 'Here we have another man of letters -brought out. He has been here, and will call on others. He'll call -again, no doubt, and then he'll be invited here and there. People will -talk before him as they do before you and me, without thinking that on -leaving your house he will, out of sheer vanity, go and retail the -stories he has heard here in some _café_ or newspaper office. And then -the Society dames will be astonished to find themselves figuring in the -columns of some scurrilous sheet or in an up-to-date novel. To invite -writers into the drawing-room is one of the latest and maddest freaks of -so-called Society. We wrong them by robbing them of their time, and they -return the injury by libelling us. I was told the other day that the -daughter of one of this gentleman's colleagues, who helps her papa in -his books, was heard to say: "We never go anywhere without bringing home -at least two pages of useful notes." I myself cannot understand this -mania for talking into phonographs--and such silly, lying phonographs, -too, as they are!' - -'Ah!' exclaimed Suzanne, taking the Baron's hand in hers, and looking up -at him with an admiration that was too marked not to be sincere, 'how -fortunate I am in having you to guide me through life! What correct and -clear judgment you have!' - -'Oh! merely a little gumption, that's all,' replied Desforges, with a -shake of the head; 'that will prevent one from committing nine-tenths of -the bad actions that are really only follies. All my wisdom of life is -to try and get what I can out of what is left me--and what is left me is -precious little. Do you know that I shall be fifty-six this week, -Suzanne?' - -She shook her pretty head, and came closer to him as he stopped in his -march up and down the room. With a look of ingenuousness that might have -been worn either by an accomplished wanton or a big girl asking her -father for a kiss she brought first her cheek with its pretty dimple, -and then the corner of her sweet mouth, under the Baron's lips. - -'Come,' she said, 'don't you want any tea? It's a bad sign when you -begin to talk about your age; you must have upset yourself either in the -_Chambre_ or at some Board meeting.' - -As she spoke she moved towards the little table, and her eyes fell upon -the cups and plates she and René had used. Did she remember the -Madonna-like _rôle_ she had played in this very spot only a quarter of -an hour ago, and the handsome young man for whose benefit she had -assumed her most bewitching attitudes? And if such a thought really -entered that pretty head, set in its coils of pale gold, did she feel -any shame, any regret, that the poet had gone, or only a kind of secret -joy, such as these bold actresses feel in their moments of greatest -hypocrisy? She made the tea with as much care as she had bestowed on the -process a few minutes before. Desforges had naturally slipped into the -arm-chair just vacated by René, and Suzanne occupied her former seat as -she sat listening to the Baron's talk. This estimable man had an -unfortunate habit of dogmatising at times. He knew the world--that was -his great boast, and he was justified in making it. Only, he attached a -little too much importance to this knowledge. - -'It was rather trying in the Chambre to-day, it is true,' he said. 'I -went to hear de Suave hurl his thunderbolts at the Government. He still -believes in Parliamentary speeches and in oratorical triumphs. As for -me, I have, of course, become a sceptic, a grumbler, and a pessimist -since the day when I refused office. They are glad to have me in the -House because my grandfather was a Prefect under one emperor and I a -Councillor of State under another. The name looks well at the bottom of -a poster; but as for hearing me, that's another matter. And they have -such respect for me, too! When I drop in at the club in the afternoon I -find half-a-dozen of my friends, both young and old, engaged in -restoring the monarchy whilst watching the girls pass, if it is summer, -or between two deals at bézique in winter. When I come in you should -see how quickly they change their faces and their conversation, as if I -were discretion itself. I should like to have told them a few -home-truths to-day, just to relieve my feelings, but I went to the Rue -de la Paix instead to get your earrings.' - -With these words he took from his pocket a small leather case; it was -quite plain, without the jewellers address, and as he held it out the -fire flashed from the two splendid diamonds it contained, making -Suzanne's eyes sparkle with delight. The case passed from the Baron's -hands into hers, and after gazing at its contents for a moment, she -closed the little box and placed it among some other things on a small -shelf beside her. The manner in which she accepted it would alone have -sufficed to prove how accustomed she was to receiving similar presents. -Then, turning to Desforges, her sweet face all aglow with pleasure, she -exclaimed, 'How good you are to me!' - -'Don't thank me. It's pure selfishness,' said the Baron, though -evidently pleased by the impression the earrings had made. 'It is I who -ought to thank you for being good enough to wear these poor stones--I do -so love to see you look nice. Ah!' he added, 'I had forgotten to tell -you--the famous port has arrived; I shall send you half the consignment, -and, by a stroke of good luck, I have managed to get the Watteau you -admired so much for a mere song.' - -'I shall have a chance of thanking you to-morrow, I hope, in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor,' she replied, darting a look at him; 'at four o'clock, -isn't it?' she added, dropping her eyes with a blush. If, endowed with -the power of second sight, poor René, who had just returned home in a -fit of idolatry, could have perceived her at that moment without hearing -the conversation he would certainly have seen in her noble face an -expression of most divine modesty. But those downcast lids and the look -she had given him had probably brought other thoughts to the Baron's -mind, for his eyes grew bright, and the blood rushed to his -cheeks--those cheeks which bore such evident traces of good living, a -dangerous vice whose consequences Desforges was always trying to elude. -'I hold the balance,' he used to say, 'between gout and apoplexy.' - -Giving his moustache a twirl, he changed the subject, and in a thick -voice, by which his mistress could once more gauge the hold she had upon -the senses of this hoary sinner, asked, 'Who will be in your box -to-night?' - -'Only Madame Ethorel.' - -'What men?' - -'Ethorel cannot come. There will be my husband--and, of course, Crucé.' - -'He must make a pretty little thing out of her, only in commission!' -exclaimed Desforges. 'He has just put her on to a picture for which she -has paid twenty thousand francs--I'll wager he got ten thousand out of -it!' - -'What a wretch!' cried Suzanne. - -'She is such a fool,' remarked the Baron, 'and Crucé is known to be a -_connaisseur._ Besides, if poor Ethorel didn't have him to consult, his -money would go just the same in absolute rubbish. All is for the best in -this best of possible worlds. Well, go on.' - -'Little de Brèves and you. Hark!' she exclaimed, stopping to listen. -'Some one is coming up--I have such an ear.' And then, looking at the -Baron in precisely the same way she had looked, at René, she added, -with a pretty look of annoyance, '_Mon Dieu!_ What a bother! Oh! it's no -one,' breaking into a silvery laugh as the servant opened the door; -'it's only my husband. Good afternoon, Paul.' - -'That sounds very complimentary,' said the man who had just entered, a -tall, well-built fellow with frank, fearless eyes, and one of those pale -but healthy complexions that reveal great energy. His features had that -stamp of regularity which is only to be met with in Paris in very young -men, for a face of that kind in a man of more than thirty-five indicates -a perfectly clear conscience. The depth of his love was easily measured -by the way in which Moraines looked at his wife, and his sincerity by -the manner in which he shook hands with the Baron. - -After a hearty laugh at Suzanne's exclamation, he added, with mock -gravity, 'Am I intruding, madame?' - -'Do you want any tea?' asked Suzanne, quietly; 'I must tell you that -it's cold. "Yes, please," or "No, thank you?"' - -'No, thank you,' replied Moraines, dropping into an arm-chair, and -preparing his words as if to produce an effect, like some visitor. 'Some -husbands are real idiots, and I blush for the community. Have you heard -about Hacqueville? The story was told me at the club just now. Haven't -heard it, eh? Well, this morning he happens to open a letter addressed -to his wife which leaves no doubt as to the lady's virtue.' - -'Poor Mainterne,' cried Suzanne, 'he was so fond of Lucie!' - -'That's the beauty of it,' shouted Moraines, in the triumphal accents of -one who is about to astonish his hearers; 'the letter didn't come from -Mainterne, but Laverdin! Lucie had more than two strings to her bow. And -guess to whom Hacqueville takes the letter and looks for advice?' - -'To Mainterne,' replied the Baron. - -'You've heard the story?' - -'No,' rejoined Desforges, 'but it seems so simple. And what did -Mainterne say?' - -'You may guess how indignant he was. Lucie has gone to her mother's, and -a duel is announced between Hacqueville and Laverdin, in which the -former insists upon Mainterne being his second. Well, of all the fools -I've seen, I think he is about the biggest. And he hasn't a single -friend to open his eyes.' - -'He'll find one,' said the Baron, rising to go. 'The moral of your story -is, never write.' - -'Won't you stay and dine with us, Frédéric?' asked Moraines. - -'I have an engagement,' replied Desforges, 'but will meet you later at -the Opera. Madame Moraines has been good enough to save me a seat.' - -'In your box,' rejoined Paul, with more truth than he thought. The -Baron, who had been a widower for the past ten years, had kept his box -at the Opera, and sublet it for alternate weeks to his excellent friends -the Moraines. The rent, however, was never paid. The husband was as -little aware of his wife's accommodating ways as he was of the -impossibility of living as they did on their income of fifty thousand -francs. The remnant of the wretched fortune left by the late Minister, -Madame Moraines' father, who in fifteen years of office had saved almost -nothing, formed the half of this annual budget. The other half was the -salary which Moraines got as secretary to an insurance company, a place -procured for him by Desforges. In spite of Suzanne's protests, Paul had -not lost the deplorable habit of expatiating upon his wife's clever -husbanding of their united income, which was very small for the world in -which the Moraines lived. Thanks to his simple-minded confidence, he was -the kind of man who, when his friends complained of the increasing -severity of the struggle for life, would say, 'You ought to have a wife -like mine--_she_ knows where to get bargains. She has a maid who is a -perfect treasure, and who can turn out a dress as well as the best -tailor!' 'You make me look ridiculous!' Suzanne would often say; but he -loved her too well to give up praising her, and now, just after -Desforges had left, his first act was to take her hands in his and say, -'How nice it is to have you all to myself for a moment! Kiss me, -Suzanne.' - -She gave him her cheek and the corner of her mouth, just as she had done -to Desforges. - -'When I am told such terrible stories as that,' he continued, 'it gives -me quite a shock; but I soon recover when I think that I have been lucky -enough to get a little woman like yourself. Ah! Suzanne, how I love -you!' - -'And yet I am sure you will scold me,' she replied, escaping from his -embrace. 'The woman you think so clever, and of whom you are so proud, -has been very foolish. Those diamonds,' she went on, holding up the box -brought by Desforges, 'that I told you about--well, I couldn't resist -them, and so I bought them.' - -'But it's out of your own savings,' remarked Paul. 'What fine stones! Do -you want me not to scold you? Then let me put them in.' - -'You'll never be able to manage it,' she replied, holding up one of her -dainty ears adorned with a plain pink pearl, which Paul slipped out -deftly. Then came the turn of the other ear and the other pearl. He -showed the same dexterity in putting in the diamonds, touching his -beloved as gently with his strong man's hands as any girl could have -done. To look at herself, Suzanne took up a small mirror set in a frame -of antique silver, another present of the Baron's, and smiled. She -looked so pretty at that moment that Paul drew her towards him, and, -holding her in his arms, tried to obtain a kiss from her lips. As a -rule, she never refused him this. Possibly, from some complication in -her nature, she had managed to preserve, in spite of all, a kind of -physical liking for this honest, manly fellow, whom she deceived in such -a cruel fashion. What, then, had suddenly come over her, and made the -usual kiss unbearable? She pushed her husband away almost roughly, -saying, 'Oh! let me alone'--then, as if to mitigate the harshness of her -tone, she added, 'It's ridiculous in an old married couple. Good-bye, I -have hardly time to dress.' - -With these words she passed into her bedroom, and so into her -dressing-room. Of all the apartments in her home, this was the one in -which the profound materialism that formed the basis of this woman's -nature was most revealed. Her maid, Céline, a tall, dark girl with -impenetrable eyes, commenced to undress her in this shrine of beauty, as -gorgeously upholstered as that of any royal courtesan, and anyone who -had seen Suzanne at that moment would have understood that she was ready -to do anything for the luxury of living in this atmosphere of supreme -refinement. - -This woman, so delicately fashioned that she seemed almost fragile, was -one of those creatures who combine full hips with a slender waist, neat -ankles with a well-turned leg, dainty wrists with rounded arms, small -features with a full figure, and whose dresses, by hiding all such -material charms, clothe them, as it were, with spirituality. She cast a -glance at the long mirror set in the centre of her wardrobe, where, -packed away in sweet-smelling sachets, lay piles of embroidered linen; -seeing how well she looked she smiled as there once more flashed across -her brain the same idea that but a few moments ago had dragged her from -her husband's arms. This idea was evidently not one of those which it -pleased her to entertain, for she shook her head, and a few minutes -later, having thrown over her bare neck and shoulders a dressing-jacket -of pale blue _foulard_ silk and put her naked feet into a pair of soft -swans-down slippers, she gave herself up to the hands of her maid, who -began to dress the long, shining hair. The cool water in which she had -bathed her face had completely restored her self-possession, and in the -mirror before her she saw all the details of this apartment that she had -turned into the chapel of her one religion--her beauty. - -All was reflected there--the soft-toned carpet, the bath of English -porcelain, the wide marble washhand-stand with its silver fittings and -its host of small toilet necessaries. Did the sight of all these things -remind her of the divers conditions that secured her this happy -existence? In any case, it was of her husband she was thinking when she -exclaimed, 'The dear, good fellow!' The sparkling diamonds that she had -kept in her ears recalled thoughts of Desforges, and following close -upon the other came the mental exclamation, 'Dear, kind friend!' These -two contradictory impressions became as easily reconciled in the head -adorned with those long silken tresses as the two facts were reconciled -in life. Women excel in these moral mosaics, which appear less monstrous -when the process of their construction has been carefully watched. This -fair Parisian of thirty was certainly as thoroughly corrupted as it is -possible to be; but, to do her justice, it must be said at once that she -was unaware of it, so passive had she been with regard to the -circumstances that had gradually reduced her to this state of -unconscious immorality. - -When Suzanne had allowed herself to be married to Paul Moraines two -years before the war of 1870 she had felt neither repugnance nor -enthusiasm. The matter had been arranged by the two families; old -Moraines, a senator ever since the establishment of the Second Empire, -belonged to the same set as old Bois-Dauffin, and Paul, who was then an -officer of the Council of State, a good dancer and a charming ladies' -man, seemed made for her, as she did for him. For the first two years -they formed what is called in women's parlance 'a sweet couple;' it was -one round of balls, suppers, and theatre parties, with rural festivities -in summer and hunting parties in autumn, all of which both of them -enjoyed to the full. Paul himself well defined the kind of relations -that bound him to his wife amidst these continual pleasures. 'You are as -bewitching as a mistress,' he would say to her as he kissed her in the -brougham that took them home at one in the morning. - -The revolution of the Fourth of September put an end to this fairy-like -existence. The families on both sides had lived on large salaries that -were suddenly stopped, but this stoppage had no immediate effect upon -the gratification of their expensive tastes. Until his death, which -occurred in 1873, Bois-Dauffin was convinced of the speedy restoration -of a _régime_ that had been so strong, so well supported, and so -popular. The ex-senator, who survived his friend only a few months, -shared his sanguine dreams. Paul had, of course, lost his place at the -Council of State. He possessed, to an even greater extent than his -father and his father-in-law, that blind faith in the success of the -cause which will always remain an original trait of the Imperialist -party. Suzanne, who had no faith of any kind, commenced to be troubled -in 1873 by a very clear vision of the ruin towards which she and her -husband were steering by living, as they did, on their capital. This was -precisely the moment when Frédéric Desforges commenced to pay her -court. - -This man, who was then not yet fifty, had remained the most brilliant -representative of the generation that had come in with the Second -Empire, and which had for its chief the clear-sighted and seductive Duc -de Morny. In Suzanne's eyes the Baron's highest recommendation lay in -the romantic tales of gallantry that were told of him in the -drawing-room, and soon this prestige was supplemented by his -indisputable superiority in the knowledge and management of Parisian -Society. Having been left a childless widower after a brief union, with -almost nothing to do, for his parliamentary duties did not trouble him -much, and with an income of four hundred thousand francs a year, -exclusive of his mansion in the Cours-la-Reine, his estate in Anjou and -his _chalet_ at Deauville, the former favourite of the famous Duke had -the rare courage to allow himself to grow old--just as his leader had -had the courage to die. He wished to form one last attachment that would -bear cultivating until his sixtieth year, and procure him not only an -agreeable and accommodating mistress, but a pleasant circle in which to -spend his evenings. He had taken in the position of Madame Moraines at a -glance, and decided that this was exactly the kind of woman he -wanted--extremely pretty and graceful, guaranteed against all -probability of maternity by six years of childless married life, and -possessing a presentable husband, who would never become a blackmailer. -The crafty Baron summed up all these advantages, and by gradually -worming his way into Suzanne's confidence, by proving his devotion in -getting Moraines his secretaryship, by making her accept presents upon -presents, and by showing that exquisite tact of a man who only asks to -be tolerated, he at last got her to consent to his wishes. All this, -too, was done so slowly and so imperceptibly, and the _liaison_, when -once established, became so simple and so closely bound up with her -daily life, that the criminality of her relations with Desforges -scarcely ever seemed to strike Suzanne. - -What wrong was she doing Moraines, after all? Was she not his wife, and -really attached to him? As for the Baron, it is true that he provided a -very fair share of the luxuries in which she indulged. But what of that? -May not a woman receive presents? If he paid a bill here, and a bill -there, did that hurt anyone? She was his mistress, but their -relationship was clothed in an air of respectability that made it seem -almost like a legitimate union. She had become so accustomed to this -compromise with her conscience that she considered herself, if not quite -an honest woman, at least vastly superior in virtue to a number of her -friends with whose various intrigues she was acquainted. If her -conscience reproached her at all, it was for having deceived Desforges, -two years after the beginning of their intimacy, with a swell clubman, -whom she had carried off from one of her friends during the racing -season at Deauville. This individual had, however, almost compromised -her so fatally, and she had been so quick to detect in him the -self-conceit of a mere flirt, that she had been only too glad to sever -the connection at once. Thereupon she had sworn to restrict herself to -the peaceful delights of her three-cornered arrangement--to Paul's -gentlemanly ways and the Baron's Epicurean gallantry. And so carefully -had she kept her resolve, and with such attention to outward appearance, -that her good name was as safe as it could be in the enviable position -to which her beauty raised her. She had rivals who were too well -accustomed to drawing up accounts not to know that the Moraines were -living at the rate of eighty thousand francs a year; 'and we knew them -when they were almost beggars,' added these kind people. 'Scandal!' -cried all the Baron's friends in chorus, and he had a way of making -friends everywhere. 'Scandal!' cried the simple-minded people who are -shocked by the tales of infamy that go the round of the drawing-rooms -every night. 'Scandal!' added the wiseacres, who know that the best -thing to do in Paris is to pretend to believe nothing, and to take -people at their own value. - -Recollections of the innumerable services that Desforges had rendered -her were no doubt running through Suzanne's mind as, seated before her -toilet table, she exclaimed, 'The dear, kind friend!' Why, then, did the -Baron's face, intelligent but worn, suddenly make way for another and a -younger face, adorned with an ideal beard and lit up by a pair of dark -blue eyes that reflected all the ardour of a virgin and enthusiastic -soul? Why, whilst Céline's nimble fingers were busy with laces and -hooks, would an inner voice continually murmur the sweet music of these -four syllables--René Vincy? What secret temptation was she resisting -when she whispered again and again the word, 'Impossible!' - -She had seen the poet twice. That she, the mistress, almost the pupil, -of the elegant Desforges; she, the very pattern of the Society belle, -who had sold herself for all this fine perfumed linen in which she -wrapped her beauty--for these soft, silken skirts which her maid was now -fastening about her waist and for the countless luxuries that a -licentious woman of fashion delights in, that she could so forget -herself as to be captivated by the eyes and words of a chance poetaster, -seen to-day and forgotten to-morrow, was well nigh impossible. She had -said 'Impossible!' and yet here she was thinking of him again. How -strange it was that ever since meeting René she had been unable to rid -herself of the alluring hope of winning him! If anyone had used that -old-fashioned phrase, 'Love at first sight,' in her hearing, she would -have shrugged those pretty shoulders whose graceful contours were now -revealed by her low-necked Opera gown and whose whiteness was enhanced -by the single string of pearls she wore; and yet, what other words could -describe the sudden and ardent feelings that her meeting with the poet -had inspired--feelings that were hourly growing more intense? - -The fact of the matter was that for some months past Suzanne had been -somewhat bored between her husband--'the dear, good fellow'--and her -'dear, kind friend,' the Baron. The life of pleasure and of luxury for -which she had made so many sacrifices seemed to her empty and dull. This -she called 'being too happy.' 'I ought to have a little trouble,' she -would say, with a laugh. Incessant indulgence had destroyed her appetite -for enjoyment and made her a prey to the moral and physical weariness -that frequently causes _demi-mondaines_ to suddenly throw up a position -which it has cost them much labour to attain. They require fresh -sensations, and, above all, that of love. They will commit any folly -when once they have met the man who is able to make them feel something -beyond their former empty delights--one whom their less elegant sisters -would expressively term 'their sort.' - -For Madame Moraines, who had just attained her thirtieth year, and who, -satiated as she was with every kind of luxury, with no ambition to -realise, and without the least respect for the men she met in her set, -the apparition of a new being like René, so entirely different to the -usual drawing-room 'swell,' might and did become an event in its way. It -was curiosity that led her to take a seat next to him at Madame Komof's -supper-table, and her feminine tact had at once told her in what _rôle_ -she would be most seductive in his eyes. His conversation had delighted -her, but on her return home she had gone to sleep after uttering the -'Impossible!' which is used as a charm against all complaints of this -kind by Society belles, a class more bound down in their narrow paths of -pleasure than any busy housewife by her daily duties. Then René had -called, and the impression he had already made on her was intensified a -hundred-fold. She was pleased with all she saw or imagined in the young -man--his good looks, his true-heartedness, his awkwardness, and his -timidity. It was in vain that she kept repeating 'Impossible!' as she -put the finishing touch to her dress by fastening one or two diamond -pins in her bodice--in spite of that word she was already capitulating. -She turned the idea over again and again, and all kinds of plans for -bringing the adventure to a successful issue passed through her -practical mind. 'Desforges is very sharp,' she reflected, adding, as she -remembered the Baron's tirade against literary men, 'and he has already -smelt a rat.' This tirade had at first afforded her amusement, but now -it annoyed her, and made her feel a desire to act in a manner entirely -opposed to her excellent friend's wishes. She was so completely absorbed -in thought that it attracted her maid's attention, and caused that young -person to say to the footman, 'There's something wrong with Madame. Can -Monsieur have found out anything?' - -This unreasonable and irresistible abstraction lasted all through -dinner, then on the way to the theatre, and even during the performance, -until Madame Ethorel suddenly remarked, 'Isn't that Monsieur Vincy -looking at us over there--in the stalls near the door on the right?' - -'Madame Komof's poet?' asked Suzanne indifferently. During René's visit -she had mentioned that she was going to the Opera that night. She -remembered it now as she put up her own glasses, mounted in chased -silver--another present from the Baron. She saw René, and as he timidly -turned away his glance a sudden thrill ran through her. Had Desforges, -from his place at the back of the box, overheard Madame Ethorel's -remark? No, she thought not; he was in deep conversation with Crucé. - -'He is talking shop,' she said to herself as she listened, 'and has -heard nothing. What is going on in me?' - -It was the first time for many a day that the music touched some chord -of feeling within her. She spent the evening between the happiness that -René's presence caused her and the mortal dread that he might visit her -in her box. The shame of having been remarked no doubt paralysed the -poet, for he dared not even look towards the place where Suzanne sat, -and when she went down to her carriage his face was not to be seen in -the double row of men who lined the staircase. There was therefore -nothing to prevent her from giving herself up to the idea that had -obtained such a hold upon her, and as she laid her fair head upon the -lace-covered pillow she had got so far as to say: 'Provided he doesn't -ask his friend Larcher for information about me!' - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE - - -Every morning a little before nine Paul Moraines entered his wife's -room. By that time she had had her bath and was employed in attending to -little trifles. Her small white feet, showing their blue veins, played -in and out of her slippers, her dressing gown of soft clinging material -was gathered round her slim waist by a silken cord, and her hair hung -down in a thick golden plait. The bedroom, in which the big bedstead -took up a good deal of space, was aired and perfumed, and to Paul the -three-quarters of an hour he spent in taking his morning cup of tea with -Suzanne at a little table near the window was the happiest part of the -day. He had to be at his office by ten, and was too busy to come home -for lunch. He was the kind of man who sits down in a first-class -restaurant about half-past twelve, orders the _plat du jour_, a small -bottle of wine, and a cup of coffee, and goes away after having spent -the smallest sum possible. It pleased him to rival his wife's economy in -this fashion. But his morning cup of tea was the reward he looked -forward to during the six or seven hours he devoted to the Company's -work. - -'There are some days,' he would say in his simple way, 'when I should -see nothing of you if it were not for this thrice blessed cup of tea!' -It was he who served her; he buttered her toast with infinite care and -watched her dainty teeth attack the crisp morsels. He was uneasy when, -as on the morning after she had seen René at the Opera, her eyes were -not quite so bright as usual and a look of fatigue showed that she had -not had sufficient sleep. All night had she been tormented by thoughts -of the young poet, and by the stir he had made amongst the small bundle -of remnants she called her feelings. Her mind being before all else -clear and precise--the mind of a business man at the service of a pretty -woman's whims--she had reviewed the means at her disposal for gratifying -her passionate caprice. The first condition was that she should see -René again, and see him often; now, that was impossible at her own -house, as was proved by her husband's words that very morning. After a -few tender inquiries concerning her health, he asked, Did you have many -visitors yesterday?' - -'None at all,' she replied; and it being her custom never to tell an -unnecessary fib, she added, 'only Desforges and that young fellow who -wrote the play performed at Madame Komof's the other night.' - -'René Vincy,' remarked Moraines. 'I'm sorry I missed him--I like his -work very much. What is he like? Is he presentable?' - -'He's nothing much,' answered Suzanne; 'quite insignificant.' - -'Did Desforges see him?' - -'Yes--why?' - -'I'll ask the Baron about him. I dare say he took his measure at the -first glance. He has a rare knowledge of men.' - -'That's just like him,' said Suzanne, when Moraines was gone, after -having devoured her with kisses; 'he tells the Baron everything.' She -foresaw that the first person to tell Desforges of René's frequent -visits to the Rue Murillo, if she got the poet to come, would be Paul -himself. 'He is really too silly,' she went on, getting out of patience -with him for his absolute confidence in the Baron, which she had herself -been most instrumental in inspiring. But now she was beginning to fret -under the first feelings of restraint. - -Thoughts of René ran through her head all the morning, which was spent -in looking over accounts and in receiving the visit of Madame Leroux, -her manicure, a person of ripe age, extremely devout, with a -sanctimonious and discreet air, who waited on the most aristocratic -hands and feet in Paris. As a rule Suzanne, who, with perfect justice, -looked upon inferiors as the principal source of all Society scandal, -had a long talk with Madame Leroux, partly to procure her good-will, -partly to hear a good many details concerning those whom the artiste -deigned to honour with her services. Madame Leroux was therefore never -tired of singing the praises of that charming Madame Moraines, 'so -unaffected and so good. She absolutely worships her husband.' But that -day none of the manicure's flattery could draw a single word from her -fair client. The desire that had seized hold of the latter grew stronger -and stronger, whilst the obstacles that stood in the way of its -gratification assumed a clearer and more uncompromising shape. To gain a -man's love requires time and opportunities of meeting. René did not go -into Society, and if he had done so it would have been worse still, for -other women would have taken him from her. Here, in her home in the Rue -Murillo, she could have wormed her way into his virgin heart so -easily--and only the Baron's watchfulness prevented her. - -It was the first time for some years that she felt herself fettered, and -a fit of anger against the man to whom she owed all she had came over -her. Filled with such thoughts as these she lunched as usual alone, and -in very frugal fashion. Even with the generous assistance of her -benefactor she could only make both ends meet by practising economy in -things that would not be noticed, such as the table. In her solitude she -felt so miserable and at the same time so utterly powerless that, as she -rose, the cry almost escaped her, 'What is the use of it, after all?' - -What was the use of it all, indeed? She was a slave. Not only could she -not see René as she wished in her own house, but that very afternoon, -in spite of the new sentiments that were springing up within her, she -had to keep an appointment with Desforges. - -'What is the use of it?' she repeated, as she got herself ready to go -out, putting on a pair of tiny shoes instead of boots, a plain dress -that fastened in front, a black bonnet, and in her pocket a thick veil. -She had ordered her carriage for two o'clock--a brougham and pair that -she hired by the month for the afternoon and evening. On getting into it -she was so crushed by the weight of her slavery that she could have -cried. What, then, were her feelings when, on turning the corner of the -street, she saw René standing there, evidently waiting to see her pass? - -Their eyes met. He took his hat off with a blush, and she too could not -help blushing in the corner of her carriage, so great was the -pleasurable revulsion of feeling caused by this unexpected meeting, and -especially by the idea that he must be in love with her. She, the -creature of calculation and deceit, fell into one of those profound -reveries in which women, when in love, anticipate all the delights to -which the sentiment they experience and inspire can give birth. At such -a moment they will give themselves up in thoughts to the man they did -not know a week ago. If they dared, they would give themselves up too, -there and then, though this would not hinder them from persuading the -man who conquered them at the first glance that their subjugation was a -work of time and degrees. In this they are right, for man's stupid -vanity is gratified by the difficulties of the conquest, and few have -sense enough to understand the divine quality of love that is -spontaneous, natural, and irresistible. - -Whilst the poet walked off, saying to himself, 'I am undone--she will -never forgive me for such folly,' Suzanne was in one of those transports -of delight before which prudence itself gives way, and, forgetting her -fears of the morning, she now saw her way to carrying out one of those -simple plans such as only the eminently realistic mind of a woman can -concoct. She had set herself the task of deceiving a very sharp man, and -one who was well acquainted with her disposition. The best thing to do, -therefore, was to act in a manner exactly contrary to what that man -would expect and foresee. Matters must be precipitated; René must be -brought to her feet after two or three visits, and she must surrender -before he had had time to woo her; Desforges would never suspect her of -such an escapade--he who knew her to be so circumspect, so cautious, and -so clever. But what if the poet despised her for her too easy surrender? -She shook her pretty head incredulously as this objection occurred to -her. That was a matter of tact and of woman's wit, and there she was -sure of her ground! - -Her joy at having roughly worked out this problem and the joy of -deceiving the subtle Baron became so strangely mixed that she now looked -forward to her appointment not only without regret, but with malicious -delight. On reaching the colonnades in the Rue de Rivoli she got out as -usual and sent the carriage home. The house in which the Baron had taken -rooms for his meetings with Suzanne possessed two entrances, an -advantage so uncommon in Paris that buildings favoured in that way are -not only well-known, but much sought after by transgressors of the -Seventh Commandment. Frédéric was too intimately acquainted with this -phase of Parisian life to have fallen into the error of going to a place -whose reputation was already made. The house he had somewhat -accidentally hit upon must have escaped discovery by reason of its -sedate and dismal-looking frontage in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, where he -had taken the first floor, consisting of an ante-room and three other -apartments. The rooms were kept in order by his valet, a man on whom he -could thoroughly rely, thanks to the liberal wages he gave him. -Considerable regard had been paid to what must be called the comfort of -pleasure in furnishing this small suite, where the hangings and curtains -deadened the noises from without, where soft skins were thrown down here -and there for naked feet, where the countless mirrors reminded one of -similar but less decorous places, and where the low arm-chairs and -couches invited those long, familiar talks in which lovers delight. In a -word, the minute care bestowed upon this interior would alone have -betrayed the extent of the Baron's sensualism. - -Suzanne had so often come to this house during the past few years, she -had so often tied on her thick veil in the doorway in the Rue de Rivoli, -so often hastened past the porter's lodge that she had come to perform -almost mechanically these rites of adultery which procure novices such -exquisite emotions. To-day, as she mounted the stairs, she could not -help thinking how differently she would feel if she were going to meet -René Vincy instead of the Baron in this quiet retreat She knew so well -exactly what would happen. Desforges would be there and have everything -prepared for her reception, from the flowers in the vases to the bread -and butter for tea; then, at a given moment, she would go into the -dressing-room and come out in a loose lace gown, her hair hanging about -her shoulders and her little feet encased in slippers similar to those -she wore in the morning. She took not the least pleasure in all this, -but the Baron had such a charming way of showing his gratitude for the -favours she granted him and displayed so much wit and affection during -their long talks together that it was frequently he who had to remind -his mistress that it was time to go. - -To-day the state of her mind and feelings prompted Suzanne herself to -say, as soon as she had entered the room, 'I am very sorry, Frédéric -dear, but I shall have to leave you rather early.' - -'Has it put you out to come?' asked the Baron as he helped her off with -her cloak. 'Why didn't you send me a line to countermand our -appointment?' - -'He is really too kind,' thought Suzanne, feeling some slight remorse -for her unnecessary fib. Taking her hat off before the glass the flash -of her diamond earrings caught her eye, and suddenly reminded her of all -that she owed this man, who asked for so little in return. - -False situations sometimes give rise to conscientious paradoxes, and it -was a feeling of honesty that impelled this woman to come and seat -herself on the arm of the Baron's easy chair and to sigh, 'I should have -been terribly disappointed myself. Will you never believe that I am -really glad to come here?--I owe him that at least,' she thought, and in -further obedience to her strange qualms of conscience she contrived to -be more than usually fascinating and docile during the whole of their -_tête-à-tête._ - -At the end of a couple of hours, whilst she was lying back half buried -in one of the great arm-chairs, enjoying a caviar sandwich and a -thimbleful of fine old sherry, Desforges, who was watching her dainty -movements as she ate, could not help exclaiming: 'Ah! Suzon! At my age, -too! What would Noirot say?' - -This Noirot who had so suddenly troubled the Baron's mind was a doctor -who treated him to a course of massage every morning and watched over -his general health. Everything in the life of this systematic voluptuary -was carefully planned out, from the amount of exercise to be taken each -day to the attendance he should receive when in his dotage. He had taken -into his house a poor and pious female relative, to whose good works he -annually subscribed a pretty round sum. When complimented on his -generosity, he would reply in his own jocular and cynical way: 'What can -I do? I must have some one to look after me in my old age. My cousin -will be my nurse, and make the best one in Paris.' - -Generally these outbursts of unblushing egotism amused Suzanne. She saw -in them a conception of life whose pronounced materialism was far from -displeasing her. But to-day she looked a little more closely at the -Baron as he uttered his doctor's name, and sitting there with the -lamp-light full upon his wrinkled face, his drooping moustache and his -swollen eyelids, he looked so broken down and so fully his age that the -hideousness of her own life suddenly burst upon her. It is a horrible -thing for a young and beautiful woman to endure the caresses of a man -she does not love, even when that man is young, full of passion and -ardour. But when he is bordering on old age, when he pays for the right -to pollute this fair woman whose love he cannot win, then it is -prostitution so terrible that disgust gives way to sorrow. For the first -time, perhaps, Desforges looked old in Suzanne's eyes, and by an -irresistible impulse of her whole soul she called to mind, as a -contrast, the fresh lips and fair young face of the man whose image had -haunted her for the past two days. She felt how foolishly she had -behaved in hesitating for an instant, and, being a person of -determination, she commenced to act at once. - -She was now dressed, and having put on her bonnet and buttoned her -gloves, she said to Desforges before tying on her veil, 'When are you -coming to lunch with me? Once upon a time you often used to come without -being asked--it was so nice of you.' - -'To-morrow I can't,' he replied, 'nor the next day either, but the day -after that----' - -'Tuesday, then? That's an understood thing. And to-night I shall see you -at Madame de Sermoises', sha'n't I?' - -'Charming woman!' thought the Baron, as he was left alone. 'She might -have so many adventures, and her only thought is of pleasing me.' - -'The day after to-morrow, then, I am sure of being alone,' said Suzanne -to herself as she swept along the pavement of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, -casting cautious glances to the right and left, but with such art that -her eyes scarcely seemed to move. 'But what excuse can I give -René'--she already called him by that name in her thoughts--'to make -him come? I know--I'll ask him to write a few lines on a copy of the -"Sigisbée" that I'm going to send to a friend.' - -She had to pass a bookseller's in the Rue Castiglione, and went in to -buy the book, being in that state of mind when the execution of an idea -follows almost automatically upon its conception. 'I hope he'll not do -anything foolish before then. And I hope he won't hear anything about me -that will dampen his ardour.' Claude Larcher once more came into her -mind. 'Yes--he's certainly dangerous,' she thought, and saw at once the -means of avoiding the danger provided René came to her before speaking -to Claude. Then it suddenly struck her that she did not know the poet's -address, but that difficulty could be got over by calling on Madame -Komof. 'It is past six now, and she is sure to be at home.' Hailing a -cab, she drove to the Rue du Bel-Respiro, and was lucky enough to find -the Comtesse alone, from whom it was easy to obtain the information she -wanted. - -The worthy lady, whose _soirée_ had been a success, was loud in her -praise of the poet. '_Idéal!_' she exclaimed, with one of her wild -gesticulations, 'charming! And so modest! He will be your modern -Poushkin.' - -'Do you know where he lives?' inquired Suzanne. 'He called on me and -only left his name.' - -No sooner had her note been written and sent than she became a prey to -that uncertainty upon which newborn love thrives so well that in those -days when the strange but not unintellectual vice of seduction was still -fashionable the professors of the art used to dwell upon the importance -of invoking the aid of this feverish condition. Would René come or not? -If he came, what would he look like? - -She would be able to see at once by his face if anything had happened to -impair the impression she was sure she had made upon him the other day. -The hour that she had fixed in her note at length arrived, and when the -poet was announced Suzanne's heart beat faster than did that of her -simple lover. She looked at him and read to the bottom of his soul. Yes, -she was still to him the Madonna she had pretended to be from the first -with that facility of metamorphosis peculiar to these Protei in -petticoats. In his soft dark blue eyes she perceived both joy and -fear--joy at seeing her again so soon, and in her own home; fear at -appearing before this angel of purity after having dared to look for her -at the Opera and to wait for her at the corner of the street. - -This time the charming actress had devised a new background for her -beauty. She was seated near the window, and with some bundles of silk -thread and the aid of a few pins was working a pattern upon a drum of -green cloth. Behind her the lace curtains were drawn back in their -bands, and the visitor's gaze could rest upon the landscape of the Parc -Monceau, upon the pale blue sky, the bare trees, the yellow grass, and -the dark ivy that grew about the ruins. A February sun lit up this -wintry prospect, and its rays fell caressingly upon Suzanne's hair with -its soft golden sheen. A white dress, made in fanciful style, with long, -wide sleeves and trimmings of violets, gave her the appearance of a lady -of the Middle Ages. Her feet, encased in silk stockings of the same -shade as the trimming of her dress, were modestly crossed upon a low -footstool. Had she been told that less than forty-eight hours ago these -same modest feet had wandered across the carpets of what was almost a -house of ill-fame, that this hair had been handled by an aged lover who -paid her, that she was in fact kept by Desforges, she would probably -have denied the statement in perfect sincerity, so closely did her -desire to please René make her identify herself with the _rôle_ she -was playing. - -The poet could not be aware of this. He had spent three days in one -continual state of exaltation, feeling his desire increase hourly, and -very glad to feel it. The beginning of a passion is as alluring at -twenty-five as at thirty-five it is terrifying. Suzanne's note had given -him unmistakable proofs that the trifling imprudences which he himself -looked upon as a crime had not given great displeasure, but in matters -that concern us very closely we always find fresh motives for doubt, and -this grown-up child had been silly enough to fear the reception that -awaited him. How delighted he was, therefore, to be met with the simple -familiarity, the beaming eyes, and the sweet smile of this woman whom, -seated in the foreground of the wintry landscape, he immediately -compared to those saints whom the early masters set in the midst of -green fields and placid lakes. But this was a saint whose gown had been -made by the first tailor in Paris, a saint from whom there emanated that -odour of heliotrope which had already played such havoc with the poet's -senses, and through the opening of whose long, wide sleeves two golden -bands were seen clasping an arm as white as snow. - -What René had so much feared did not take place. Madame Moraines did -not make the slightest allusion either to the Opera or to their meeting -at the corner of the street. For some time she continued her work, -having quite naturally brought the conversation round from Madame -Komof's enthusiasm to the poet's plans for the future. She, who could -not have distinguished Béranger from Victor Hugo, or Voltaire from -Lamartine, spoke like one entirely devoted to literature. She had met -Théophile Gautier two or three times under the Empire, and though she -had scarcely looked at him on account of his complete lack of British -elegance, this did not prevent her from giving the enthusiastic René a -minute description of the great writer. He had interested her to such a -degree--she thought she must still have some of his letters. - -'I must find them for you,' she said. Then, reminded by this lie, she -added, 'I am sorry to have put you to all this inconvenience for your -autograph, but my friend leaves for Russia to-morrow.' - -'What shall I write?' asked René. - -'Whatever you please,' she said, rising to get the book, and placing it -on her ivy-mantled desk. She got everything ready for him to make his -task easier--opened the ink-pot with its silver top and put a fresh pen -in the ivory and gold penholder; in doing this she contrived to touch -René lightly in passing to and fro, enveloping him with her sweet -perfume and causing his hand to tremble as he copied on the fly-sheet of -the book the two verses which kind Madame Ethorel had called a sonnet: - - -The phantom of a day long dead -Appeared, with hand stretched out to show -A fair white rose whose bloom was fled, -And in my ear it whispered low, -'Where is thy heart of long ago? -Where is that hope thy fond heart chose -So like this rose in days of yore? -Dear was the hope and dear the rose: -How sweet their perfume heretofore -When once they bloomed! They bloom no more. - - -When he had finished writing Madame Moraines took the book from his -hands, and, standing behind him, recited the verses in a low, almost -inaudible, voice, as if to herself. She added no word of praise or -criticism, but, after having read out the lines with a sigh, remained -standing there as though their music lent an infinitely tender tone to -her reverie. - -René gazed at her almost wild with emotion. How could he have resisted -such sweet and supreme flattery as that which she had just employed to -captivate him, appealing, as it did, both to his vanity as an artist and -to his highest conceptions of beauty? And, indeed, she had managed to -fall into a splendid _pose_ whilst reading. She knew how charming she -looked with half-averted face and eyes cast down. But suddenly she -turned these glorious eyes, now eloquent with the feelings inspired by -his lines, full upon the poet, and almost asked pardon for her temporary -abstraction. - -She seemed to step out of her poetic visions as though she were afraid -of profaning them, and with a curiosity this time as real as her -artificial emotion was apparent, she said: 'I am sure you did not write -these lines for your play?' - -'That is true,' replied René, with another blush. He had scruples about -lying to this woman, even to please her. But how could he tell her the -sad and wretched story which, with a poet's touch, he had transformed -into a romantic idyll? - -'Ah! you men!' she went on, without waiting for further reply--'how full -your life is, and how free! But you must not think I am complaining. We -Christian wives know our duty, and a beautiful one it is--obedience.' -After a moment's silence she added: 'Alas! we do not always choose our -master,' and then, in a tone of mingled resignation and pride that both -suggested and forbade further speculation, 'I am sorry I have not been -able to introduce you to Monsieur Moraines yet I hope you will like him. -He is not much interested in art, but he is a very clever man in -business. Unfortunately we live in an age when one must be born in -Israel to get on well.' - -As may be imagined, there was not the slightest anti-Semitic feeling in -Suzanne, who was always very glad to receive invitations to dine at two -or three Jewish houses of princely hospitality, but it had struck her -that these words would intensify the halo of piety with which she had -endeavoured to invest herself in the poet's eyes. 'You will find my -husband somewhat reserved at first,' she continued; 'it was my ambition -to make my drawing-room a rendez-vous of writers and artists, but you -know that business men are a little jealous of you all, and then -Monsieur Moraines doesn't care for society much. He was not at Madame -Komof's the other night; he likes to move just in a small circle, and -have only well-known faces about him.' - -She spoke with an air of constraint, as if she meant to say, 'You must -excuse me if I cannot ask you to come and see me here as I should like.' -This constrained air also meant that this lovely woman must have been -sacrificed (not that she was ever heard to complain) to cold social -considerations which take no account whatever of sentiment. Already, in -René's imagination, Paul Moraines, that amiable and jovial fellow, had -become a crotchety and bad-tempered husband, to whom this creature of a -superior race was bound by the terrible chains of duty. In addition to -the passion that animated him, he felt for her that pity which the less -a woman deserves it the more she loves to inspire. - -Tempering the pointedness of his reply by the generality in which he -clothed it, he made bold to say, 'I wish I could tell you how often, -when I have wandered as far as the Champs-Elysées, I have longed to -know the secret of the sadness I imagined I saw on certain faces. It has -always seemed to me that the troubles of the wealthy are the worst, and -that mental anguish in the midst of material well-being is most to be -pitied.' - -She looked at him as if his words surprised her. In her eyes was that -look of rapt and involuntary astonishment worn by a woman when she -suddenly discovers in a man a shade of sentimentalism which she believed -to be restricted to her own sex. - -'I think we shall soon become friends,' she said, 'for there is much in -our hearts that is similar. Are you like me? I believe in sympathy and -antipathy by sheer instinct, and I think I can also feel when people -don't like me. Now--perhaps I am wrong in telling you this, but I speak -to you in confidence, as if I had known you a long time--there is your -friend Monsieur Larcher; I am sure that he doesn't like me.' - -She was really agitated as she said this, for she was now about to learn -for certain, not whether Claude had been speaking ill of her--she knew -he had not by René's face--but whether the poet could hold his tongue. -She was well aware that in a love affair the dangerous time for -imprudent confidences lies at the beginning and the end. Your only sure -men are those who can keep their peace when their hearts are overflowing -with hope or bitterness. By René's reply she would be able to judge an -important trait in his character, and one that was a principal factor in -the plan that she had madly and rapidly evolved. It was only natural -that he should have confided his passion to Claude on the very day of -its birth--and he would have done so, too, had it not been for Colette's -presence. This detail was, of course, unknown to Suzanne, and René's -silence was a promise of prudence that set her heart beating. - -'We have never mentioned your name,' said the poet; 'but, as you -remarked only too justly the other evening, he has always been -particularly unfortunate in his love affairs, and he cannot shake his -troubles off. If you could but see how he carries on with the woman he -is miserably in love with at the present moment!' - -'That is no reason,' said Suzanne, 'why he should revenge himself by -forcing his attentions upon any woman chance throws in his way. I got -quite angry one day when he was seated next to me at table. I heard, -too, that he had been speaking ill of me, but I have forgiven him.' - -'And now Claude may say what he likes,' she thought when René had gone -after promising to come again in three days' time and to bring his -collection of unpublished poems. Then she looked at herself in the glass -with unfeigned satisfaction. The interview had been a success; she had -made the poet understand that she could not receive him in the ordinary -way; she had put him on his guard against his best friend, and she had -completed her capture of his heart. - -'He is mine,' she cried, and this time her joy was sincere and deep. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -IN THE TOILS - - -Suzanne thought she was very clever--and not without reason; but by -being too clever people often defeat their own ends. Accustomed to -confound love and mere gallantry, she knew nothing of the generous -expansion of feeling to be found in one so young as the object of her -semi-romantic, semi-sensual caprice. She presumed that the insidious -accusation she had thrown out against Claude would put René on his -guard. It resulted, however, in giving the poet an irresistible desire -to talk to Larcher. It grieved him to think that the latter should -entertain a false opinion of Madame Moraines. Which of us, at -twenty-five, has not felt a desire that our dearest friend should -reserve a special place in his esteem for the woman we loved? It is as -strong then as is at forty the wise desire to hide ourselves most of all -from that same friend. - -René's first act on leaving Suzanne was to proceed at once to the Rue -de Varenne. He had not been to see Claude since the day when he had met -Colette in his rooms, and as he passed through the gateway and made his -way across the spacious courtyard he could not help comparing this visit -with his last. They were separated by a very few hours only, but yet by -what a gulf! The poet was a prey to that fever of delight which makes -reasoning impossible. He did not reflect that his Madonna had been -wonderfully clever in bringing matters to such a pass so soon. The -amazing rapidity with which his hopes were being realised only delighted -him, and showed him how strong his love really was. He felt so light and -happy that he bounded up the old staircase two steps at a time, just as -he used to do when as a boy he came home from school after reaching the -top of the class. To-day Larcher's man admitted him without the -slightest hesitation, but he wore such a long face that René asked him -what was the matter. - -'It isn't right, sir,' sighed Ferdinand, shaking his head. 'Master has -been at it now for forty-eight hours--writing, writing, writing--and -with only about six hours' sleep altogether. You ought really to tell -him, sir, that he'll damage his constitution. Why can't he get into a -nice, comfortable habit of working a little every day, like everybody -else?' - -The man's wise remonstrances prepared René for the sight that he knew -so well--the 'den' in which he had seen Colette enthroned turned into a -writer's workshop. He went in. The broad leather-covered couch on which -the graceful but frivolous actress had reclined was now covered with -sheets of paper flung down and covered with great straggling characters -written in haste; similar sheets, all torn or crumpled, being strewn -about the floor, and the chimney-piece encumbered with half-opened -bundles of proofs. - -Larcher, with a beard of three days' growth and unkempt hair, was seated -at his writing-table, dressed like a beggar, in a dirty coat devoid of a -single button, a pair of worn-out slippers on his feet, and a silk -handkerchief tied in a knot round his neck. The real Bohemian, utterly -regardless of appearance from his earliest youth, came to the surface -every time the would-be swell was obliged to step out of his part and -put his shoulder to the wheel. And this he was obliged to do pretty -frequently. Like all literary workers whose time is their sole capital, -and who, therefore, lead most irregular lives, Claude was always -behindhand with his work and short of money, especially since his -relations with Colette had involved him in that most ruinous expense of -all--the expense incurred by a young man for a woman he does not keep. -Besides the salary she drew from the theatre, the actress had an income -of twenty thousand francs, left her by an old admirer, a Russian noble -who was killed at Plevna; but what with riding about and dining out with -his mistress, and buying her heaps of flowers and presents, Claude had -to find many a bank-note. The proceeds of the two plays being long -spent, the writer was forced to earn these wretched notes by overworking -his brain in the intervals of his enervating debauches. - -'At it again!' he cried, looking up with his pale face and clasping -René's hand in his feverish grasp. 'Fifteen chapters to be delivered at -once. A splendid stroke of business with the _Chronique Parisienne_, the -new eight-page paper financed by Audry. They came and asked me for a -story the other day to run as a _feuilleton_ for a fortnight. A franc a -line. I told them I had one ready--only wanted copying. My dear -fellow--hadn't got a word written--not that! But I had an idea. Re-write -"Adolphe" up to date in our jargon, and put in our local colouring. It -will be a beastly hash, but all that's nothing. Do you know what it -means to sit down and write while your heart is being tortured by -jealousy? I am here at my table, scribbling a phrase; an idea occurs to -me, and I want to hold it. Now for it, I think. Suddenly a voice within -me says: "What is Colette doing now?" And I put down my pen as the -pain--ah! such terrible pain!--comes over me. Balzac used to say that he -had discovered how much brain matter was wasted in a night's debauch: -half a volume; and he used to add, "There is not a woman breathing worth -two volumes a year." What nonsense! It isn't love that wears out an -artist, but the continual worry of some fixed idea causing one long -heart-ache. Is it possible to think and feel at the same time? We must -choose one or the other. Victor Hugo never felt anything--nor did -Balzac. If he had really loved his Madame Hanska he would have run after -her all over Europe, and would have cared for his "Comédie humaine" as -much as I do for this rubbish. Ah! my dear René,' he continued with an -air of dejection as he gathered up the sheets scattered all over his -desk, 'keep to your simple mode of life. I hope you have not been weak -enough to accept the invitations of any of the sharks you met at Madame -Komof's.' - -'I have only paid one visit,' replied René, 'and that was to Madame -Moraines.' He could scarcely control himself as he pronounced her name. -Then, with the involuntary impetuosity of a lover who, though come -expressly to speak of his mistress, is afraid of criticism, and staves -off the reply as he would thrust aside the point of a dagger, he added, -'Isn't she sweetly pretty and graceful? And what lofty ideas she has! Do -you think ill of her too?' - -'Bah!' exclaimed Claude, too full of his own sufferings to pay much heed -to René's words, 'I dare say we could find something ugly in her past -or her present if we tried. All women have within them the toad that -springs from the mouth of the princess in the fairy tale.' - -'Is there anything you know about her?' asked the poet. - -'Anything _I_ know!' replied Claude, struck by the strange tone of his -friend's voice. He looked at René and saw how matters stood. - -Mixing as he did in Parisian society, he was well acquainted with the -rumours concerning Suzanne and Baron Desforges, and with the -easy-going--though sometimes mistaken--credulity of a misanthrope to -whom every infamy seems probable because possible, he believed them. For -a moment he was tempted to inform René of these rumours, but he held -his tongue. Was it from motives of prudence, and in order not to make an -enemy of Desforges, in case Suzanne should get to know what he had said, -and tell the Baron? Was it out of pity for the grief his words would -cause René? Was it for the cruel delight of having a companion in his -torture--for how much better was Suzanne than Colette? Was he impelled -by the curiosity of an analyst and the desire to witness another's -passion? Who shall determine the exact point of departure of so many and -such complex motives as go to make up a sudden resolve? - -Claude paused for a moment, as if to ransack his memory, and then -repeated his friend's question. 'Is there anything I know about her? -Nothing at all. I am a _professional woman-hater_, as the English say. I -only know the woman through having met her here and there, and I thought -her a little less foolish than most of her kind. It's true she is very -pretty!' And then, either out of malice or in order to sound René's -heart, he added, 'Allow me to congratulate you!' - -'You talk as though I were in love with her,' replied René, growing red -with shame. He had come there with the intention of singing Suzanne's -praises, and now Claude's bantering tone caused his confidences to -freeze upon his lips. - -'So you are not in love with her!' cried Larcher, with his most horribly -cynical laugh. Then, with one of those generous impulses in which his -better and truer nature revealed itself, he took his friend's hand and -begged his pardon. Seeing in René's eyes that this was about to provoke -a fresh outburst, he stopped him. 'Don't tell me anything. You'd only -hate me for it afterwards. I'm not fit to listen to you to-day. I am -enduring torture, and that makes me cruel.' - -So it happened that even Suzanne's clumsy manœuvring turned out -favourably for her plan of capture. The only man whose hostility she had -to fear had voluntarily imposed silence upon himself. Since René was in -absolute need of a confidante to receive the overflow of his feelings, -it was to Emilie that he turned, and poor Emilie, out of sheer sisterly -vanity, was already the abettor of the unknown lady whom she had seen -through her brother's eyes encircled with a halo of aristocracy. - -The very next morning after the _soirée_ at Madame Komof's she had -guessed from René's words that Madame Moraines was the only woman he -had met there whom he really liked, and the only one, too, upon whom he -had made any strong impression. Mothers and sisters possess some -peculiar sense for perceiving these shades of feeling. For the next few -days after making her discovery René's restlessness was very plain to -Emilie. Bound to him by the double bond of affection and moral affinity, -no feeling could traverse her brother's heart without finding an echo in -her own. She knew that René was in love as well as if she had been -present in the spirit during the two meetings in the Rue Murillo. She -felt delighted, too, without being at all jealous, though her brother's -attachment to Rosalie had caused her not only jealousy, but anxiety. -With peculiarly feminine logic, she thought it but natural that the poet -should enter upon an intrigue with a woman who was not free. She -recognised that exceptional men require a mode of life and a standard of -morality as exceptional as themselves, and she felt that this love of -René's for a grand lady, whilst realising the proud dreams she had -formed for her idol, would not rob her of a jot of affection. - -His passion for Rosalie, on the contrary, she had regarded as an -infringement upon her rights. This was because Rosalie resembled her, -and was of her world, and because René's attachment to her could only -result in marriage and the setting up of another home. It was therefore -with secret joy that she beheld the birth of a fresh passion in her -brother. She would have been glad if he had taken her further into his -confidence, and so completed the confession he had made on awakening -only a few hours after the _soirée_ at Madame Komof's. But this he had -not done, neither had she led him on to do so, her instinct telling her -that René's confidences would only be the more complete for being -spontaneous. So she waited, watching his eyes, whose every look she knew -so well, for that expression of supreme joy which is the fever of -happiness. Her silence was also to a great extent due to the fact that -she only saw René when Fresneau was present. With that natural -cowardice begotten of certain false positions, the poet left the house -as soon as he was up and returned only in time for lunch. Then he again -took himself off until dinner, going out immediately after, in order to -avoid meeting Rosalie. The professor's abstraction was so great that he -did not even notice this change in René's habits. Such, however, was -not the case with Madame Offarel. Having come on two consecutive -evenings with her two daughters and seen nothing of him whom she already -looked upon as her son-in-law, she did not hesitate to remark upon his -unwonted absence. - -'Does Monsieur Larcher present Monsieur René to a fresh comtesse every -evening that we never see him here now, nor at our house either?' - -'It's true,' observed Fresneau, 'I never see him now. Where does he get -to?' - -'He has set to work again upon his "Savonarola,"' replied Emilie, 'and -he spends his evenings at the Bibliothèque.' - -Early on the morning after this conversation, which was also the morrow -of René's second visit to Suzanne, Emilie entered her brother's room to -give him a full account of what had been said. She found him getting out -a few sheets of fine note-paper--some that she had bought for him--on -which he was about to copy, in his best handwriting, the verses he was -to read to Madame Moraines. The table was covered with sheet upon sheet -of his poems, from which he had already made a selection. - -When Emilie told him of her innocent fib he kissed her, and exclaimed, -with a laugh, 'How clever you are!' - -'There is nothing clever in it,' she replied; 'I am your sister, and I -love you.' Then, taking up some of the papers scattered about, she -asked, 'Do you really think of getting on with your book?' - -'No,' answered René, 'but I have promised to read a few of my verses to -some one.' - -'To Madame Moraines?' exclaimed his sister. - -'You have guessed it,' replied the poet, looking slightly confused. 'Ah! -if you only knew!' - -And then the pent-up confidence burst forth. Emilie had to listen to an -enthusiastic eulogy of Suzanne and all that concerned her. In the same -breath René spoke of the lofty nobility of this woman's ideas and of -the shape of her shoes, of her marvellous intelligence and of the -figured velvet oh her blotting-book. That childish astonishment at these -luxurious details should be united to the more poetic fancies in the -fabric of love did not surprise Emilie. Had she herself in her love for -René not always associated petty desires with boundless ambition? She -wished, for instance, with almost equal fervour, that he might have -genius and horses, that he might write another 'Childe Harold,' and -possess Byron's income of four thousand a year. In this she was as -ingenuously plebeian as he himself, confounding--in excusable fashion, -after all--real aristocracy of sentiment with that aristocracy expressed -by outer and worldly forms. Those who come of a family in which the -struggle for bread has lowered the tone of thought easily mistake the -second of these aristocracies for a condition inseparable from the -first. - -Those words, therefore, which might have led an unkind listener to think -that René loved Suzanne for her surroundings, and not for herself, -charmed Emilie instead of shocking her, and she had so fully entered -into her brother's infatuation that on leaving him she said: 'You are -not at home to anyone--I'll see that no one comes in. You must show me -your verses when you have written them--mind you choose them well.' - -The task of making this selection cheated the poet's ardour, and he was -able to await the day fixed for his next visit to the paradise in the -Rue Murillo without much impatience. The hours of solitude, broken only -by his talks with Emilie, passed by in alternate fits of happiness and -melancholy. Often a delightful vision of Suzanne would rise up before -him. He would then lay down his pen, and all the objects about him would -melt away, as if by magic. Instead of the red hangings of his room, it -was the little _salon_ of Madame Moraines that he saw; gone were his -dear Albert Dürers, his Gustave Moreaus, his Goyas, his small library -on whose shelves the 'Imitatio' rubbed shoulders with 'Madame -Bovary'--gone were the two leafless trees that stood out black against a -light blue sky. But in their place he could see Suzanne, her dainty -ways, the poise of her head, the peculiar golden tint of her hair, and -the transparent pink of her lovely complexion. - -This apparition, which had nothing of a pale or shadowy phantom about -it, appealed to René's senses in a way that ought to have made him -understand that Madame Moraines' attitudes did but mask the true woman, -the voluptuous though refined courtesan. But of this he took no note, -and, whilst madly desirous to possess her, he believed that his worship -of her was of the most ethereal kind. This mirage of sentiment is a -phenomenon frequently observed in men who lead chaste lives, and one -which renders them the defenceless prey of the most barefaced hypocrisy. -The inability to understand their own feelings makes them still more -incapable of analysing the tricks of the women who arouse in them the -accumulated passion of a lifetime. The poet, however, became perfectly -lucid as soon as Suzanne's image made way for that of Rosalie. On going -through his papers he was continually coming across some page headed, in -boyish fashion, 'For my flower;' that was the name he had given Rosalie -in the heyday of his love, when he had written her a fresh poem almost -every morning. - -'O Rose of candour and sincerity!' were the terms in which he addressed -her at the end of one of these effusions. When his eyes fell upon such -lines he was again obliged to lay down his pen, and once more his -surroundings would melt away, but this time to make room for a vision of -torture. The rooms occupied by the Offarels lay before him, cold and -silent. The old woman was busy with her cats. Angélique was turning -over the leaves of an English dictionary, and Rosalie was looking at -him, René--looking at him through an ocean of space with eyes in which -he read no reproach, but only deep distress. He knew as well as if he -were there, near her, that she had guessed his secret, and that she was -suffering the pangs of jealousy. If such were not the case would he have -been so terribly afraid to meet the girl's eyes? Would that he could go -to her and say, 'Let us be only friends!' It was his duty to do so. The -only means of preserving one's self-esteem is by acting with absolute -loyalty in these subsidings of love, which are like fraudulent -bankruptcies of the heart. But that loyalty was thrust aside by weakness -in which both egoism and pity were equally represented. He took up his -pen again, and saying, as on the first day, 'We shall see--later on,' he -tried to work. Soon he had to stop once more as his mind reverted to -Rosalie's sufferings. He thought of the long nights she would spend in -tears, knowing as he did every trifling habit of the simple creature who -had given him her heart. She had often told him that the only time she -could indulge in her own grief was at night. Then he hid his face in his -hands and waited till the vision had passed, meanwhile saying to -himself, 'Is it my fault?' - -A law in our nature bids our passions grow stronger in proportion to the -number of obstacles to be overcome, so that the remorse of his -infidelity to poor Rosalie resulted in making René's heart beat faster -as the time fixed by Madame Moraines for their next meeting drew near. -She, on her side, awaited him with an almost feverish impatience that -astonished even herself. She had looked out for the young poet whenever -she had been in the street, and again at the Opera when Friday came -round. Had she seen his eyes fixed upon her in that simple adoration -which is as compromising as a declaration, she would have said, 'How -imprudent!' Not to see him, however, gave her a slight fit of doubt, -which brought her caprice to its climax. She looked forward to this -visit all the more anxiously because she considered it decisive. It was -the third time René visited her, and, out of these three times, twice -unknown to her husband. Further than that she could not go, on account -of the servants. A day or two back Paul, meaning no harm, had said to -her at dinner, 'I was talking to Desforges about René Vincy. He doesn't -seem to have made a good impression on the Baron. It is decidedly better -not to see the authors too closely whose works we admire.' - -If the servant who had announced the poet had been in the dining-room at -the moment these words were uttered Suzanne would have had to speak. The -same thing might happen the next or any other day. She was therefore -determined to find a peg in her conversation with René on which to hang -an appointment elsewhere. An idea suddenly occurred to her of going -somewhere with the poet under pretence of curiosity--a meeting in Notre -Dame, for instance, or in some old church sufficiently distant from the -fashionable quarter of Paris to be beyond the risk of danger, and she -relied upon one or other of René's poems to furnish her with an -opportunity of making such an appointment. - -On this occasion she once more wore a walking-dress, for, having -attended a marriage ceremony in the morning, she had kept on the rather -smart mauve gown in which her shapely figure, elegant shoulders, and -slim waist were so well set off. Thus attired, and lounging back in a -low arm-chair--an attitude that marked the adorable outlines of her -body--she begged the poet, after the usual commonplaces had passed, to -commence his reading. She listened to his poetry without betraying any -surprise at the peculiar drawl with which even the best scholars intone -their verses, her great intelligent eyes and the repose of her face -seeming to indicate the closest attention. At rare intervals she would -venture upon some apparently involuntary exclamation, such as: 'How -beautiful that is!' or, 'Will you repeat those lines?--I like them so -much!' - -In reality, she cared little for the poet's verses, and understood them -less. To comprehend even superficially the work of a modern artist--in -whom there is always a critic and a scholar--requires such mental -development as is only met with in a small number of Society women, -sufficiently interested in culture to read much and to think more in the -midst of a life entirely opposed to all kind of study and reflection. -What made Suzanne's pretty face and big blue eyes look so pensive was -the desire not to let the important word slip by upon which to hang her -project. But line came after line, stanzas succeeded sonnets, and yet -she had not been able to seize upon anything which could reasonably be -made to give the conversation the turn she wanted. What a pity it was! -For René's eyes, that continually wandered from the page; his voice, -that shook occasionally as he read; his hands, that trembled as he -turned the leaves--all showed that her pretended admiration had -completely intoxicated the Trissotin that lurks in every author. - -And now there was only one piece left! This the poet had purposely kept -to the last; it was his favourite, and bore a title which was a -revelation to Suzanne, 'The Eyes of the Gioconda.' It was rather a long -poem, half metaphysical, half descriptive, in which the writer had -striven to collect and reproduce in sonorous verse all the opinions of -the modern school of critics concerning Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece. -In this portrait of an Italian woman we ought, perhaps, to see nothing -beyond a study of the purest and most technical naturalism, one of those -struggles against conventionality in art in which the great painter -appears to have been so frequently engaged. Can it not have been an -attempt of the master to seize the unseizable--the play of a face, and -to paint the fleeting expression on the lips as they pass from repose to -a smile? In his poem René, who took a childish pride in the fact that -his family name resembled that of the village which lends its -appellation to the most subtle master of the Renaissance, had condensed -into thirty verses an entire system of natural and historical -philosophy. He valued this symbolical medley higher than the -'Sigisbée,' which contained only what was natural and appertaining to -the passions--two qualities fit only for the vulgar herd. - -What then was his delight to hear Madame Moraines say, 'If I might be -allowed to express any preference, I would say that this is the piece -which pleases me most. How well you understand true art! To see the -great masterpieces with you must be a revelation! I am sure that if I -visited the Louvre under your guidance you would explain to me so much -that I see in the pictures but cannot understand. I have often wandered -about there, but quite alone!' - -She waited. As soon as René had started reading this last poem she had -said to herself, 'How foolish of me not to have thought of that before!' -closing her eyes for a moment as if to retain some beautiful dream. At -the finish she had purposely used such words as would give him an -opportunity of seeing her again. He would propose a visit together to -the Louvre, to which she would accede, after having cleverly raised just -sufficient difficulties. She saw the suggestion trembling on his lips, -but he had not the courage to make it. She was therefore compelled to do -so herself. - -'If I were not afraid of wasting your time----?' Then, with a sigh, 'But -we have not been acquainted long enough.' - -'Oh; madame!' cried René, 'it seems to me as if I had been your friend -for years!' - -'That is because you feel I am sincere in what I say,' she replied, with -a frank and open smile. 'And I am going to prove it to you once more. -Will you show me the Louvre one day next week?' - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -DECLARATIONS - - -An appointment had been made for eleven o'clock on the following -Tuesday, in the Salon Carré of the Louvre. Whilst Suzanne was being -driven to the old palace in a cab she was counting up for the tenth time -the dangers of her matutinal escapade. 'No, it's not a very wise thing -to do,' she thought; 'and suppose Desforges discovers I've been out? -Well, there's the dentist. And what if I meet some one I know? It's very -improbable, but in that case I would tell them just as much of the truth -as was absolutely necessary.' - -That was one of her great maxims--to tell as few lies as possible, to -maintain a discreet silence about most things, and never to deny -established facts. She was therefore ready to say to her husband, and to -the Baron as well, if necessary, 'I went into the Louvre this morning as -I passed. I was lucky enough to find Madame Komof's little poet there, -and he showed me through a few of the rooms. Yes,' she said to herself, -'that will do for once. But it would be madness to try it on often.' - -Her mind then became occupied with other thoughts of less positive -purport. The uncertainty of what would take place in this interview with -René caused her greater agitation than she cared for. She had played -the part of a Madonna before him, and the time had now come to get down -from the altar upon which she had been so piously adored. Her feminine -tact had hit upon a bold plan--lead the poet to a declaration, reply by -a confession of her own feelings, then flee from him as if in remorse, -and so leave the way open for any step she might afterwards care to -take. Whilst playing havoc with René's heart, this plan would suspend -his judgment of her acts and absolve her of any follies she might -commit. It was bold but clever, and, above all, simple. There were, -nevertheless, a few real dangers connected with it. Let the poet -entertain distrust but for one moment and all was lost. Suzanne's heart -beat faster at the thought. How many women there are who have been -similarly situated, and who, after having reared a most elaborate fabric -of falsehoods, have been compelled to continue their _rôle_ in order to -obtain satisfaction for the true feelings that originally actuated them! -When the men on whose account such women as these have played their -hypocritical _rôles_ discover the lie palmed off upon them, their -indignation and contempt abundantly prove how important a factor vanity -is in all affection. - -'Come, come,' exclaimed Suzanne, 'here am I trembling like a -school-girl!' She smiled indulgently as she uttered the words, because -they proved once more the sincerity of her feelings, and again she -smiled when, on alighting from her cab and crossing the courtyard, she -saw that she was there to the minute. 'Still a school-girl!' she -repeated to herself. A momentary fear came over her at the thought that -if René happened to arrive just after her he would see her obliged to -ask one of the attendants for the entrance to the galleries--she who had -boasted of having been there so often. She had not been in the place -three times in her life, though to-day her little feet trotted across -the spacious courtyard in their dainty laced boots as confidently as -though they performed the journey daily. 'What a child I am!' said the -inner voice once more--the voice of the Baron's pupil, who had acquired -as deep a knowledge of life as any hoary diplomat. 'He has been waiting -for me upstairs for the last half-hour!' Still she could not refrain -from looking anxiously about her as she asked her way of one of the -attendants. But her worldly knowledge had not deceived her, for no -sooner had she reached the doorway between the Galerie d'Apollon and the -Salon Carré than she saw René; he was leaning against the iron -railing, just underneath the noble work by Veronese, representing Mary -Magdalene washing our Saviour's feet, and opposite the famous Noces de -Cana. - -In his boyish timidity the poor fellow had considered it his duty to put -on his very best clothes in coming to meet one who, besides being a -Madonna in his eyes, was a 'Society woman'--that vague and fanciful -entity which exists in the brain of so many young _bourgeois_, and is a -curious medley of their most erroneous impressions. He was attired in a -smart-fitting frock coat, and, although the morning was a cold one, he -wore nothing over it. He possessed only one overcoat, and that, having -been made at the beginning of the winter, did not come from the tailor -to whom he had been introduced by his friend Larcher. With his brand-new -chimney-pot hat, his new gloves, and his new boots, he almost looked as -though he had stepped out of a fashion plate, though his dress -contrasted strangely with his artistic face. If he had made himself -appear still more ridiculous, Suzanne would have found still more -reasons for growing fonder of him. Such is the way of women in love. - -She understood at once that he had been afraid he would not look nice -enough to please her, and she stood in the doorway for a few seconds in -order to enjoy the anxiety that was depicted on the poet's face. When he -saw her there was a sudden rush of blood to his cheeks, though the blush -soon died away beneath the gold of his fair silken beard. What a flash, -too, lit up those dark blue eyes, dispelling the look of anguish they -contained! 'It is lucky there is no one here to see our meeting,' she -thought, for the pale light that came through the glass roof fell only -upon a few painters setting up their easels and upon a few tourists -wandering about, guide-book in hand. - -Suzanne, who had taken all this in at a glance, could therefore abandon -herself to the pleasure which René's agitation afforded her; as he came -towards her he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, 'I hardly dared -to hope that you would come.' - -'Why not?' she replied, with an air of candid astonishment. 'Do you -really think I cannot get up early? Why, when I go and visit my poor I -am up and dressed at eight.' And in what a tone of voice it was that she -said this! A pleasant, modest tone--like that in which a hero would tell -of something extraordinary he had done without seeing anything in it -himself--the tone in which an officer would say, 'As we were charging -the enemy!' The joke of it was that she had never ventured even to set -her foot in a poor man's dwelling. She had as great a horror of poverty -as of sickness or of old age, and to her selfish nature charity was a -thing almost unknown. But at that moment René would have looked upon -anyone who dared charge her with selfishness as guilty of the most -infamous blasphemy. After having uttered her well-chosen words this -novel Sister of Mercy stopped for a moment in order to enjoy their -effect. In René's eyes shone that look of blind faith which these -pretty hypocrites are so accustomed to regard as their due that they -charge all who refuse it them with heartlessness. Then, as if to evade -an admiration that embarrassed her modesty, she went on, 'You forget -that you are my guide to-day. I will pretend I know nothing of any of -these pictures; I shall then be able to see whether we have the same -tastes.' - -'_Mon Dieu!_' thought René, 'I must take care not to show her anything -that might give her a bad opinion of me!' The most commonplace women -can, when they choose, inspire a man who is vastly superior to them with -this sensation of utter inferiority. - -They had now commenced their tour, he leading her to those masterpieces -which he thought would please her. How well acquainted he was with all -the galleries of his dear Louvre! There was not one of these pictures -that did not recall the memory of some dream of his youth--a youth -entirely spent in adorning with beautiful images the shrine we all carry -within us before our twentieth year, but from which our passions soon -expel all but the image of Venus! These pale and noble frescoes of Luini -that hang in the narrow room to the right of the Salon Carré--how often -had he not come to gaze upon their pious scenes when he wished to lend -his poetry the soft charm, the broad and tender touch, of the old -Lombard master! He had feasted his eyes for whole hours upon the mighty -Crucifixion by Mantegna--a fragment of the magnificent painting in the -church of San Zeno at Verona--as well as upon that most glorious of -Raphaels, Saint George--an ideal hero dealing the dragon a furious -stroke of his sword whilst spurring his white charger in pink trappings -across the fresh greensward, symbolic of youth and hope. But it was more -especially the portraits which had been the objects of his most fervent -pilgrimages--from those of Holbein, Philippe de Champaigne, and Titian, -to that of the elegant and mysterious lady simply attributed in the -catalogue to the Venetian school, and bearing a cipher in her hair. He -loved to think, in company with a clever critic, that this cipher meant -Barbarelli and Cecilia--the name of the Giorgione and that of the -mistress for whom tradition says that this great master died. During a -visit he had once paid to the Louvre with Rosalie he had told her the -romantic and tragic story on this very spot and before this very -portrait. He now found himself repeating it to Suzanne, and in almost -the same words. - -'The painter loved her, and she betrayed him for one of his friends. At -Vienna there is a picture painted by himself in which you see his sweet, -sad eyes resting upon his treacherous friend, who approaches him with a -gleaming dagger concealed behind his back.' - -Yes--the same words! When Rosalie heard the story she had turned her -eyes upon him, and he had distinctly read the thoughts that filled her. -'How can any woman betray the man who loves her?' With her the question, -had remained a dumb one, but Suzanne, after having stared curiously at -the mysterious woman with the thin lips, gave expression to her thoughts -with a sigh and a shake of her fair head. 'And yet she looks so good. It -is terrible to think that a woman with a face like that could lie!' - -As she spoke she too turned her eyes upon René; and, gazing into the -clear depths that presented such a contrast to Rosalie's dark orbs, he -felt a strange remorse. By one of those ironies of the inner life which -a comparison of consciences would often reveal, Suzanne, unspeakably -happy in strolling amidst these pictures, which she pretended to admire, -was keenly enjoying the impression that her beauty was making on her -companion, whilst the latter, a simple child, reproached himself with -the double treachery of leading this ideal creature through places that -he had once visited with another. The fatal comparison which, since his -first meeting with Madame Moraines, was effacing poor little Rosalie -from his mind was becoming more obtrusive than ever. - -A vision of his betrothed floated before him, humble as she herself, but -beside him walked Suzanne, a living sister of the aristocratic beauties -the old masters had portrayed on their canvases. Her golden hair shone -brightly under her little bonnet; the short astracan jacket fitted her -like a glove, and her grey check skirt hung in graceful folds. In her -hand was a small muff, from which peeped out the corner of an -embroidered handkerchief; the muff matched her jacket, and every now and -then she would hold it up just above her eyes in order to get the right -light to see the pictures well. How could the present fail to conquer -the absent--an elegant woman fail to oust a simple, modest girl, -especially since in Suzanne all the refinement of an æsthetic soul -seemed allied to the most exquisite charm of external appearance and -attitude? - -She who in her crass ignorance would have been unable to distinguish a -Rembrandt from a Perugino, or a Ribera from a Watteau, had a clever way -of listening to what René said, and of supporting the opinions he -expressed with an ingenuity that would have deceived men with more -experience of feminine duplicity than this young poet of twenty-five. -This meeting was to him a source of happiness so complete, such perfect -realisation of his most secret dreams, that he felt sad at the thought -of having attained his highest ambition. The time slipped by, and an -indescribable sensation invaded him; it was made up of the nervous -excitement that the sight of masterpieces always produces in an artist, -of the remorse he felt for his treachery in profaning the past by the -present and the present by the past, and finally of the knowledge of -Time's unrelenting flight. Yes, that delightful hour was slipping by, to -be followed by so many cold and empty ones--for never, no, never would -he dare to ask his adorable companion for another such meeting. - -She, the sensual Epicurean, was only eager to prolong the delight of -mental possession. Voluptuously, carefully, and secretly did she watch -the poet from the corner of her blue eye that looked so modest beneath -its golden lashes. She was unable to take exact account of all the -changes of feeling he underwent, for although she was already well -acquainted with his inner nature, she was so entirely ignorant of all -the facts of his life that sometimes she would ask herself with a thrill -whether he had ever loved before. It was impossible to follow his -thoughts in detail, but it was not difficult to see that he was now -looking at her much more than at the pictures, and that his distress was -increasing every minute. She attributed this distress to a fit of -shyness--a shyness that delighted her, for it proved the presence of a -passionate longing tempered by respect. How pleased she was to be the -object of a desire that expressed itself with such modesty! It enabled -her to measure more correctly the gulf that separated her little -René--as she already called him in her thoughts--from the bold and -dangerous men with whom she usually mixed. His looks were full of love, -though devoid of insolence, and contained an amount of suffering that -finally decided her to lead him on to the declaration which she had -promised herself to provoke. - -'_Mon Dieu!_' she suddenly cried, catching hold of the iron bar that -runs round the walls, and turning to René with a smile that was meant -to hide some sharp pain. 'It's nothing,' she added, in reply to the -poet's look of anxiety. 'I twisted my foot a little on this slippery -floor.' Then, standing on one leg, she put out the foot that she said -was hurt, and moved it about in the soft boot with a graceful effort. -'Ten minutes' rest and it will be all right, but you must be my crutch.' - -As her pretty lips uttered this ugly word she took hold of René's arm, -the poet little thinking, as he almost piously helped her along, that -this imaginary accident was but one episode more in the comedy of love -in which he was playing so innocent a part. Taking care to throw her -whole weight upon him, she managed to redouble his passionate ardour and -to completely intoxicate him by the rhythmic and communicated movement -of her lithe and supple limbs. The trick succeeded only too well. He -could scarcely speak, overwhelmed as he was by the proximity of this -woman and penetrated by the subtle perfume she exhaled. It was as much -as he dared do to look at her, and then he found beside him a face both -proud and playful, a cheek of ideal colouring, and a pair of mobile -cherry lips upon which from time to time there hovered a sweet little -smile that meant mischief, though when their eyes met this smile would -change into an expression of such frank sympathy that it dispelled -René's timidity. This she knew by the greater assurance with which he -now supported her. - -She had been careful to choose one of the most isolated rooms--the -_salle_ Lesueur--for acting the episode of her twisted foot. Arm-in-arm -they passed through a small passage, and, crossing one of the galleries -of the French school, entered a dark, deserted chamber in which were -then exhibited Lebrun's pictures representing the victories of Alexander -the Great. The Ingres and Delacroix gallery, by which this room is now -reached, was not yet opened, and in the centre of the floor stood a -large round ottoman covered in green velvet. Though in the very heart of -Paris, this spot was more secluded than a room in any provincial museum, -and there was no likelihood of being disturbed except by the attendant, -who was himself deep in conversation with his colleague in the next -apartment. - -Suzanne took in the place at a glance, and, pointing to the ottoman, -said to René, 'Shall we sit down there for a few minutes? My foot is -much better already.' - -A fresh silence fell upon them. Everything seemed to emphasise their -seclusion--from the noises in the Cour du Carrousel that came to them in -a dull murmur through the two high windows to the dim light in the room -itself. But this seclusion, instead of encouraging the poet to declare -his passion, only increased his distress. He said to himself, 'How -pretty she is, and how sweet! She will go, and I shall never see her -again. How stupid she must think me!--I feel quite paralysed near her -and incapable of speech.' 'I shall never have a better opportunity,' -thought Suzanne. - -'You are very sad,' she said aloud, bestowing upon him a look of -affectionate and almost sisterly sympathy. 'I noticed it as soon as I -arrived,' she continued, 'but you do not trust me sufficiently to tell -me your troubles.' - -'No,' replied René, 'I am not sad. Why should I be? I have everything -that can make me happy.' - -She looked at him again with an expression of surprise and mute -interrogation that seemed to say, 'Tell me what you have to make you -happy?' René thought he saw that question in her eyes, but dared not -understand it so. He sincerely believed himself to be so inferior to -this woman that he had not the courage to disclose to her the depths of -his devotion. All Suzanne's delightful confidence, in which he could not -possibly detect any cold calculation, would be destroyed the moment he -spoke, and he therefore went on as if his words referred to the general -circumstances of life. - -'Claude Larcher often tells me that I shall never be happier at any -period of my literary career. He maintains that there are four stages in -a writer's life--when he is unknown, when he is applauded by those who -wish to spite his elders, when he is maligned because he is successful, -and when he is forgiven because he is forgotten. I am so sorry you don't -know him better--I am sure you would like him. Literature is his -religion!' - -'He is rather too artless, after all,' thought Suzanne, but she was too -interested in the result of this interview to give way to her -impatience. She seized upon the words René had just uttered and -interrupted his uncalled-for praises of Claude by saying, 'His religion! -It is true, that is just like you writers. I have a friend who is -undergoing the ordeal, and she is always telling me that a woman ought -to be careful not to bestow her affections upon an artist. He will never -love her as much as he loves his art.' - -She repeated these supposititious words of her imaginary friend with a -look of pain upon her face; her cherry lips were parted by a -half-stifled sigh that hinted at heartrending confidences and a -presentiment of similar experiences in store for herself. - -'Why, it is you who are sad,' observed René, struck by the sudden -change in her pretty face. - -'Now for it!' she thought, and then replied, 'That doesn't matter. What -difference can it make to you whether I am sad or not?' - -'Do you think that I take no interest in you?' rejoined René. - -'A little, perhaps,' she replied, shrugging her shoulders; 'but when you -have left me will you think of me otherwise than as of some sympathetic -woman whom you have casually met and speedily forgotten?' - -She had never looked so lovely in René's eyes as when she uttered these -words, which went as far as she dared go without jeopardising her game. -Her gloved hand rested on the green velvet sofa quite close to the poet, -and he was bold enough to take it. She did not draw it back. Her eyes -seemed fixed upon some vision far away, and it was doubtful whether she -had even noticed René's daring action. There are women who have a -delightful way of paying no heed to the familiarities which some people -_will_ take with them. René pressed her dainty hand, and, as she did -not resent it, he began to speak in a voice trembling with emotion: - -'I have no right to be surprised at your thinking that of me. Why should -you think that my feelings towards you differ from those of other men -you meet? And yet if I told you that since the day when I first spoke to -you at Madame Komof's my life has changed for ever--ah! do not -smile--yes, for ever! If I told you that since then I have had but one -desire--to see you again; that I came to your house with a beating -heart; that every hour since then has increased my madness; that I came -here in a dream of rapture, and that I shall leave you in despair! I see -you do not believe me! People are willing to admit the existence of -these sudden and lifelong passions in novels, but do such things ever -happen in real life?' - -He stopped, amazed at the boldness of his own words. As he finished -speaking there came over him that strange sensation that seizes us when -in our dreams we hear ourselves revealing some secret to the very person -from whom we ought most to hide it. She had listened to him with her -eyes still fixed on vacancy, and still wearing her look of abstraction. -But her eyelids quivered, her breath came short and quick, and her -little hand trembled as it lay in his. This was such a startling and -delightful surprise that it gave René courage to go on. - -'Forgive me for talking to you like this! If you only knew--it may be -childish and silly--but when I saw you for the first time I seemed to -recognise you--you are so like the woman I have always dreamt of meeting -ever since I have had a heart. Before meeting you I only thought I -lived, I only thought I felt. What a fool I was! And what a fool I am! I -have gone and undone myself in your eyes. But at least I have told you -that I love you--you know it now. You can do with me as you will. My -God! how I love you, how I love you!' - -As he gazed at her in rapt admiration and repeated the words that seemed -to relieve the feelings that raged within him he saw two great tears -fall from Suzanne's eyes and slowly make their way down her pink cheeks. -He did not know that most women can cry like that at will, especially if -they are at all nervous. These two wretched tears drove his delirium up -to its highest pitch. - -'You are crying! he exclaimed; 'you----' - -'Don't finish your sentence,' cried Suzanne, putting her hand on his -lips and then moving a little further off. Her eyes remained fixed upon -his face, and in them might be read both passion and a kind of startled -surprise. 'Yes, you have reached my heart. You have awakened feelings of -whose existence I had not the faintest suspicion. I am afraid--afraid of -you, afraid of myself, afraid of being here. We must never see each -other again. I am not free. I ought not even to have listened to your -words.' She stopped; then, taking his hand in hers this time, she went -on: 'Why should I deceive you? All that you feel perhaps I feel too, but -I swear to you that I did not know it until a moment ago. The feeling of -sympathy to which I yielded, and which made me come and join you here -this morning--my God!--I understand it now, I understand! Fool that I -was not to have known how easily the heart is ensnared!' - -Fresh tears started from her eyes, and René was so agitated by all that -he had said and heard that he could only murmur, 'Tell me that you -forgive me!' - -'Yes, I forgive you,' she replied, squeezing his hand so hard that she -hurt him. 'I feel that I love you too,' and then, as though suddenly -awakening from a dream, she added, 'Good-bye--I forbid you to follow me. -This is the last time we shall meet.' - -She rose. Her face wore a threatening look, and it was clear that her -feelings of honour were now thoroughly roused. There was no longer any -thought of fatigue or of a sprained foot. She walked straight out, and -with such an angry mien that the poet, utterly crushed by what he had -undergone, saw her depart without doing anything to stop her. She had -been gone some minutes before he rushed off in the direction she had -taken. But he did not find her. Whilst he was trying first one staircase -and then another she had crossed the courtyard and jumped into a cab, -which rapidly bore her, exulting and in ecstasy, to the Rue Murillo. - -Whilst René was employed in seeking means to get her to reconsider her -hasty decision he would have no time to reflect upon the rapidity with -which his Madonna had led him to make, and had herself made, a -declaration of love. So much for her exultation. The recollection of the -poet's words, of his face beaming with love, and his eyes eloquent with -passion, enchanted her as with a promise of most perfect happiness. So -much for her ecstasy. She was already drawing up her plans for the -future. He would write to her, of course--but to his first two letters -he would get no answer. On receipt of his third or fourth letter she -would pretend to believe in his threats of suicide and drop upon him at -home--to save him! Just as her thoughts had carried her as far as this, -chance, which is sometimes as sarcastic as an ill-tempered friend, made -her eyes fall upon Baron Desforges walking along the Boulevard -Haussmann. He was probably going to her house to ask her to lunch out -with him. She looked at the pretty little gold watch that hung from her -bracelet and saw that it was only twenty minutes past twelve. She would -be home in good time, and, thoroughly pleased with her morning's outing, -she took a keen delight in pulling down the little window-curtain as she -passed quite close to the Baron without being seen. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -CRUEL TO BE KIND - - -When René Vincy had got as far as the Museum gates without finding -Suzanne a crowd of contradictory ideas burst so suddenly upon him that -he was lifted, metaphorically speaking, off his feet. Suzanne had not -been mistaken in her calculations, the double blow she had dealt the -young poet paralysing all his powers of analysis and reflection. Had she -simply told him that she loved him he would probably have opened his -eyes and perceived the striking contrast between the angelic attitude -assumed by Suzanne and the bluntness of this declaration. He would have -had to acknowledge that the angel's wings were very loosely attached if -they could be so easily laid aside. But instead of committing the -mistake of laying them aside the angel had spread her bright pinions out -wide and disappeared. 'She loves me, and will never forgive me for -having dragged that confession from her,' said René to himself. - -He fully believed that she had gone away resolved never to see him -again, and all his thoughts became concentrated upon that idea. How -could he hope to shake the resolution of a creature so sincere that she -had been unable to conceal her feelings, so saint-like that she had -immediately regarded her involuntary confession as a crime? And René -again saw her before him with terror written on her face and tears -starting from her eyes. Lost in these thoughts, he walked straight -before him, unable to bear the sight of a human being, even were it -Emilie, his dear confidante. Hailing a cab, he told the driver to take -him to Saint-Cloud. This was the first name that rose to his lips, -because Suzanne had described to him two _fêtes_ at which she had been -present in the palace when quite a girl. On getting out of the cab he -felt a savage delight in plunging into the denuded wood. A pale February -sun lit up the bleak wintry landscape and the dry leaves cracked under -his tread as he strode along. Now and then, through a network of -blackened trunks and naked branches, he could see the dreary ruins of -the old palace and the blue waters of the little lake upon which, in -bygone days, Madame Moraines had seen the unhappy Prince, since killed -at the Cape. - -The impressions produced by his surroundings and by these memories of a -tragic past did not distract the poet's thoughts from the one idea that -hypnotised him, as it were--by what means he could conquer the will of -this woman whom he loved, who loved him in return, and whom he was -determined to see again at all costs. What was to be done? Call at her -house and demand admittance? Inflict his presence upon her by -frequenting the houses she visited? Waylay her at street corners and at -theatres? No--he felt that he could not do anything that might furnish -Suzanne with a single reason for loving him less. It was to her that he -looked for everything, even for the right of beholding her. The memory -of the ideals he had cherished in the first years of his manhood and the -purer years of his youth inspired him with serious thoughts of doing -absolutely nothing to approach her, of obeying her as Dante would have -obeyed Beatrice, Petrarch his Laura, Cino da Pistoia his Sylvia--those -noble poets of the ages of chivalry who gave voice to the lofty -conceptions of an imaginative and holy love full of ideal devotion. He -had so often dipped with delight into the _Vita Nuova_ and devoured the -sonnets these dreamers wrote their lady-loves. But how could such -literature, of almost ascetic purity, hold its own against the poison of -sensuous passion which, unknown to him, Suzanne's beauty and -surroundings had instilled into his blood? Obey her! No--that he could -not do. Fresh ideas welled up within him, and he sought to calm his -overwrought nerves by exercise, the only palliative for the terrible -mental agonies he was suffering. - -Night fell--a wintry night preceded by a short, dismal twilight. Worn -out by the excess of emotion, René at last decided to adopt the only -course that could be put into immediate execution--that of writing to -Suzanne. On reaching the village of Saint-Cloud he entered a _café_, -and there, on a beer-stained blotting-pad, with a spluttering pen, -disgusted with the paper he used and the place he was in, disturbed by -the noise of billiard balls and blinded by the smoke of the players' -pipes, he wrote, under the insolent gaze of a dirty waiter, first one -letter, then another, and finally a third. How horrified he would have -been had Suzanne seen him sitting there! But, on the other hand, he felt -that he could not wait until he got home to tell her what he had to say, -and in the following terms, that would have greatly surprised Baron -Desforges had he read them and been told that they were addressed to his -Suzette of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, he gave vent to his excessive grief: - -'I have written you several letters, madame, and torn them up, and I am -not sure that I shall send you this one, so great is my fear of -displeasing you by the crude expression of sentiments which I am sure -would not displease you if you really knew them. Alas! we cannot bare -our hearts, and will you believe me when I tell you that the feelings -which prompt me to write this letter have nothing in them that would -offend the most sensitive and pure-minded woman--not even yourself, -madame? But you know so little of me, and the feeling which, with the -divine sincerity of a soul that abhors concealment, you have permitted -me to see, has been such a surprise that, by the time I am writing these -lines, it has probably been already banished and effaced from your heart -for ever. If that be so, do not answer this letter--do not even read it. -I shall know what to make of your silence, and will bow to your -decision. I shall suffer cruelly, but my gratitude to you will be -eternal for having procured me the absolute and unalloyed delight of -seeing the Ideal of all my youthful dreams in the flesh. For such -happiness I can never be sufficiently grateful, even were I to die of -grief through having met you only to lose you. You crossed my path, and -by your existence alone you have proved that my ideal was no myth. -However hard my lot may one day be, this dear, divine memory will be to -me a talisman, a magic charm. - -'But, unworthy as I am, should the feeling that I read in your eyes this -morning--how beautiful they were at that moment, and how I shall always -remember them!--should, I say, that feeling conquer your virtuous -indignation, should that sympathy with which you reproached yourself -still live in your heart, should you remain, in spite of yourself, the -woman who wept when she heard me confess my love and adoration--then I -conjure you, madame, to wrest some pity from that sympathy. Before -confirming the sentence to which I am quite ready to submit--that -terrible sentence never to see you more--let me ask you to put me to one -single proof. My request is so humble, and so subservient to your will. -Hear it, I beg. If I have guessed rightly from the all too short and -fleeting conversations we have had, your life, though apparently so -complete, is devoid of many things. Have you never felt the need of -having near you a friend to whom you could confide your troubles, a -friend who would never speak to you again as he once dared to do, but -who would be content to breathe the same air as yourself, and to share -your joys and sorrows--a friend on whom you could rely, whom you could -take or leave at your sweet will--in a word, a thing of your own, whose -very thoughts would be yours? Such a friend, with no desire beyond that -of serving you, regretting only that he has not always done so, and -entertaining no criminal hopes whatever, is what I dreamt of becoming -before that interview in which my feelings were stronger than my will. -And I feel that I love you sufficiently to realise that dream even now. -Nay, do not shake your head. I am sincere in my entreaties, sincere in -my determination never to utter a word which will make you repent your -forbearance if you decide to put me to this proof. Will it not be time -enough to banish me from your presence when you think me in danger of -breaking the promise I now make? - -'My God! how empty my phrases seem! I tremble at the thought that you -will read these lines, and that is why I can scarcely write them. What -will your answer be? Will you call me back to that shrine in the Rue -Murillo where you have already been so kind and so full of indulgence -that the memory of the minutes spent there falls like balm upon my -aching heart? That poor heart beats only for you in obedient and humble -admiration. Say--oh! say that you forgive me. Say that you will let me -see you once more. Say that you will let us try to be friends. You would -say all this, I know, if you could read what is in my heart. And even if -you do not speak those blessed words, there shall be no murmuring, no -reproaches, nothing but eternal gratitude--gratitude as deep in -martyrdom as it would have been in ecstasy. I have learnt to-day how -sweet it is to suffer through those one loves!' - -It was six o'clock when René posted this letter. He gazed after it as -it disappeared in the box, and no sooner had it left his hand than he -began to regret having sent it, the anguish of suspense respecting the -result being greater than his sufferings of the afternoon. In his -disturbed state of mind he had entirely forgotten his daily habits and -the fact that he had never stayed from home a whole day without giving -some previous explanation. He sat down to dinner in the first restaurant -he came across, without a thought of his people at home, and completely -absorbed in speculations as to what Suzanne would do after reading his -effusion. The first thing that awoke him from his state of -semi-somnambulism was the exclamation of Françoise when, having reached -home on foot about half-past nine, he opened the door and found himself -face to face with the big, clumsy maid, who nearly dropped the lamp with -fright. - -'Oh! sir,' she cried; 'if you only knew how uneasy you've made Madame -Fresneau--it's sent her into fits.' - -As Emilie ran out into the passage to meet him René said, 'You don't -mean to say that you've been upset by my not coming home? I couldn't -help it,' he added in an undertone as he kissed her; 'it was on _her_ -account.' - -Emilie, who had really spent a most wretched evening, looked at her -brother. She saw that he too had been greatly agitated, and that his -eyes were burning feverishly; she had not the courage to reproach him -with selfishness in paying no regard to her own unreasonable -susceptibilities--though he knew them so well--and replied in a whisper, -as she pointed to the half-open door of the dining-room: 'The Offarels -are here.' - -These simple words sufficed to give a sudden turn to René's feelings. -His fever of suspense was dispelled by a more pressing fear. During the -sweetest moments of his walk through the Louvre that morning the memory -of Rosalie had been able to give him pain--even when he was with -Suzanne! And now he was obliged to unexpectedly face--not a vision--but -the girl herself, to meet those eyes which he had avoided in such -cowardly fashion for days past, to gaze upon that pallor which he -himself had caused. A sense of his treachery once more came over him, -but this time it was more painful and acute than ever. He had spoken -words of love to another woman before breaking off his engagement with -her whom he justly regarded as his betrothed. - -He entered the dining-room as if he were walking to the scaffold, and -had no sooner come under the full light of the lamp than he saw by the -look in Rosalie's eyes that she read his heart like an open book. She -was seated between Fresneau and Madame Offarel, working as usual, her -feet resting on the supports of an empty chair upon which she had placed -her ball of wool and her father's hat; this, as René knew well enough, -was only an innocent ruse to get him to sit near her when he came home. -She and her mother were knitting some long mittens for old Offarel, who -had now got hold of an idea that he was going to have gout in his -wrists. Her fanciful parent was there, too, drinking, in spite of his -imaginary ills, a glass of good strong grog and playing piquet with the -professor. It was Emilie who had proposed the game in order to -discourage general conversation, and so be able to give herself up to -thoughts of her absent brother, whilst Angélique Offarel had been -helping her to unravel some skeins of silk. A soft light illumined this -quiet, peaceful scene, symbolical, in the poet's eyes, of all that had -so long constituted his happiness, and which he had now given up for -ever. Fortunately for him the professor immediately made his loud voice -heard, and so put an end to his further reflections. - -'Young man,' cried Fresneau, 'you can boast of having a sister who -thinks something of you, I can tell you! She was actually proposing to -sit up all night! "Something must have happened to him. He would have -sent a wire." For two pins she would have sent me off to the Morgue. It -was no use my suggesting that some one had kept you to dinner. Come, -Offarel, it's your deal.' - -'I had to go into the country,' replied René, 'and I lost the train.' - -'How badly he tells them!' thought Emilie, admiring her brother as much -for his unskilfulness, which in this case was a sign of honesty, as she -would have admired him for Machiavelian cleverness. - -'You look rather pale,' observed Madame Offarel aggressively, 'aren't -you well?' - -'Shall I make room for you here, Monsieur René?' asked Rosalie, with a -timid smile; 'I'll take away papa's hat.' - -'Give it to me,' said old Offarel, perceiving a place for it on the -sideboard; 'it will be safer here. It's my Number One, and mamma would -scold me if any harm came to it.' - -'It's been Number One for such a long time,' cried Angélique, with a -laugh. 'Look here, papa, here's a real Number One,' she added, holding -up René's hat under the lamp-light and comparing its glossy nap with the -shabby silk and old-fashioned shape of her father's headgear, much to -the latter's disadvantage. - -'But nothing is too good for Monsieur René now,' observed Madame -Offarel with her usual acrimony, venting the rest of her displeasure -upon Angélique, whose action had annoyed her. 'You'll be lucky if your -husband is always as well dressed as your father.' - -René was seated by Rosalie's side, and let the epigram of the terrible -_bourgeoise_ pass unnoticed, taking no part either in the rest of the -conversation, which Emilie wisely led round to cookery topics. Madame -Offarel was almost as keen on this subject as she was on that of her -feline pets. Not content with having recipes of her own for all kinds of -dishes, such as _coulis d'écrevisses_, her triumph, and _canard sauce -Offarel_, as she had proudly named it, she also kept a list of addresses -where specialities might be obtained. Treating Paris like Robinson -Crusoe treated his island, she would, from time to time, start out on a -foraging expedition to the most remote quarters of the capital, going to -some particular shop for her coffee and to another for her _pâtes -d'Italie._ She knew the exact date on which a certain man received his -consignment of Bologna sausages, and when another got his Spanish olives -in. - -The slightest incidents of these excursions were magnified by her into -events. Sometimes she would go on foot, and then her comments on the -improvements she had noticed, on the increase in the traffic, and on the -superiority of the air in the Rue de Bagneux were inexhaustible. At -other times she would go by omnibus, and then her fellow-passengers -formed the subject of her remarks. She had met a very nice woman who was -very fat, or a young man who was very impertinent; the conductor had -recognised her and said good morning; the 'bus had nearly been upset -three times; an old gentleman--'decorated'--had had some trouble in -alighting. 'I really thought he would fall, poor, dear old man!' - -The insignificant and superfluous details upon which it pleased the poor -woman's simple mind to dilate generally amused René, for the -_bourgeoise_ sometimes hit upon some curious figures of speech in her -flow of words. She would say, for instance, when speaking of a -fellow-passenger who was paying attentions to a cook laden with -provisions, 'Some people like their pockets greasy,' or of two persons -quarrelling, 'They fought like Darnajats'--a mysterious expression which -she had always refused to translate. - -But that evening there was too pronounced a contrast between the state -of romantic excitement into which his interview with Suzanne had thrown -the poet and the meanness of the surroundings in which he had been born. -He did not stop to think that similar contrasts are to be found in every -form of life, and that the substrata of the fashionable world are -composed of mean rivalries, of disgusting attempts to keep up illusory -appearances, and of compromises of conscience compared with which the -narrow-mindedness of the middle classes is a proof of the most -delightful simplicity. - -He looked at Rosalie, and the resemblance between the girl and her -mother struck him most forcibly. She was pretty, for all that. Her oval -face, pale with evident grief, had an ivory tint as she bent down over -her knitting in the lamp-light, and when she raised her eyes to his the -sincerity of the passion that animated her shone forth from beneath her -long lashes. But why were her eyes of precisely the same shade of colour -as her mother's? Why, with twenty-four years between them, had they the -same shape of brow, the same cut of the chin, and the same lines of the -mouth? But how unjust to blame this innocent child for that resemblance, -for that pallor, for that grief, and even for the silence in which she -wrapped herself! Alas! that it should be so, but when we have wronged a -woman it is easy enough to find an inexhaustible source of unjust -complaints against her. - -Rosalie had unwittingly committed the crime of adding remorse to the -feelings brought into play by René's fresh passion. She represented -that past which we never forgive if it becomes an obstacle between us -and our future. False as most women are in matters of love, their -perfidy can never sufficiently punish the secret selfishness of the -majority of men. If René had had the sorry courage of his friend Claude -Larcher, and looked himself straight in the face, he would have had to -confess that the real cause of his irritation lay in the fact that he -had deceived Rosalie. But he was a poet, and one who was an adept at -throwing a veil over the ugly parts of his soul. - -He therefore compelled himself to think of Suzanne, and of the noble -love which had sprung up and was burning within him; for the first time -he succeeded in forming a resolve to break definitely with Rosalie, -saying to himself, 'I will be worthy of _her!_' _She_ was the lying -wanton who, with her luxurious surroundings, her rare science of dress, -her incomparable power of aping sentiment, and her seductive, -soul-troubling beauty, had such immense advantages over sweet, -simple-hearted Rosalie. Her beauty once more rose up before René's -enslaved imagination just as old Offarel was giving the signal for -departure by rising and saying to Fresneau, 'I've won fourteen _sous_ -from you--ha! ha! that'll keep me in cigars for a week. Come,' he added, -turning to his wife, 'are you ladies ready?' - -'Since we are all here,' replied Madame Offarel, emphasising the word -'all' by darting a look at René. 'When are you coming to dinner? Would -Saturday suit you? That's M. Fresneau's best day, I believe?' The -professor replying in the affirmative, she now addressed herself to the -poet direct, 'Will that suit you, René? You'll be more comfortable at -our place, I can assure you, than amongst all those grand people on whom -your friend Larcher goes sponging.' - -'But, Madame----' exclaimed the poet. - -'Oh--that's enough!' cried the old lady; 'I always remember what my dear -mother used to say: a crust of bread at home is better than a stuffed -turkey at another's table.' - -Although this epigram of Rosalie's mother was simply nonsense when -applied to the unhappy Claude, whose acute dyspepsia seldom permitted -him to drink even a glass of wine, it wounded René as deeply as if it -had been thoroughly deserved. This was because he saw in it yet another -sign of deep and ever-increasing hostility between his old associations -and the new life for which since that morning he so eagerly and ardently -longed. These people had a right to him--a fuller right than Madame -Offarel knew, for was he not bound to Rosalie by a secret understanding? -A fresh fit of irritation against this poor child came over him, and he -said to himself more firmly than before, 'I shall break it off.' - -Having arrived at that decision, he went to bed, but could not sleep. -The current of his ideas had changed. He was now thinking of his letter. -It must have reached Suzanne by this, and a series of unforeseen dangers -spread itself out before his imagination. Suppose her husband were to -intercept the letter? A thrill ran through him as he thought of the -misery his imprudence might bring down upon this poor woman, in the -power of a tyrant whose brutality he could well imagine. And then, even -if the letter reached Suzanne safely, what if it displeased her? And he -was sure that such would be the case. He tried to remember the words he -had written. 'How can I have been such a fool as to write like that?' he -asked himself, and hoped that the letter might miscarry. He knew that -such things happened sometimes when people wished the contrary. Why -should it not happen now that he expressly desired it? He grew quite -ashamed of his childishness, and attributing it to the nervous -excitement of the evening, began once more to curse Madame Offarel's -mean-spirited remarks. His irritability against the mother paralysed all -pity for the daughter. He passed the night in this fashion, tossed -between two kinds of tortures, until he fell into that deep morning -sleep which is more tiring than refreshing; on awaking, the first -thought that occurred to him was his desire, stronger than ever, to -break off his engagement. - -What means could he employ? A very simple expedient presented itself to -his mind at once--ask the girl to make an appointment. It was so easy, -too! How many times had she not let him know when Madame Offarel would -be out, so that he could come to the Rue Bagneux sure of finding her -alone with Angélique; and how considerate the latter had always been in -leaving the two lovers together and in peace! This was undoubtedly the -most loyal means to adopt. But the poet could not even bear to think of -such an interview. - -In such crises we are sometimes assailed by a contemptible form of pity -that consists in unwillingness to look upon the sufferings we have -caused. We do not mind inflicting torture upon the woman we cast off, -but we do not care to see her tears. It was only natural that René -should try to spare himself this insufferable pain by writing--the -resource of the weak in every kind of rupture. Paper can stand a good -deal, people say. He got out of bed and commenced to write--but the -words would not flow easily, and he was obliged to stop. Meanwhile the -hour for the postman's first call was drawing near. Although it was -perfect madness to expect Suzanne's reply by that delivery, the lover's -heart beat faster when Emilie entered the room with his letters and the -newspaper, as was her wont when she knew he was awake. How happy would -he have been had one of the three envelopes she brought him borne that -long, elegant hand which, though seen but once, he would have recognised -amongst a hundred others! No--these were only business letters, which he -tossed aside so petulantly that his sister stared at him in surprise. - -'Are you in trouble, René?' she asked, and as she put the question -there was a look of such intense devotion and love in her eyes that she -appeared to her brother like a guardian angel come to save him from the -troubles of that cruel night. Why should he not charge Emilie with the -utterance of those words he dared not formulate himself, and which he -could not manage to put into writing? He had no sooner conceived this -plan of getting over the difficulty than he hastened to carry it out -with the impetuosity common to all weak minds, and with tears in his -eyes he began to disclose the unfortunate plight he was in with regard -to Rosalie. - -He told his sister exactly how the whole matter stood. Whilst his mind -was in that state of excitement frequently caused by confessions, fresh -ideas originated within him and strengthened the resolve he had made. -They were, however, such as ought to have occurred to him at the time he -was entering into those relations which he now regarded as guilty ones. -When the intimacy had first sprung up between them--a purely innocent -but clandestine affair--he had not told himself that strict morality -forbids any secret engagement of this kind, and that to accustom a girl -to elude the watchfulness of her parents is a most reprehensible -proceeding. He had not told himself then that a man of honour has no -right to declare his love until he has satisfied himself as to its -stability, and that, although the ardour of passion excuses many -weaknesses, a mere desire for obtaining fresh emotions makes such -weakness sinful. These reproaches and many more were now in his mind and -on his lips, and as he looked in Emilie's face he plainly saw what pain -his conduct had caused his confiding sister. In a narrow home circle -such dissimulation is productive of much grief to those who have been -its victims. But though Madame Fresneau felt as though she had been -imposed upon, she vented all her anger upon the girl, and upon her -alone, exclaiming, after her brother had told her what he wanted her to -do, 'I never would have believed her so deceitful.' - -'Don't blame her,' said René shamefacedly. If their relations had -remained hidden, whose fault was it? He therefore added: 'I am the -guilty one.' - -'You!' cried Emilie, folding him in her arms. 'No, no; you are too good, -too loving. But I will do what you wish, and I promise you I'll be as -gentle as possible. It was the best thing you could have done to come to -me. We women know how to smooth things down. And then, you know, it is -only right that you should put an end to such a false position. The -sooner it's over the better, so I shall go to the Rue Bagneux this very -afternoon. If I can't see her alone I will ask her to meet me -somewhere.' - -In spite of the confidence she had expressed in her own tact, Emilie -became so impressed with the difficulties of her mission that, during -lunch, she wore a look of anxiety that made her husband feel uneasy and -awakened in René feelings of remorse. In employing a third person to -tell Rosalie the truth was he not acting in a particularly cruel manner -and adding unnecessary humiliation to unavoidable pain? When his sister -came to him ready dressed, just before starting on her errand, he was on -the point of stopping her. There was still time--but he let her go. He -heard the door close. Emilie was in the street--now she was in the Rue -d'Assas--now in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. - -But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by the fever of anxiety -with which he awaited the arrival of the next post. Suzanne must have -had his letter that morning. If she had replied at once the answer would -come by the next delivery. This idea, and the approach of the moment in -which its correctness would be tested, at once cut short his pity for -the girl he had cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the -heart, love simplifies them wondrously. René was tortured by the -suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple soldier who expects an -ill-spelt letter from his sweetheart to the royal prince carrying on a -sentimental correspondence with the brightest and most heartless Court -beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual occupations, but his mind -is on the alert, counting the minutes and unable to endure the torment -of waiting. He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of -possibilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour to the -person from whom he gets his letters, and ask whether there is nothing -for him. Such is the agony of waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its -mad conjectures, the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments. -Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and, consumed in this fire -of impatience. When Emilie came back, after having been gone an hour and -a half, René seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he had -sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his sister's face that it -quite startled him. - -'Well?' he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense. - -'It is all over,' she replied, almost in a whisper. 'Oh, René, how I -misjudged her!' - -'What did she say?' - -'Not a word of reproach. She only wept--but, oh, how bitterly! Her love -for you is greater than I thought. Her mother had gone out with -Angélique--how cruel it sounds!--to order the things for Saturday's -dinner. I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie opened the -door, she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. She -guessed everything before I said a word. She is like I am with you--it -is a kind of second sight. She took me into her room. It is full of -you--of your portraits, of trifles that remind her of places you've been -to together, and of cuts from the illustrated papers about your play. I -began to deliver your message as gently as I could, but I give you my -word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, "It is so good of him to -have asked you to come. You at least will not think me foolish in loving -him as I do." And then she went on, "I have been expecting it for some -time. It seemed too good to be true. Ask him to let me keep his -letters." Oh, my God! I can't tell you any more about it now. I am so -afraid for you, my dear René; I am so afraid that her grief may bring -you ill luck.' - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -AT HOME - - -The letter posted by René at Saint-Cloud had duly reached its -destination on the morning of the day that was to complete poor -Rosalie's unhappiness. Suzanne had received it with the rest of her -correspondence a few minutes before her husband entered her room to get -his morning cup of tea, and she was just engaged in reading it when -Paul's kind and jovial face appeared in the doorway. - -'_Bon jour_, Suzon,' he cried in his deep but cheery voice, adding, as -he sometimes did, 'my fair rose.' This allusion to de Musset's -well-known romance was always accompanied by a kiss. In Paul's eyes de -Musset was the embodiment of youth and love, with just a spice of -suggestiveness, and it was the favourite joke of this simple-hearted -fellow to look upon himself as Suzanne's lover, and not as a lawful -spouse. He was one of those strange husbands who say to you in -confidence, 'I have no secrets from my wife--that is the only way to -cure her of curiosity.' Meanwhile, he was as much in love with his 'fair -rose' as ever, and proved it by the manner in which he tenderly kissed -her on the neck. - -But she checked further demonstrations of affection with the words, 'Get -along! See to the tea, and let me finish my letter.' - -She knew that Paul would never ask her anything about her -correspondence, and it gave her such intense pleasure to read the poet's -ardent phrases that she was not satisfied with going over them once, but -read them a second time, and then, folding up the letter, slipped it -into her bodice. She looked so supremely happy as she sat down to the -table and took up the fine porcelain cup filled with fragrant tea that -Moraines, wishing to tease her, said, in a voice that was meant to be -gruff, 'If I were a jealous husband, I should think you had received a -letter from your sweetheart, you look so happy, madame. And if you knew -how nice you look like that,' he added, kissing her arm just above the -wrist, where the delicate pink skin, perfumed and warmed by her -luxurious bath, looked so inviting. - -'Well, sir, you would be right,' she replied, with a roguish air. Women -take a divine pleasure in saying in fun things which, though true, will -not be believed. It procures them that mild sensation of danger which -titillates their nerves so delightfully. - -'I hope this sweetheart of yours is a nice fellow?' asked Paul, quite -amused by what he considered a good joke. - -'Very nice.' - -'And may I know his name?' - -'You are too inquisitive. Guess.' - -'Bless me--no!' cried Paul. 'I should have too much to do. Ah! Suzanne,' -he added, suddenly changing his tone to one that betrayed deep feeling, -'what pain it must be to harbour suspicions! Just fancy me being jealous -of you, and having to sit in the office all day whilst my heart was -being torn by doubts! Ah! well,' this with a shrewd look, 'I would set -Desforges to watch you!' - -'It's lucky there was no one to hear his "joke,"' thought Suzanne when -she was alone. 'He has a silly way of saying these things, too, when -he's out.' René's letter had, however, put her in such a good temper -that she forgot to get angry, as she would do when she thought her -husband too utterly simple. Such is the logic of these pretty and -light-hearted sinners; they will exercise all their wits in blindfolding -a man, and then blame him for stumbling. The fact of having deceived him -does not satisfy them--he must only be deceived up to a certain point. -If he goes beyond that it is too much--he makes them feel uneasy, and -they hate him for it--sincerely. Suzanne contented herself with a shrug -of her shoulders and a look of sweet pity. Then she took the letter from -its hiding-place and read it for the third time. - -'It's quite true,' she said aloud; 'he is not like other men.' - -Thereupon she fell into a deep reverie, in which she saw the poet as she -had seen him waiting for her at the Louvre, standing just under the -large Veronese canvas with his face turned a little to the right. How -agitated he had been when his eyes met hers! How young he was! How his -lips had trembled when he told her a little later that he loved -her--those full, fresh lips which she could have bitten like some fruit, -after having caressed his fair cheeks and the soft silken beard that -adorned his manly face. But the fruit was not yet ripe; she must learn -to wait. She sighed. Her calculation that the poet would write that very -letter, and so soon after their meeting, too, had proved correct. She -had made up her mind not to reply to it, nor yet to the second. For this -second letter she waited one, two, three days. Though her confidence in -the strength of the passion with which she had inspired René was -unshaken, she was somewhat startled when, on the afternoon of the third -day, just as her brougham was turning the corner of the Rue Murillo, she -saw him standing where she had seen him once before. She was very -careful to look as though she had not noticed him, and put on her -saddest expression, her most dreamy eyes and an air of sweet resignation -that would have moved a tiger. The comfortable brougham, furnished with -a number of dainty and useful knick-knacks, was immediately transformed -in René's eyes into a prison van containing a martyr--a martyr to her -husband, a martyr to her home, a martyr to her love, and a martyr to her -virtue. - -She was not acting a very great lie, either, as she passed René. As she -saw the pallor on his cheeks, caused by three days' anguish, and the -look of despair in his eyes, she would have given much to be able to -stop the brougham, to get out or to make him get in, and to exclaim as -she carried him off, 'I love you as much as you love me!' Instead of -that she drove on to do her shopping and pay her calls, sure now that -the second letter so impatiently expected would not be long in coming. -It came the same afternoon, but just when its arrival presented most -danger. And for this reason. Having gone home immediately after meeting -Suzanne, René had written her four pages in feverish haste, and in -order that they might reach her sooner and more safely, he had sent them -about five o'clock by a commissionaire; the letter was therefore handed -to Suzanne by her manservant whilst Desforges was with her. He had come, -as he often did at that hour, with a dainty little present; this time it -was a pretty needle-case in old gold which he had picked up at a sale. - -No sooner had she recognised the writing on the envelope than she said -to herself, 'The least sign of emotion and the Baron will smell a rat!' -As sometimes happens, the fear of betraying her agitation made it more -difficult for her to conceal it. She took the letter, looked at the -address as we do when trying to guess from whom a communication comes, -tore it open and skimmed its contents, after having first cast a glance -at the signature; then, getting up to place it amongst some others on -her desk, she said: - -'Another, begging letter! It's astonishing how many I've had lately. How -do you manage with them, Frédéric?' - -'I have a very simple plan,' replied the Baron. 'Fifty francs the first -time of asking, twenty francs the second, nothing the third. My -secretary has orders to that effect. That's one of the fads I don't -believe in--charity! Just as if it were through want of money that the -poor are poor! It's their disposition that has made them so, and that -you'll never change. Look here, take this person who is sponging on you -to-day; I'll bet twenty-five pounds that if you inquire about him you'll -find that fortune, or at least a competency, has been in his grasp ten -times during his life. If you were to set him up afresh he would be in -the same plight in a few years from now. Not that I mind giving, and as -much as people want--but as to believing that money so spent is of the -least use, that's a different thing altogether. And then these -benefactors and lady patronesses--I know them; it's all advertisement--a -means of making their way into Society and of getting hold of good -people.' - -'That's enough,' said Suzanne, 'you are a terrible sceptic.' And with -that delicate irony that women sometimes use in avenging themselves upon -the man who compels them to lie, she added, 'You're not one to be easily -duped.' - -The Baron accepted this flattery with a smile. Had his suspicions been -aroused, that phrase alone would have lulled them. The most cunning men -have that weak point by which they can always be conquered--vanity. But -suspicion of any kind had been far from the Baron's mind. Suzanne -deceived him as easily as René had deceived his sister. Those who see -us every day are the last to perceive what would be evident to the -merest stranger. That is because the stranger comes to us without any -preconceived idea, whilst our daily associates have formed an opinion -about us which they do not take the trouble to verify or change. The -Baron therefore did not remark that Suzanne was that afternoon a prey to -intense agitation, which lasted during the whole of his visit. He stayed -rather longer than usual, too, telling her all sorts of club stories, -while she pottered about in the room, under some pretence or other, with -one eye on her letter, seizing it once more with delight as soon as -Desforges had at last decided to go. - -'He is an excellent fellow,' she said, 'but such a bore!' A fortnight's -passion had sufficed to bring her to this stage of ingratitude, and she -now found compensation for the restraint of the past hour in going over -each phrase and word of the poet's mad letter. This time it was an -ardent prayer--an appeal to a woman's love. He no longer spoke of -friendship. The air of melancholy she had assumed in the brougham had -told. - -'Since you love me,' he said, 'have pity on yourself, if you have no -pity on me.' What would have appeared to Suzanne an intolerable piece of -conceit in anyone else touched her deeply as a mark of absolute -confidence in her love. She recognised it for what it really -was--worship so devout that it did not harbour a shadow of doubt. It -would have been so natural if René had accused her of having cruelly -trifled with his feelings, but such an hypothesis was far from the -poet's thoughts. 'Poor boy!' she said to herself, 'how he loves me!' -Then, thinking of Desforges by way of comparison, she added, 'It is the -best way to make sure of not being deceived!' She took the letter out -once more. Its language was so touching, and it was full of such sincere -grief; then, again, the cosy _salon_, just at that hour, reminded her so -forcibly of the poet and of his first visit, and she asked herself -whether she had not put him sufficiently to the proof. 'No,' she -concluded, 'not yet.' - -This burning letter could, indeed, have but one reply--to tell René to -come and see her there, and it was in his own home that she wanted to -see him, in the little room he had described to her. She would appear -before him in a state of distraction, and under pretence of saving him -from suicide. The third letter would undoubtedly furnish her with that -pretence, and she decided to await its coming, already enjoying in -anticipation the delight of seeing René once more. Amidst the whirl of -excitement that her sudden and unexpected appearance would cause the -poet there would be no room for reflection. All the hateful -preliminaries of a false step, impossible to discuss with a man so -inexperienced as he, would be dispensed with. It was true there was the -presence of the rest of the family to consider. Suzanne would not have -been the depraved woman she was, even in this crisis of true passion, if -this detail had not given her plans the charm of doubly forbidden fruit. - -She waited for that third letter with intense longing. The time slipped -rapidly by. She dined out, went to the theatre, and paid calls, her mind -entirely absorbed in that one thought. As luck would have it, Desforges, -having no doubt been lectured by Doctor Noirot, had not asked for any -appointments in the Rue du Mont-Thabor that week. She knew that this was -merely a postponement. Even after becoming René's mistress she would -still have to continue her relations with the man who supplied so many -of her luxurious wants. This seemed to her as natural as the fact of -being Paul's wife. 'What does that matter, since you know I love only -you?' is what such a wife will say to her lover when he gets into one of -those ridiculous fits of jealousy that so ill become a man in that -position. And these women are never more sincere than in uttering that -phrase. They know full well that love is totally different from duty, -interest, or even pleasure. Though Suzanne saw nothing particularly -shocking in the plural life she was leading, she was glad that the -opportunity was afforded her of devoting herself entirely to her new -passion for a day or two. In all this, however, she was still the -courtesan, one of those creatures who, when they do fall in love, become -real artists of sentiment, feeling as delicately on certain points as -they are abominably wanton in others. - -'What if he should really have taken it into his head to go away!' This -was the thought that struck her when she at last received the much -desired third letter, consisting of one long, heartrending -farewell--without a word of reproach. - -She trembled lest René might have had recourse to the proceeding -counselled by Napoleon, who, with his imperial good sense, said, 'In -love the only victory is flight.' In behaving as she had done she had -staked all. Would she win? What she had foreseen had come to pass with a -precision that both delighted and frightened her. The third letter bore -the imprint of such deep despair that, on reading it a second time, this -subtle actress, with all her experience, was seized by a fresh fear more -terrible than the first--the fear that René might really have destroyed -himself. In vain did she argue with herself that if the poet had had -real intentions of going away he would have mentioned it in the letter, -and that a handsome young man of twenty-five does not kill himself on -account of the silence of a woman he believes to be in love with -him--her anguish was none the less real and intense when she reached the -Rue Coëtlogon a few hours after having received the letter. - -It was two o'clock. She stopped for a moment at the corner of the -street, gazing in wonderment at this provincial corner of Paris, whose -picturesqueness had so charmed Claude Larcher on the evening our story -opens. The grey clouds hung low in the wintry sky, and the bare branches -of the trees stood out drearily against them. The cries of a few -children playing at soldiers amongst the ruins at the back alone broke -the silence. The strange appearance of the peaceful little street, the -perils attending the step she was about to take, and the uncertainty of -the result, all combined to bring Suzanne's excitement to its highest -pitch, though she smiled as she thought to herself that there was no -reason for believing René to be at home unless he were hopelessly -waiting for a reply to his last letter. But when the _concierge_ had -told her that M. René was in, and had pointed out the door, her wits at -once came back to her. - -Like all strong-minded women, she possessed the characteristics of a man -of action. A plain and circumscribed course of events inspired her with -determination and courage to carry out her plans. She rang the bell. -Heavy footsteps were heard approaching, and the face of Françoise -appeared in the doorway. At any other time she would have smiled at the -look of amazement which the simple maid did not even try to conceal. -Colette Rigaud had once called upon the poet to get him to make some -slight alteration in her part, and Françoise, recovering somewhat from -her surprise, no doubt thought that this was a similar visit, for -Suzanne could hear her say, as she opened the last door on the right: -'Monsieur René, there's a lady asking for you. . . . A very pretty -woman--probably some actress.' - -She saw the poet come out of his room and turn as pale as death on -recognising her. She glided quietly, along the passage which Raffet's -prints had turned into a small Napoleonic museum and entered René's -room. He was obliged to get out of the way to let her pass; the door -closed, and they were alone. - -'You--you here!' cried René. He could only gaze at her as she stood -before him looking so slim and elegant in the dark costume she had -chosen for this visit, for he was in that state of speechless agitation -caused by some unexpected event that suddenly raises us from the depths -of despair to the height of bliss. At such moments we are assailed by a -whirlwind of ideas and sensations that threatens to turn our brain. Our -legs give way beneath us and our hands tremble. It is happiness, and it -gives pain. René was obliged to support himself against the wall, his -eyes still fixed upon that handsome face that he had despaired of ever -seeing again. A small detail completed the madness of his joy. He -noticed that Suzanne's hands trembled a little too, and, as it happened, -her emotion was sincere. - -To the passionate feelings that inspired her there was now added the -fear of displeasing the man she was resolved to win. On entering this -chamber, where she was sure no woman had ever been before her, her plan -of action was as clearly traced as plans of that kind can be. Room must -always be left for the unforeseen. Suzanne felt that with René there -would be many difficulties which with others might have been lightly and -safely glided over. His simplicity both charmed and frightened her. In -him she could rely, it was true, upon the impulse of the passions--more -daring than cool calculation--but to arouse unnoticed that impulse in -the poet when she was herself suffering its tortures was no easy matter. - -Whilst he stood gazing at her after the door had closed she felt a -momentary hesitation; then, almost forgetting her plans and her part, -she threw herself upon his neck and stammered out, 'I was in such -terrible fear. Your letter frightened me so that I could not help -coming. I have had an awful struggle, and could not hold out any longer. -My God, my God! What will you think of me?' - -He held her in his arms, and a thrill ran through her. Then he lifted -her lovely head and commenced to kiss her, first on her eyes, those eyes -whose sadness had so touched him as she passed him in her brougham--next -on her cheeks, those cheeks whose ideal form had so charmed him from the -first--finally on her sweet mouth, which gave his kisses back. What did -he think of her? How could any idea shape itself in his mind, absorbed -as it was by that union of the lips which is in itself complete and -intoxicating possession? What delight, too, that embrace was to Suzanne! -Through all the horrible complexities of her feminine diplomacy one -sincere desire had grown stronger and stronger within her--that of -meeting with a fresh and spontaneous, natural and thrilling passion. -This passion she found in René's breath; it stirred the very depths of -her soul and made her almost faint with emotion. Ah! this was youth, -with its complete and absolute abandonment, expressing neither thought -nor word; oblivious of all, except the immediate present; effacing all, -except the fleeting sensation whose sweetness and whose very outlines -seem to lie in a kiss. - -This woman, corrupted by the influence of a Parisian cynic of fifty and -degraded by that horrible venality which has not the excuse of -necessity--this Machiavelian courtesan, who had regulated her passion -for René like a game of chess--tasted for one second that divine joy. -The punishment of those who let calculation enter into their love lies -in the remembrance of their calculation in the moment of ecstasy. Though -intoxicated by the mad kisses she had given and received, Suzanne -clearly saw that she could not abandon herself at once to her lover's -arms. She therefore broke away from him and said, 'Let me go now that I -have seen you and now that I know you are alive. I beg you to let me go. -O René!'--she had never called him by this name before--'don't come -near me!' - -'Suzanne,' replied the poet, maddened by the burning nectar he had found -on those lips--the certainty of being loved--'don't be afraid of me. -When shall we have another hour like this to ourselves? Let me beg of -you to stop. See,' he added, receding still farther from her, 'I will -obey you. I obeyed you even when I found it so very hard. Ah! you -believe me now!' he exclaimed, seeing that Suzanne's face no longer -expressed such intense fear. 'Will you be very nice?' he continued, in -that playful tone which takes so well with women, and which will make -any one of them, be she a lady of high degree or a simple girl, call a -man a 'darling.' 'Sit down there in that arm-chair, where I have so -often sat at work, and then be nicer still, and try to look as though -you were not on a visit.' - -He had again come closer and had forced her into the chair; then he took -away her muff and began to unbutton her coat. She submitted to this with -a sad smile, like one who yields against her will. This smile was the -death agony of the Madonna, the last act in the comedy of the Ideal -performed by Suzanne. He also took off her bonnet, a _toque_ that -matched her coat. He was now kneeling before her and gazing at her with -that look of idolatry a woman is sure to provoke in her lover if she but -give him one of those proofs of affection that flatter a man's vanity -and love--the lower passions and the higher passions of the heart. The -poet said to, himself: 'How she must love me to have come here, she whom -I know to be so pure, so pious, and so devoted to her duty!' - -All the lies she had so carefully told him came back to his mind like -further proofs of her sincerity as he said: 'How delighted I am to have -you here, and just now, too! Don't be afraid--we are quite alone. My -sister has gone out for the whole afternoon, and the slave'--this was -the name he gave Françoise, in order to amuse Suzanne--'the slave is -busy in the kitchen. And I have you here! You see, this is my own little -kingdom, this room--the place in which I have endured so much! There is -not one of these corners, not one of these objects that could not tell -you what I have suffered these past few days. My poor books'--and he -pointed to his low bookcase--'were left unopened. These dear old -engravings I scarcely looked at. The pen with which I had written to you -I never touched. I sat just where you are sitting now counting the hours -as they passed. God! what a week I have spent! But what does it all -matter now that you are here and I can gaze at you? It is happiness to -me to tell you even my troubles!' - -She listened with half-closed eyes, giving herself up to the music of -his words, and following out her plan in spite of the passions that -welled up within her. Does the knowledge of danger as he faces his -adversary drive from the mind of a skilful swordsman the lessons he -learnt in the school? René's assurance that they were alone in the -house had sent a thrill of joy through Suzanne, and the glance she had -thrown round the little room, so neatly and carefully kept, had proved, -to her delight and satisfaction, that she had not been mistaken -concerning her lover's past. Everything here spoke of a studious and -secluded life, the pure and noble life of an artist who surrounds -himself with an atmosphere of beautiful dreams. Above all, the poet -himself pleased her, with his love-lit eyes and the playful way in which -he treated her, and she began to see that this exchange of confidences -respecting their mutual sufferings would lead her to her goal without -the least risk of diminishing her prestige in his eyes. - -'And don't you think that I have suffered too?' she replied. 'Why should -I deny it? You speak of your letters--God knows that I did not want to -read them! I kept the first one in my pocket a whole day, having neither -the courage to tear it open nor to burn it. To read your words was to -hear you speak once more, and I had determined that it should not be! I -had prayed to my guardian angel so long and so fervently for strength to -forget you. How I struggled to do so!' Here the Madonna appeared for the -last time. She lifted her eyes to heaven--or rather to the ceiling, from -which hung two or three little Japanese dolls--and in her glorious orbs -were reflected the wings of her guardian angel as he flew far, far -away. . . . - -Fixing her blue eyes once more on René, she sighed in that tone of -abandonment that proves a conquered heart: 'I am lost now, but what of -that? I love you so dearly that I do not care what happens--only I -cannot bear to picture you in distress.' - -Here she broke down, her bosom racked with convulsive sobs, and as the -poet tenderly kissed her tears away her head once more fell upon his -breast. She lay there for a few moments listening to the wild beating of -his heart--then, like a tired child, she entwined her arms about his -neck, and heaved a sigh of peace. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -HAPPY DAYS - - -When Suzanne left the house in the Rue Coëtlogon her next meeting with -René was already arranged. After taking a few steps down the little -street she stopped and turned her head, although it would have been more -prudent to walk straight on, as she always did in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor. But so firm a hold had passion obtained upon this usually -cold-blooded woman that she smiled and waved her hand at the poet as he -stood watching her from the window of the room in which she had enjoyed -such a triumph--for all her calculations had turned out perfectly -correct. Getting into a cab at the corner of the Rue d'Assas, she drove -to the Bon Marché, where she had ordered her carriage to meet her; on -the way the details of the conversation she had had with René recurred -to her, and, going over them again, she congratulated herself upon the -manner in which she had acquitted herself. As soon as the first real -step has been taken in an intrigue of this kind the discussion of -further arrangements becomes as easy and as delightful as it was before -hateful and difficult. - -Suzanne had been the first to attack this delicate question. 'I want you -to promise me something. If you do not wish me to reproach myself with -this love as with a crime, promise me that you won't go out into Society -at all. You are not accustomed to that kind of life, and you ought to be -at work. You would fritter away your magnificent talents and genius in -idle nonsense, and I should look upon myself as the cause. Promise me -that you won't go and see anyone'--and in a whisper--'any of those women -who flocked round you the other night.' - -How tenderly René had kissed her for those words, in which the author -could read a tribute of devotion paid to his future work and the lover a -delicate expression of secret jealousy. He asked a little timidly, -'Mayn't I come even to your house?' - -'To mine least of all,' she replied. 'I could not bear to see you touch -my husband's hand now. You know what I mean,' she added, passing her -fingers caressingly through his hair. He was sitting at her feet, while -she was still in the arm-chair. She bent forward and hid her face on -René's shoulder. 'Don't make me say any more,' she sighed; then, after -a few minutes, 'What I should like to be to you is the friend who only -enters into a man's life to bring him the sweet and noble gifts of joy -and courage, the friend who loves and is beloved in secret, away from -the mocking world that sneers at the purest feelings of the soul. I have -committed a great sin as it is'--here she hid her face in her pretty -hands--'do not let it grow into that series of base and sordid acts -which fills me with such horror in others. Spare me this, René, if you -love me as you say you do . . . But tell me, do you really love me so -much?' - -In delivering herself of this pretty batch of lies she had seen in the -face of her simple and romantic victim the rapturous joy with which -these beautiful sentiments inspired him. The Madonna resumed the halo -which she had temporarily laid aside. Then, by a skilful combination of -ruse and affection, by giving to cool calculation an appearance of -tenderest susceptibility, she had led him to agree to the following -convention as being the only one befitting the poetry of her love. He -was to look out for a small suite of rooms somewhere not very far from -the Rue Murillo; he would engage them in an assumed name, and they could -meet there two, three, or four times a week. She had suggested -Batignolles, but it was so cleverly done that he almost imagined he had -hit upon it himself, as indeed upon the rest of _her_ ideas. He was to -start out the very next day, and then write to her, _poste restante_, in -certain initials, at a certain office. All these unnecessary precautions -gave René an idea of the state of slavery in which his poor angel -lived--if such an existence could be called living! 'Poor angel' he had -called her, as she gave utterance to a half-stifled complaint concerning -her husband's despotism and compared herself to a hunted animal, 'how -you must have suffered!' And she had lifted her eyes to the ceiling with -such a well-feigned expression of grief that, years afterwards, the man -for whose benefit all this was done still asked, 'Was she not sincere?' - -There was, however, no need for so much theatrical display to make René -joyfully accede to the plan proposed by the clever pupil of Desforges. -Simply out of love for her he would have agreed with pleasure and -alacrity to any kind of scheme she put forward. But the programme laid -before him corresponded well with the romantic side of his nature. It -enchanted the poet to dwell upon the idea of carrying such a delightful -secret with him through life, whilst the phraseology in which Suzanne -had posed as the patron saint of his work had flattered his vanity, -dreaming as he did of reconciling art and love, of uniting indulgence of -the baser passions with that independence and solitude his work -required. - -And now René, after so many days of torture, felt as though both his -mind and his heart had wings. So great was his happiness that he did not -even notice the look of pained surprise that his sister wore during the -evening that followed Suzanne's visit. What had Françoise heard? What -had she told Madame Fresneau? That the latter was deeply agitated was -very evident. The profound ignorance of certain women who are both -romantic and pure exposes them to these rude surprises. They interest -themselves in love affairs because they are women, and assist in the -establishment of relations which they believe to be as innocent as they -are themselves. Then, when they see the brutal consequences to which -these relations almost necessarily lead, their surprise is so great that -but for its cruelty it would be comical. - -According to the description given her by the servant, Emilie had no -doubt as to the identity of the visitor, and the mere idea of what might -have taken place there in her house filled the staid and pious matron -with horror. Her mind involuntarily reverted to the bitter tears she had -seen on Rosalie's pale cheeks, and as she thought, first of the poor -girl, of whose sincerity she was convinced, and then of the unknown -Society lady for whom in her simplicity she had taken sides, she said to -herself, 'What if René should be mistaken in this woman?' - -But she was a sister too--a sister indulgent to a fault, and, after a -feeling of uneasiness which his evident distress had caused her during -the past week, she had not the courage to trouble her brother with -reproaches on seeing him look so happy. This mixture of conflicting -sentiments prevented her from provoking any fresh confidences, and René -was become too discreet to make them. It was impossible for him to speak -of Suzanne now; what he felt for her could not be expressed in words. He -had found suitable apartments almost immediately in a quiet street in -the centre of the Batignolles quarter, just where Suzanne had wanted -them; and almost immediately, too, chance had so willed it that he was -free to devote himself to her entirely. A week had scarcely passed since -Suzanne's appearance in the Rue Coëtlogon when Claude Larcher, the only -one of the poet's friends whom he visited at all often, suddenly left -Paris. He called on René, who had neglected him a little of late, about -half-past six one evening, in travelling garb, his face pale and -agitated. The family were just sitting down to dinner. - -'I have only come to bid you good-bye,' said Claude without taking a -seat; 'I am going by the nine o'clock Mont Cenis express, and I shall -have to dine at the station.' - -'Shall you be away long?' asked Emilie. - -'_Chi lo sa?_' replied Claude, 'as they say in that beautiful land where -I shall be to-morrow.' - -'Lucky fellow!' cried Fresneau, 'to be able to go and read Virgil in his -own country instead of teaching donkeys to translate him!' - -'Very lucky, indeed!' said the writer with a forced laugh; but when he -took leave of René at the gate, where his cab laden with luggage -awaited him, he burst into sobs. 'It's that beast of a Colette!' he -cried. 'You remember that day you saw her in my rooms? God! how sweet -she looked! And do you remember what she said, as I thought, in a joke? -I can't even repeat it. . . . Well, things have come to such a pass that -life for me here is unbearable, and I must be off for a time. I had no -money, so I was forced to go to a usurer who lent me some at sixty per -cent. Terrible, isn't it? What with the usurer, my old aunt in the -country, to whom I was bad enough to write, my publisher, and the editor -of the "Revue parisienne"--who, by the way, has got me to sign a -contract for copy--I have six thousand francs. As the train carries me -along every turn of the wheel will seem to go over my heart, but at any -rate I shall be getting away from her; and when she gets my letter, -written from Milan, what a grand revenge it will be!' He rubbed his -hands with joy, then, shaking his head, said, 'It has been like Heine's -ballad of Count Olaf all along. You know how he talks of love to his -betrothed while the headsman stands at the door--that headsman has -always been at the door of Colette's chamber. But when he assumed the -form of a Sappho I could bear it no longer. Good-bye, René, you will -not see me back till I am cured.' Since then there had been no news from -the unhappy fellow, of whom René generally thought when comparing the -noble woman he idolised with the savage and dangerous actress. Claude's -absence was the reason why René never put in an appearance now at the -green-room of the Théâtre Français. Why should he expose himself to -the rancour of Colette's tongue, which no doubt wagged loudly enough -when on the subject of her fugitive lover? Thanks to this absence, too, -all bonds between the poet and the world into which Larcher had -introduced him were severed. - -Under the influence of his growing passion for Suzanne, the author of -the 'Sigisbée' had ignored the most elementary rules of etiquette. Not -only had he neglected to call upon the different women who had so -graciously invited him, but he had not even paid Madame Komof his duty -visit. The Comtesse, who was large-minded enough to understand the -unconventional ways of genius, and kind enough to forgive such -irregularity, said to herself, 'He was probably bored here,' and, though -not angry with him, had not asked him again. She was busy, too, for the -moment in bringing out a Russian pianist who pretended that he was in -direct communication with the soul of Chopin. René, feeling safe in -that quarter, had heard with regret that Madame Offarel was greatly -offended that neither he nor Emilie had come to the famous dinner whose -ingredients it had taken her a week to collect from all parts of Paris. -Fresneau had gone all alone. - -'A fine expedition you sent me on!' he said to his wife on his return. -'When I mentioned your headache the old woman gave a grunt that almost -knocked me down, and when I told her that René was gone to see a sick -friend--a very queer excuse, by the way, but let that pass--she said, -"In some palace, I suppose!" During dinner poor Claude was the only -topic of conversation. She pulled him to pieces till he hadn't a rag on -his back. "He is an egoist and an ill-mannered fellow, he is in bad -health and has no future!"--and goodness knows what she didn't say! If -it hadn't been for a game of piquet with Offarel--and even that the sly -old fox won. Oh!--Passart was there too. Remind me about recommending -him to the Abbé for the college. He's a nice young fellow. Between you -and me, I think Rosalie rather likes him.' - -Emilie could not help smiling at her husband's marvellous perspicacity. -She had often heard Madame Offarel complain of the pressing attentions -of the young drawing-master, and she immediately understood that he had -been asked at the last minute to prove that, besides René, there were -other suitors on hand. Thereupon the Offarels, who had never allowed -four days to pass without coming in after dinner, had not set foot in -the Rue Coëtlogon for a fortnight. When they at last decided to resume -their visits, at their wonted hour, they were escorted by the -aforementioned Passart, a tall, fair, gawky lad in spectacles, with a -shy look on his freckled face. Emilie saw at once that their motive in -bringing him was to arouse her brother's jealousy, and the old lady was -not long in showing her hand. - -'Monsieur Offarel is engaged this evening,' she said, 'so Monsieur -Passart was kind enough to bring us. Give Monsieur Jacques that seat -near you, Rosalie.' - -Poor Rosalie had not seen René since receiving his cruel message -through Emilie. In passing from the Rue Bagneux to the Rue -Coëtlogon--in reality a short, but to her an interminable distance--she -had suffered agonies, and her heart beat fast as she entered the room. -She had, however, the courage to steal a glance at her old lover, as a -kind of protest that she was not responsible for her mother's mean -calculations, and the courage also to reply coldly, as she took a seat -in a corner and placed a chair before her, 'I want this chair to put my -wool on. I'm sure Monsieur Passart won't deprive me of it.' - -'There's room here,' said Emilie, coming to the poor girl's aid, and -giving the young man a seat next to herself. Rosalie firmly refused to -play the _rôle_ marked out for her, although she well knew what a -terrible scene awaited her at home. And yet it would have been so -natural if spite had inspired her with that petty mode of revenge. But -women with truly delicate feeling, who know what real love is, are -strangers to such mean spite. To inspire a fickle lover with jealousy -would horrify them simply because it would mean flirting with another, -and such a proceeding is beneath them. Such scrupulous loyalty in spite -of all is a touching proof of love, and one which ensures a woman a -place in a man's regrets for ever. - -For ever! But as far as regards the present hour and the immediate -result, these loyal hearts get left far behind, and the flirts win. When -the years have fled, and the lover, grown old, shall institute -comparisons, he will understand the unique position held by her who -would not cause him pain--even to win him back. Meanwhile he runs after -the jades who make him drink the bitter cup of that degrading but -intoxicating passion, jealousy. It is only fair to René to say that, in -sacrificing Rosalie for Suzanne, he believed that he was acting in the -interests of true love. When, next morning, his sister praised the -girl's noble behaviour, he was quite sincere too in his reply, smacking -as it did, though, of naïve self-conceit. - -'What a pity that such fine feeling should be wasted!' - -'Yes,' repeated Emilie with a sigh, 'what a pity!' - -Had René had a thought for aught else than his love, the tone in which -his sister had uttered these words would no doubt have revealed to him -the change that her opinions had undergone with regard to Madame -Moraines. His love, however, entirely absorbed him. His days were now -parcelled out into two kinds--those on which he was to meet Suzanne and -those which he was to spend without seeing her. The latter, which were -by far the more numerous, were passed in the following manner. A great -part of the morning he spent in bed, dreaming, for he was already -beginning to feel a diminution of vital energy. Then he bestowed much -time upon his toilet, lavishing such attention on details as would -convince a woman of experience that a young man was beloved. His toilet -finished, he wrote to his Madonna. She had imposed upon him the sweet -task of sending her an account of all his thoughts day by day. As for -herself, he had not a line of her writing. She had said, 'I am so -watched, and never alone!' And he pitied her as he devoted himself to -compiling the detailed diary that she had demanded. - -This pose of a sentimental Narcissus gazing incessantly upon himself and -his love was well in keeping with that deep-rooted vanity which he -possessed in common with nearly all writers. Suzanne had not -sufficiently reflected upon the anomalous nature of a man of letters to -have taken vanity into account. It pleased her to read René's words -when he was not there simply as a burning reminder of the kisses they -had exchanged. When the poet had paid his morning devotions to his -divinity in this fashion it was time for lunch. Immediately after that -he would go to the Bibliothèque in the Rue de Richelieu and work -unremittingly at the notes for his 'Savonarola,' which he had again -taken up, during the whole of the afternoon, and sometimes right on into -the evening. He worked now without ever having, as in writing the -'Sigisbée,' those flashes of talent which pass from the brain to the -pen, charging the memory with a flow of words and drawing the images -with such precision and life-like resemblance that the effort of -production becomes a strong but delightful intoxication that ends in a -state of agreeable exhaustion. - -To build up the scenes of the drama he was now writing, René had to -keep his mind in a painful state of tension, and at a worse tension -still to turn his prose sketches into verse. His brain no longer served -him in making happy finds. For this there were several important and -distinct reasons. The first--a physical one--was the waste of vital -energy inseparable from all reciprocated passions; the second--a moral -one--the constant hold that Suzanne had upon his mind and the inability -to entirely forget her; the last--an intellectual and secret one, though -most powerful--was the deadening influence which success exercises upon -the greatest genius. - -Whilst conceiving and writing he was beginning to think of the public. -He saw before him the house on the first night, the critics in their -stalls, the fashionable people scattered here and there, and, seated in -a box, Madame Moraines. He already heard the shouts of applause, as -demoralising for a dramatic author as the number of editions is for a -novelist. The desire to produce a certain effect took the place of that -disinterested, natural, and irresistible impulse which is a necessary -condition in true art. Still too young to possess the skill with which -literary veterans can write impassioned phrases in cold blood, and even -well enough to deceive the best critics, René sought in himself that -source of ideas which he no longer found. His play would not take shape -in his mind in a natural and easy way. The goat-like features of the -Florentine monk and the tragic figures of the terrible pontiff Alexander -VI., the violent Michael Angelo, the sour Machiavelli, and the -formidable Cæsar Borgia would not clothe themselves in flesh and blood -before his eyes, in spite of the heaps of notes and documents he had -collected and the pages erased again and again. Frequently he would lay -down his pen and gaze up at the blue sky through the lace curtains of -his window; he would listen to the noises in the house--the closing of a -door, Constant playing, Françoise grumbling, Emilie passing quietly, -Fresneau walking heavily--and then find himself counting how many hours -he had still to wait before seeing Suzanne. - -'How I love her! How I love her!' he would exclaim, increasing his -passion by the fervour with which he uttered these words. Again, he -would delight in conjuring up a vision of the room in which these -meetings, awaited with such feverish impatience, took place. He had been -more lucky in finding a suitable place than his inexperience had led -Suzanne to expect, It was a small suite consisting of three rooms, -rather prettily furnished by Malvina Raulet, a brunette of about -thirty-five, whose sweet voice, demure looks, and general air of -propriety had at once enchanted René. This lady, whose attire was -almost severe in its simplicity, gave herself out as a widow. She lived -ostensibly on a small income left her by the late M. Raulet, an -imaginary individual whose profession she defined in a vague way by -saying that 'he was in business.' As a matter of fact, the shrewd and -cunning landlady had never been married. She was, for the moment, being -'protected' by a respectable physician--a well-known man and the father -of a family--whom she had so thoroughly taken in by her fine manners -that she managed to get five hundred francs a month out of him, -regularly paid on the first, like the salary of a Civil Servant. - -Being before all else a thrifty soul, she had conceived the idea of -increasing her monthly income by letting out three of the rooms she did -not want, and as there were two doors to her flat she was able to give -this small suite a separate entrance. The almost elegant furniture it -contained had come to her as a weird inheritance. For ten years she had -been the mistress of a madman, whose family, desiring for some reason to -keep this insanity secret, had paid her well. Upon her unhappy lover's -death, Malvina had, according to promise, received twenty thousand -francs and the contents of the house in which she had played such a -strange part. This woman's dark and hideous past René was never to -know. In that gay city, where clandestine attachments abound, how many -of the thoughtless youths who hire such places know aught of the history -of those who pander to their wants? Nor could the poet think for one -moment that this woman with the irreproachable manners had seen right -through his demands at the first glance. He had told her that he lived -in Versailles, and that he was obliged to come to Paris two or three -times a week. The name he gave her was that of his favourite hero--the -paradoxical d'Albert in 'Mademoiselle de Maupin;' but as he wrote it at -the bottom of the agreement which the careful Madame Raulet got him to -sign, he placed his hat on the table, and there the crafty landlady -could plainly read the real initials of her new lodger. - -'If you would like my servant to undertake the cleaning of the rooms,' -she said, 'it will be fifty francs a month extra.' - -This exorbitant demand was made in such a cool tone, and Madame Raulet, -moreover, looked so thoroughly respectable, that René dared not discuss -the amount. He could, however, not help eyeing her somewhat -distrustfully. Her appearance, it was true, disarmed all suspicion. She -wore a dark dress, well but simply made. Round her neck hung one of -those long gold chains so much worn at one time by the French -_bourgeoisie_--a chain which had no doubt once belonged to her sainted -mother. She wore her watch in her belt; a brooch containing a lock of -white hair--that of a beloved father, most probably--fastened her neat -lace collar, and through the meshes of the silk mittens that covered her -long hands might be seen her wedding ring. - -As René was leaving, this virtuous creature remarked, 'The house is a -very quiet one, sir. You are a young man,' she added with a smile, 'and -you will not be offended if I make so bold as to say that the least -noise on the stairs at night, or anything like that, would be sufficient -reason for my asking you to leave.' - -René felt himself blush as she spoke. In his excessive simplicity he -feared lest the worthy widow might give him notice after his first -meeting there with Suzanne. This ridiculous fear impelled him to visit -his landlady immediately Madame Moraines had gone under pretence of -speaking to her about some trifling matter he wanted done. She received -him with the polite air of a woman who knows nothing, understands -nothing, and has seen nothing, although she had been watching Suzanne's -departure from her window, and had, with the practised eye of a -Parisian, taken that lady's measure at a glance. Malvina now saw through -it all--her lodger's visitor was a woman in the first ranks of Society, -but he himself, although well dressed, showed by the cut of his beard, -his hair, his walk and his whole appearance that he belonged to a lower -station in life. The landlady thought that most probably the rent would -be paid by the mistress, and not by the lover, and she regretted not -having asked more than five hundred francs a month besides the fifty for -attendance. The whole of the flat cost her fourteen hundred francs a -year, and she paid her maid-of-all-work forty-five francs! No matter, -she would make up for it in the extras--in the firing, the washing, and -especially in the meals, if ever the young man asked her to provide -lunch, as she had offered to do. - -'She is an excellent woman, and very attentive,' said René, when -Suzanne questioned him about Madame Raulet. Was the poet wrong in being -so trustful? Of what use would it have been to indulge, as Claude would -have done, in a pessimistic analysis of this woman's character, except -to conjure up thoughts of blackmail and other dangers, all entirely -imaginary, as it happened? For although Malvina was far from being a -saint, she was at the same time a _bourgeoise_ who had a sincere -hankering after respectability, and who proposed, as soon as she had -made her little pile, to return to her native town of Tournon, and lead -a life of absolute purity. The fear of seeing her name figure in the -report of some evil-smelling case was sufficient to deter her from -practising any pronounced form of imposition. So far did her love of -respectability carry her that she wove a complicated web of falsehoods -to the _concierge_ about her new lodger. She made out that Suzanne and -René were a happy couple who lived in the country all the year round, -and that they were distantly related to the late M. Raulet. Then, in -order that he should have nothing whatever to do with the said -_concierge_, she herself handed René two keys even before he had asked -for them. - -What cared the poet for the real cause of her attentiveness? The young -have sense enough not to go into facts which lend themselves to the -gratification of their desires. This system sometimes leads them along -perilous paths, but they cull many a flower by the wayside and enjoy its -fragrance, nevertheless. When the poet walked across half Paris to reach -his little suite in the Rue des Dames there was a music in his heart -that shut out all dissonant voices of suspicion. His meetings with -Suzanne were generally in the morning. René had never asked himself why -that time of the day was most convenient to his beloved. As a matter of -fact it was the hour when she was most certain of escaping the -watchfulness of Desforges. In the forenoon the hygienic Baron devoted -himself to what was dearest to him on earth--his health. First he had a -bout of fencing, which he called his 'dose of exercise'; then he -galloped through the Bois, which was his 'air cure'; lastly he 'burnt -his acid,' a formula he owed to Doctor Noirot. - -The double Madonna, who had studied her man thoroughly, knew that he was -as much a slave to these rules of health as Paul was to those of his -office. She therefore felt a secret pleasure in thinking of her husband -seated at his desk, of her 'excellent friend' bestriding an English -mare, and of her René entering a florist's to buy some flowers -wherewith to adorn the chapel of their love. Roses were his usual -choice, roses red as his darling's lips, roses fair as her blushing -cheeks, fresh and living blooms that filled the air with their sweet and -penetrating perfume. As she was borne towards the harbour of their love -she knew that René would be standing at the window listening to the -rattle of the cabs as they passed. How delighted he would be when hers -stopped before the house! She would ascend the stairs, and there he -would be waiting for her, having softly opened the door so as not to -lose one second of her sweet presence. Then he would hold her in his -arms devouring her with silent kisses that pierced the black lace veil -as they sought her fresh and mobile lips. - -Suzanne's great triumph consisted in her ability to preserve her -innocent Madonna-like expression amidst all the madness of their love; -and, by a singular dispensation of nature, too, this strange creature -was entirely devoid of all sense of remorse. She belonged, no doubt by -heredity, being the daughter of a statesman, to the great race of active -beings whose dominant trait is a faculty for distributing their -energies. These beings have the power to make the most of the present -without allowing themselves to be troubled either by the past or the -future. In modern slang we find a pretty phrase to express this power of -temporary oblivion--it is called 'cutting the cord.' Suzanne had -parcelled out her life into three parts--one belonging to Paul, one to -Desforges, and one to René. During the time she devoted to each there -was such absolute suspension of the rest of her existence that she would -have had some difficulty in realising the extent of her duplicity had -she cared to probe her conscience--a proceeding she never dreamt of -whilst the opium of pleasure coursed through her brain. She generally -remained with René till about twelve o'clock, and when she was gone -Madame Raulet would send up his lunch; and he would stay in the rooms -for the rest of the day, ostensibly to work, for he had some of his -papers there, but really to gloat over the reminiscences that floated in -the very air he breathed. When night was beginning to fall he would wend -his way homewards, under the twinkling gas lamps that illumined his -route, possessed by a divine languor that seemed to combine and blend -into one harmonious whole all the delights of the day. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -COLETTE'S SPITE - - -This delightful existence had been going on for about two months with -nothing to break its sweet monotony but the pain of parting and the joy -of meeting when, one morning, just as René was about to proceed to the -Rue des Dames, Françoise handed him a letter that made him start, for -on it he recognised Claude Larcher's handwriting. By calling at -Larcher's rooms René had learnt from Ferdinand that the writer had -stopped at Florence and then at Pisa. He had even sent him a letter to -each of these towns addressed _poste restante_, but had received no -reply. He saw by the postmark that Claude was now in Venice, and with -feelings of intense curiosity he tore open the envelope, reading the -contents as he strolled down to the river through the quiet suburban -streets on this fair spring morn that was as fresh and bright as his own -love. - - -'Venice, Palais Dario: April, 1879. - -'My DEAR RENÉ,--I am writing you these lines from your Venice--from -that Venice whence you evoked the cruel features of your Cœlia and the -sweet face of your Beatrice; and as this fairy-like city is, as it -always was, the land of improbabilities, the city of the Undines, which -on these Eastern shores are called sirens, I have, like Byron, -discovered a small furnished suite in a most delightful little palace on -the Grand Canal, a _palazzino_ with marble medallions on its façade, -all ornamented, carved, and engraved, and leaning as badly as I do on my -bad days. As I scribble this letter I have the blue waters of the Canal -Grande under my window and around me the peace of this great city--the -Cora Pearl of the Adriatic, a wretched play-writer would say--like the -silence of a dream. My dear fellow, why have I brought my battered old -heart here of all places--here, where I feel it beat louder and stronger -in the sweet stillness? I must tell you that it is two o'clock, that I -have just breakfasted at Florian's under the arcades after having been -to San Giorgio in Bragora to look at a divine Cima, that I am to dine -to-night with two ladies directly descended from the Doges--fair as the -creations of Veronese--and some Russians as amusing as our friend -Beyle's Korazoff, and that, instead of feeling elated, I have come home -to look at Her Portrait--with a capital H and a capital P--the portrait -of Colette! René, René, why am I not seated in my stall at the -Théâtre Français, gazing at her as Camille in "On ne badine pas avec -l'amour"--a divine play, as bitter as "Adolphe," yet as sweet as the -music of Mozart? Do you remember her smile as she holds her pretty head -on one side and says, "Are you sure that a woman lies with all her soul -when her tongue lies?" Do you remember Perdican and these words: "Pride, -thou most fatal of human counsellors, why art thou come between this -maid and me?" All my story--all our story lies in those few words. Only -it happens that I am the real Perdican of the play, having in my soul -that source of idealism and love, ever flowing in spite of experience, -ever pure in spite of so many sins! And she, my Camille, has been -stained by so much shame that nought can wash her clean! Alas! how sadly -the world treated my flower--when I wished to inhale its fragrance I -found instead a smell as of the grave. - -'Come, come, it was not to write you such stuff that I sat down before -my balcony, through the carving of which I can see the gondolas pass. -They glide and slant and turn about, looking so pretty with their slim, -funereal shapes. If each of these floating biers carried away one of my -dead dreams, what an interminable procession there would be on the -dreary waters! Would that I were an etcher! I know what Dance of Death I -would engrave--a flight of these black barques in the twilight, with -white skeletons as gondoliers at the prow and poop, and a row of ruined -palaces for a background. Under it I should write: "Such is my heart!" -After a youth more down-trodden than the grapes in the wine-tubs, and -when I had just emerged from the miserable drudgery of my profession, it -was this horrible slavery of love that stared me in the face--this love -with its basis of hatred and contempt! Why, just Heaven!--why? Who could -have guessed on that July evening when this madness began that I was -entering upon one of the most solemn periods of my life? I had been -dining alone after a hard day's work, and, in order to get a little -fresh air and pass the time until ten o'clock, I was just strolling -wherever my fancy took me, gazing idly at the passers-by. What invisible -demon led my steps to the Comédie Française? Why did I go up into the -green-room, where I had not been for months, to shake hands with old -Farguet, about whom I did not care a rap? Why had I such a ready flow of -wit and such brilliant repartee at my command at that very moment--I -who, at fashionable dinners, had frequently found myself as dumb as the -carp _à la Chambord_ on the dish? Why was Colette there in that -adorable costume that belongs to the old _répertoire_? She was playing -Rosine in the "Barber of Seville," and I went to the front to hear her -sing the air, "When Love brings us spring again." Why did she look at me -as she sang it, and show such real emotion that I dared scarcely believe -it was meant for me? Why had she those lips, those eyes, that face on -which might be read the sufferings of a conquered Psyche, a prey to -love? How passionately we loved each other from that very first evening! -And it was only the second time we had met. Can you understand how I was -mad enough to expect fidelity from a girl who had thrown herself at me -in that fashion? As soon as I got back behind the scenes she invited me -into her dressing-room, and before we had been there a quarter of an -hour her lips were pressed to mine in most painful ecstasy. Fool that I -was! I ought to have taken her for what she was--a charming -courtesan--and remembered that women are just the same to others as they -are to us. Instead of which-- - -'Let us leave this road, my dear René, for I perceive a finger-post on -which is written "To despair," like the posts in that forest of -Fontainebleau where I took her one summer morning in a dog-cart drawn by -a black horse named Cerberus. I can see the horse now, with a fox-tail -hanging down over his forehead, and my Colette beside me, looking pale, -but so beautiful. When was she not beautiful to me? But let us leave, I -say, this fatal road, and come to the present, of which I owe you an -account, since you have been good enough to write me several such nice -letters. When I left you in the Rue Coëtlogon and hied me off to -Italy--it sounds like a song!--I wanted to see whether I could do -without her. Well, the experiment has been made--and has failed. I -cannot. I have argued with myself, and I have struggled long and hard. -Since my departure I have got up not ten--but twenty, thirty times, and -sworn not to think of her during the whole of that day. It's all right -for a quarter of an hour, for half an hour even. But at the end of that -time I see her again. I see her eyes and her mouth, I see those gestures -I have seen in none other--the pretty way she had, for instance, of -laying her head on my shoulder when I held her in my arms, and then, -wherever I may be, I am obliged to stop and lean against a wall, so -sharp is the pain that pierces my heart. Would you believe that I had to -leave Florence because I spent my time in the "Uffizi" before -Botticelli's "Madonna Incoronata," a photo of which you have seen in my -rooms? I have sometimes taken a cab from the other end of the town in -order to reach the gallery before closing time, so that I might gaze -upon the canvas once more. The angel on the right, the one that lifts -the curtain, is the very image of her, and wears that look which has so -often made me pity Colette and bewail her misfortune when I ought to -have killed her. - -'So I left Florence and came to Pisa, the dead city whose sweet silence -had enchanted me in days gone by. I had taken an immense fancy to the -square in which stand the Dome, the Baptistery, and the Belfry, with a -cemetery wall and the remains of a battlemented rampart to enclose it. -Then there was the shore of the Gombo two hours distant--a sandy desert -among the pines--and the yellow Arno flowing sluggishly by! My room -looked out upon the dreary river, but it was full of sunshine, warm and -clear, and I had come there filled with a glorious plan. An old maxim of -Goethe had come into my mind, "Poetry is deliverance!" "I will try it," -I said to myself, and I swore not to leave Pisa before I had turned my -grief into literature. Perhaps, in making bubbles out of the tears I had -already shed, I might forget to shed fresh ones. These bubbles grew into -a story which I called _Analysis._ You have no doubt read it in the -_Revue parisienne._ Don't you think it as good as anything I have done? -As you see, it is the whole story of my sad love; every detail is -absolutely correct, from the episode of the letter to my jealousy of the -Sapphos. What do you think of Colette--isn't she well drawn? And of me? -Alas! my dear fellow, would that I had obtained peace of mind by -besmirching the image of her I have so loved, by dragging in the dirt -the idol once adorned with freshest roses, by dishonouring the dear past -with all the strength at my command! Hear the result of this noble -effort--I had no sooner posted the manuscript of this story than I went -home and wrote to Colette asking her to forgive me. An excellent joke, -this maxim of Goethe--a sublime Philistine and a Jupiter, as they used -to style him! I have plunged a pen into my wound to use my blood for -ink, and I have only poisoned myself afresh. If I am to be cured at all, -time is the only thing that will cure me. But, after all, why be cured? - -'Yes, why? I have been proud--I am proud no longer. I have struggled -against the passion that abased me--I will struggle no more. If I had -the cancer in my cheek, should I be ashamed of it? Well, I have a cancer -in my soul, and make no attempt to check its growth. Listen to the end -of my story. Colette did not answer my letter. Could I expect her to be -kind to me after my behaviour? I had already begun to humble myself by -writing to her. I went on doing so. Then I commenced to feel such -delight as I had never felt before--that of degrading myself before her, -of letting her trample upon my manly dignity. I wrote to her a second, a -third, a fourth time. - -'My novel appeared, and I wrote to her again--letters in which I -delighted in humbling myself, letters that she might show about and say: -"He has left me, he insults me, and yet see how he loves me!" Should not -those very insults have proved to her how much I loved her? You don't -know her, René; you don't know how proud she is, in spite of all her -faults. What pain that wretched novel must have caused her I scarcely -dare to think, and that, too, is why I dare not come back. In my present -state of mind I could not possibly face a scene such as we used to have, -and to live longer without her is equally beyond me. I have therefore -decided, my dear René, to ask you to go and speak to her. I know that -she has always liked you, and that she is really grateful to you for the -pretty _rôle_ you wrote her. I know that she will believe you when you -say to her, "Claude can stand it no longer--have pity on him." Tell her, -too, René, that she need have no fear of my horrible temper. The -rebellious Larcher she could not bear exists no longer. To be near her, -to live in her shadow, to have her near me, I will tolerate all, -all--you understand. Our last months together were not all honey, it is -true, but what a paradise they were compared with this Inferno of -absence! And we had our happy hours, too--those afternoons we spent -together in her rooms in the Rue de Rivoli, overlooking the gardens of -the Tuileries. The bustle of the great city went on around us as I held -my darling pressed to my heart. See how my hand trembles only to think -of it! If I have ever done you a service in the past, as you say I have, -be my friend now and call on her, show her this letter, speak to her, -appeal to her heart. Ask her to say that she forgives me and that I may -come back to her. Good-bye. I await your reply in agony, and you know -what torture that machine is capable of suffering which calls itself -your old friend. - -'C. L. - -'P.S.--Go to the _Revue_ office and ask for five copies of my story; I -can get rid of them here.' - - -'How like him!' said René, after having read this strange epistle, -which was nothing but a bundle of the different elements that made up -Claude's composite personality. Childish sincerity wedded to a taste for -dramatic display; a love of posing even when suffering bitter anguish; -most susceptible professional vanity and an absolute lack of all -pretensions; profound self-knowledge and total inability to govern -himself--all this was there. 'I shall go to the theatre to-night if -Colette is playing,' said René to himself. He bought a paper and saw -her name in the list for that evening. 'But,' he thought, 'how will she -receive me?' - -He was so interested in what would happen and so moved by his dear -friend's grief that he could not help telling Suzanne all about it as -soon as he reached the trysting-place. He even gave her the letter to -read, and as she handed it back to him she said: 'Poor fellow!' adding, -in an indifferent tone, 'Haven't you really ever mentioned me when -talking together?' - -'Yes, once, quite casually,' replied René, with some hesitation. Since -he had become Suzanne's lover he had never forgiven himself for the -question he had put to Claude about her--the unfortunate question which -had drawn down upon him the sarcasm of his friend. - -Suzanne mistook the cause of his hesitation and returned to the charge. -'I am sure that he said something nasty about me?' - -'Indeed, he didn't,' replied René, in a tone of assurance. He was too -well acquainted with the play of Suzanne's face not to have remarked the -look of anxiety in her eyes as she put her second question, and he, in -his turn, now asked: 'How you distrust him! Why?' - -'Why?' she repeated with a smile; 'because I love you so dearly, René, -and men are so bad.' Then, wishing to entirely destroy the effect that -her excessive distrust might have produced in the poet, she added, 'You -must go and see Mademoiselle Rigaud.' - -'Certainly I must,' said René; 'I intend going to-night And you?' he -asked, as he often did, 'how are you going to spend your evening?' - -'I am going to the theatre, too,' she replied; 'but not behind the -scenes. My husband wants to take me to the Gymnase. Why do you put me in -mind of it? I shall be quite miserable enough when I'm there all alone -with him. . . Come, give me a nice kiss.' - -That voice, sweet as the sweetest music, was still in the poet's ears, -and his soul was still troubled by those kisses, more intoxicating than -strong drink, when about nine that night he entered the stage door of -the Théâtre Français in order to reach the celebrated green-room. He -cast a glance round the doorkeeper's lodge, remembering that the room -had been one of the stations in Claude's Calvary. Frequently, when -entering the theatre together, Larcher would say to his friend as he -pointed to the pigeon-hole that contained Colette's letters: 'If I stole -them I should perhaps know the truth.' - -'How happy I am,' thought René, 'not to know that terrible malady -called suspicion!' And he smiled as he ascended the staircase, whose -walls are covered with the portraits of actors and actresses of a bygone -age. There, fixed on the canvas, are the grinning faces of past -Scapins--there the Célimènes, who lived and loved long years ago, -still smile down upon us. These reminders of mirth for ever vanished, of -passions for ever stilled, of once happy generations for ever gone, have -something strangely sad about them for the dreamers who feel their life, -like all life, slipping away, and who realise the brevity of human joys. - -Often had René experienced this feeling of vague sadness; it came over -him again now, in spite of himself, and made him hasten to the -green-room, expecting to find a good many acquaintances there with whom -he might exchange a few words of greeting. But he found the place -entirely given up to two actors in Louis XIV. costumes, their heads -adorned with enormous wigs, their legs incased in red stockings, and -their feet cramped in high-heeled shoes. They were engaged in a -political argument, and took no notice of the poet, who heard one of -them, a long, thin, bilious-looking creature, say to the other, a round, -red-faced individual, 'All the misfortunes of our country arise from the -fact that people do not take sufficient interest in politics.' - -'What a pity Larcher isn't here!' thought René as he caught these -words; he knew what pleasure they would have given his friend, the -exclamation that would have escaped him--'This is grand!'--and how he -would have clapped his hands with delight. Everything in this part of -the theatre reminded him of Claude, who had so often accompanied him -there. They had sat together in the little green-room, now empty. -Together they had descended the few steps that lead behind the scenes, -and, slipping in between the properties, had mingled with the actors and -actresses standing in the narrow passage waiting for their calls. - -Colette was not there, and René determined to go up the steep staircase -and along the interminable corridors lined with private dressing-rooms. -He at length reached the door that bore the name of Mademoiselle Rigaud; -he knocked, feebly at first, but conversation was probably going on -inside, and he was not heard. He had to knock louder. 'Come in!' cried a -shrill voice, which he recognised; it was the same that could make -itself so sweet to recite: - - -If kisses for kisses the roses could pay . . . - - -On opening the door the visitor entered a tiny ante-room, which -communicated with a tiny dressing-room. René lifted the -gilt-embroidered curtain of black satin that divided the two miniature -apartments, and found himself in an atmosphere overheated by the lamps -and the presence of six people; five of these were men, two in evening -dress being evidently 'swells,' and the other three friends of the -actress of a slightly inferior order. One of the two black-coated -gentlemen was Salvaney, but he did not recognise René. He and his -friend were the only two who were seated. The ottoman on which they sat -had been recovered with an old Chinese dress of pink satin; it was -Claude who had given Colette that dress, and who, in the heyday of their -love, had presided over the arrangement of the whole dressing-room. He -had ransacked Paris to collect the panels set in bamboo frames which -adorned the walls. Three of these panels bore figures of Chinese women -painted on pale silk. The widest, which, like the heavy curtain, was of -black satin, represented a flight of white birds amidst peach blossoms -and lilies of the valley. Bright-coloured fans and bunches of peacock's -feathers distributed here and there, and a great gilt dragon with -enamelled eyes suspended from the ceiling, helped to give this pretty -little cabin an air of charming originality. - -Colette, with her hair all undone and her bare arms emerging from the -wide sleeves of a loose bright blue dressing-gown, was 'making up' under -the gaze of the five men. Before her, on the dressing-table, stood a -whole row of pots filled with different salves. There were other pots, -containing white, yellow, and pink powder, and a few saucers filled with -long 'tragedy' pins, while hare's feet covered with paint, enormous -powder puffs, black pencils, and small sponges lay scattered all about. -The actress could see who entered by looking in the large glass before -her. Recognising the author of the 'Sigisbée,' she half turned and -showed him her hands covered with vaseline as an apology for not -offering him one, and by the look she gave him René understood how -prudent Claude had been in not coming back without some previous -understanding. - -'Good evening!' she cried. 'Why, I thought you were dead, but I see by -your face that you've only had an excess of happiness. I'm playing you -to-morrow, you know. Sit down, if you can find room.' And before René -had time to reply she turned to Salvaney, saying: 'Well, I will if you -like. Come for me to-morrow at twelve. Aline will be there, and we'll go -and have lunch together first.' - -Having uttered these words, she darted another look at René. The lines -of her mouth deepened, and her charming face suddenly assumed an -expression of intense cruelty. The words had really been hurled in -defiance at Claude through his most intimate friend. This friend would -certainly repeat them to the jealous lover. It was just as if she had -shouted through space to the man whom she could not forget in spite of -his flight and his insults: 'You are not here, and so I do exactly what -will cause you most pain.' - -She then exchanged a few words with the other visitors, recommending -some poor fellow in whom she was interested to one, importuning another -for the insertion of a complimentary notice in some paper, returning to -Salvaney to ask him for a tip for the next races, until at last, having -wiped her hands, she rose and said, 'And now, my dear fellows, it is -very kind of you to stay, but'--pointing to the door--'I am going to -dress, so you must go. No, not you,' she went on, speaking to René, and -not minding the others, 'I want to talk to you for a minute.' As soon as -they were alone, and she was again seated before the glass pencilling -her eyebrows, she asked, 'Have you read Claude's infamous work?' - -'No,' replied René, 'but I have received a letter from him; he is -terribly unhappy.' - -'Oh! haven't you read it?' cried Colette, interrupting him. 'Well, read -it! You will see what a cad your friend is!' Crossing her arms, she -turned to face the poet, the angry glitter in her eyes intensified by -their painted rings and by the artificial pallor of her cheeks. 'Tell -me, is it right for a man to insult a woman? What have I done to this -gentleman? I refused to slavishly obey his whims, to cut off all my -friends, and lead the life of a dog! Did he imagine that I was his wife? -Did he keep me? Did I ask him for an account of what he did? And even if -I had been in the wrong, was that why he must go and tell the public all -the lies he can invent about me? He's a cad, I tell you--a low cad! You -can write and tell him so from me, and tell him that I shall spit in his -face when I see him! Your fine gentleman treated me like a drab, did he? -Well, he shall find out how the drab takes her revenge! Not yet, -Mélanie,' she said, as the dresser came in, 'I'll call you in a quarter -of an hour.' - -'But if he did not love you,' replied René, taking advantage of this -interruption, 'he would not carry on in this fashion. He is maddened by -grief.' - -'Oh! don't come to me with such rubbish,' cried Colette, shrugging her -shoulders and again setting to work on her eyebrows; 'do you think that -creature has got a heart? And he's no friend of yours, my dear fellow. -If you had heard him making fun of your love affairs you would know what -to think of him.' - -'Of my love affairs?' repeated René, in blank astonishment. - -'Come, come,' said the actress, with a nasty laugh, 'it's no use trying -to bluff me; but when you want a confidant, choose a better one than -your friend Monsieur Larcher?' - -'I don't understand you,' replied the poet, his heart beating fast; 'I -have never made a confidant of him.' - -'Then he must have invented the story of your being in love with Madame -Moraines, that pretty, fair woman, the mistress of old Desforges. Well, -that beats all!' exclaimed the cruel actress, with the bitter and -ironical laugh of a creature whose pride has been deeply wounded. The -unhappy Claude, who in his tender moments forgot what he thought of -Colette in his lucid ones, had simply said to her on the morrow of -René's visit, 'Poor Vincy is in love.' 'With whom?' she had asked. And -he had told her. - -Colette was well acquainted with the rumours that were afloat concerning -Suzanne and the Baron, thanks to the habit most fast men have of -retailing Society scandal, be it true or not, to the _demi-mondaines_ -whom they frequent. In alluding to René's love affair with Madame -Moraines, the actress, beside herself with passion, had spoken almost at -random, in order to lower Larcher in his friend's esteem. Seeing the -effect that her words had produced on the latter, she continued the -theme. To torture the man she had before her, and in whose features she -could read the suffering she caused, was to satisfy to a certain extent -her thirst for revenge against the other, knowing, as she did, how dear -the poet was to Claude. - -'Claude did not tell you that,' cried René, excitedly, 'and if he were -here he would forbid you to slander a woman whom he knows to be worthy -of your respect.' - -'Of my respect!' repeated Colette, with a shrill, nervous laugh. 'What -do you take me for, my dear fellow? Of my respect! Because she has a -husband to hide her shame and help her spend the old man's money? Of my -respect! Because she wants a higher wage than the girl in the street who -hasn't the price of a dinner? Do you believe in them, these Society -women? And look here,' she cried, rising in her fury and betraying her -low extraction by the way in which she jerked her head and blinked her -eyes, 'if you don't like me telling you that she is your mistress and -the Baron's too, go and fight it out with Claude. It'll furnish my fine -gentleman with copy. Are you beginning to have the same opinion about -him as I have? Between you and me, my boy--just you keep your eyes open. -Worthy of my respect! Ha! ha! ha! No--that's a bit too thick. Well, -good-bye. This time I am going to dress in earnest. Mélanie!' she -cried, opening the door, 'Mélanie! Give Claude my compliments,' she -added, as a parting shot, 'and tell him that trifling with Colette is as -dangerous as trifling with love.' - -With this allusion to the play so enthusiastically mentioned by Claude -in his letter, she pushed René out of her room, and as she closed the -door broke out once more into silvery but cruel, mocking -laughter--laughter that was a strange mixture of affectation and hatred, -of a courtesan's nonchalance and the vengeance of a slighted mistress. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -THE STORY OF A SUSPICION - - -'What a wicked woman! What a wicked woman!' muttered René as he went -down the staircase, now re-echoing with the shouts of the call-boy. He -trembled with agitation and asked himself, 'What harm have I ever done -her?' forgetting that for a quarter of an hour he had represented Claude -in Colette's eyes. Perhaps the joy felt by the actress in wounding him -to the quick might have had its rise in the malice often occasioned by a -man's unwillingness to pay his friend's mistress attentions. The loyalty -of one man to another ranks amongst the sentiments most odious to women. - -'What have I done to her?' repeated the poet, unable to find an answer -to his question, unable even to collect his thoughts. There are phrases -which, flung at us unexpectedly, will stun us as surely as any blow -physically dealt. They bring about a sudden cessation of all -consciousness--a cessation even of pain. René was not quite himself -again until he stood in the Place du Palais Royal amid its throng of -traffic. The first feeling that animated him was a fit of furious rage -against Claude. 'The perfidious wretch!' he cried; 'how could he trust -my secret to a creature like that? And such a secret, too! What did he -know about it?' A slight blush and a moment's hesitation in uttering her -name. 'He thinks that is sufficient evidence upon which to slander a -woman he hardly knows, and in the ears, too, of a hussy whose infamy he -proclaims from the housetops!' - -He recalled to mind every detail of the only conversation in which -Larcher might have discovered his nascent feelings for Suzanne. He saw -himself once more in Claude's rooms in the Rue de Varenne, with the -manuscripts and proofs strewn about, and the writer's face looking livid -in the greenish light of the stained-glass windows. He saw the sceptical -smile flit across that face whilst the sarcastic lips uttered the words: -'So you are not in love with her!' Borne on the same wave of memory came -other visions connected with the last. He heard Suzanne's voice saying -on the occasion of his third visit: 'Your friend M. Larcher--I am sure -he doesn't like me.' Had she not expressed her distrust of him only that -morning? Her suspicions had, indeed, been only too well justified. And -then if he had only contented himself with coupling her name with his, -René's. But he had even dared to make this other vile accusation--that -she was kept by Desforges! Not that René harboured the least shadow of -a suspicion against his divine mistress--it was not that which maddened -him--but the knowledge that Colette had not lied in claiming to have -heard this infamous thing from Larcher. If Larcher repeated it, he must -have got it from some one else. And if Suzanne had insisted, as she had -twice done, upon being told how Claude spoke of her, it was because she -knew she was exposed to the insult of this abominable calumny. - -René remembered the old beau whom he had once met at her house, with -his military bearing, his red, bloated face, and his grey hair. And then -he saw her as she had looked only that morning, so fair, so white, so -dainty--with her pale blue eyes and that peculiar air of refinement that -lent an almost ideal charm to her most passionate embraces. Was it -possible that such vile calumnies could have been spread concerning this -woman! 'People are too horribly wicked!' exclaimed René aloud. 'And as -for Claude----' His affection for him had been so sincere, and it was -this man, his dearest friend, who had spoken of Suzanne in such a -shameless manner, like a blackguard and a traitor. What a contrast with -the poor angel thus insulted, who, knowing it, had taken no further -revenge than to say, 'I have forgiven him!' On every other occasion when -she had spoken of Claude it had been to admire him for his talents and -to pity him for his faults. Another phrase of Suzanne's suddenly struck -him. 'That is no reason why he should revenge himself by forcing his -attentions upon any woman chance throws in his way. I got quite angry -one day when he was seated next to me at table.' 'That is the reason!' -said the poet to himself with returning anger; 'he has paid her -attentions which she has repelled, and so he slanders her. It is too -disgusting!' - -A prey to these painful reflections, René had walked as far as the -Place de l'Opéra, and, mechanically turning to the right, had ascended -the boulevard without really noticing where he was. Hatred and rancour -were so repugnant to his soul that these feelings were soon supplanted -by the love he bore the beautiful woman so basely reviled by the -vindictive actress. What was she doing at that moment? She was yonder, -in a box at the Gymnase, obliged to sit out some play with her husband, -and, no doubt, sadly dreaming of their love and their last kisses. No -sooner had he conjured up her adorable image than he was seized with an -instinctive and irresistible longing to see her in the flesh. He hailed -a passing cab and gave the driver the name of the theatre. How often had -he been similarly tempted to go to some place of amusement when he knew -Suzanne would be there! But having given his mistress a promise that he -would not do so, he had always scrupulously repelled the temptation. -Besides, he took a curious pleasure in dwelling upon the absolute -distinction between the two Suzannes--between the woman of fashion and -his simple love--above all, he feared to meet Paul Moraines. He had read -Ernest Feydeau's 'Fanny,' and was more afraid of the terrible jealousy -described in that fine work than of death itself. To an analytical -writer, like Claude, this would have been an excellent reason for -seeking an encounter with the husband, so as to have a new kind of wound -to examine under the microscope. The poets who have not turned their art -into a trade nor their hearts into a raree-show are possessed of an -instinct which makes them avoid such degrading experiments; they respect -the beauty of their own feelings. - -Whilst the cab was rolling along towards the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle -all these scruples, which René had once so religiously observed, -returned to him. But Colette's words had moved him more deeply than he -cared to admit. A hideous vision had flashed across his brain. He half -feared that it might come again, and he knew that Suzanne's presence was -the best preventive. Lovers frequently have these apparently unwarranted -ideas--the results of an instinct of self-preservation which our -feelings, like animate beings, possess. The cab rolled on whilst René -defended his infraction of the agreement made with his mistress. 'If she -could know what I have been obliged to hear, would she not be the first -to say, "Come and read my love for you in my face?" Besides, I shall -only look at her for a quarter of an hour, and then go away purged of -this stain. And what of the husband? Well, I must see him sooner or -later, and she tells me he is nothing to her!' Madame Moraines had not -failed to make her favourite lover swallow the improbable fable served -up by all married women to their paramours, though sometimes the fable -is true--for woman will be a riddle to all eternity--as the reports of -the divorce cases prove. In the delicacy with which Suzanne had allayed -his most secret and least legitimate feelings of jealousy René found an -additional pretext for denouncing those who slandered this sublime -creature. 'This woman the mistress of Desforges! Why? For money? What -nonsense! She, the daughter of a Cabinet Minister and the wife of a -business man! Claude, Claude! how could you?' - -This tumult of ideas was somewhat stilled by the necessity for action as -soon as the poet reached the doors of the Gymnase. He was most anxious -that he should not be seen by Suzanne, and stood on the steps outside -for a moment lost in reflection. The first act was just over, as he -could see by the people flocking out, and this circumstance furnished -him with an idea for beholding his mistress without being observed by -her. He would first take a ticket for one of the cheaper seats in order -to get into the house; then, having found out where Suzanne was -sitting--which he could easily do during the interval from the corridor -at the side of the stalls--he would take a better seat, from which he -could safely feast his eyes upon her adorable features. - -As he entered the theatre he was startled for a moment by coming face to -face with the Marquis de Hère, one of the swells he had seen at Madame -Komof's; the young nobleman, wearing a sprig of heather in his -button-hole, was swinging his stick and humming an air from the then -popular 'Cloches de Corneville' so lightly that he could hardly hear it -himself. He brushed past René without recognizing him, or appearing to -do so, any more than Salvaney had done an hour ago. The poet quickly -made his way to one of the entrances to the stalls. He had not long to -look; Madame Moraines was in the third box from the stage, almost -opposite him. She occupied the front seat, and there were two men in the -background; one, a fine young fellow, with a long beard and a pale -complexion--the husband, no doubt--was standing up. The other, who was -seated---- - -But why had chance--it could only be chance--brought into that box on -this very night the man whose name the wretched actress had just coupled -with Suzanne's? Yes, it was indeed Desforges who occupied the chair -behind Madame Moraines. The poet had not the slightest difficulty in -recognizing the Baron's energetic countenance, his piercing brown eyes, -his fair moustache, his high colour, and his forehead surmounted by a -wealth of almost white hair. Why did it distress René to see this old -beau talking so familiarly to Suzanne as she sat there fanning herself, -her face turned towards him, whilst Moraines scanned the boxes with his -opera-glass? Why did it cause him such pain as to make him turn hastily -away? For the first time since he had had the happiness to catch sight -of this woman on the threshold of the Komof mansion, looking so fair and -slim in her red gown, suspicion had entered his soul. - -What suspicion? He could not possibly have expressed it in words. And -yet? When Suzanne had spoken to him about the theatre that morning she -had told him that she was going alone with her husband. What motive had -led her to pervert the truth? The detail, it was true, was of no -importance. But a lie, be it great or small, is still a lie. After all, -perhaps Desforges was only visiting them in their box during the -interval. This explanation seemed so natural as well as acceptable that -René adopted it on the spot. - -Returning to the box-office, he asked for an outside stall, on the left, -having calculated that from this seat he would have the best opportunity -of watching the Moraines without being seen himself. Meanwhile the -audience had again settled down and the curtain rose. Desforges did not -leave the box. He kept his seat at the back, leaning forward to talk to -Suzanne. But why not? Could not his presence be explained in a thousand -ways without Suzanne having lied? Could not Moraines have invited him -without his wife's knowledge? He spoke familiarly to the woman, it is -true, and she answered him in a similar manner. But had not he, René, -met him at her house? A gentleman is sitting down in a theatre talking -to a lady he knows. Does that prove that there is a vile bond of sin -existing between them? - -The poet argued in this fashion, and his arguments would have seemed to -him irrefutable if he had seen on Suzanne's face a single one of those -traits of melancholy he had expected to find. On the contrary, as she -sat there in her elegant theatre-gown of black lace, with a little pink -bonnet on her fair hair, eating, with dainty fingers, from the box of -crystallised fruit that stood before her, she looked thoroughly happy, -and as though she had not a care in the world. She laughed so heartily -at the jokes in the piece, and her eyes were so bright and sparkling as -she chatted with her two companions, that it seemed impossible to -imagine she had only that morning paid a visit to the shrine of her most -secret and heartfelt love. The emotions called forth by her meeting with -her lover had left so few traces on her face, now beaming with pleasure, -that René scarcely believed his own eyes. He had expected to find her -so very different. - -The husband, too, with cordial joviality expressed in his manly -features, seemed by no means the crabbed and suspicious recluse Suzanne -had led her credulous lover to imagine. The unhappy fellow had come to -the theatre to get rid of the pain which Colette's words had caused him, -but when he reached home his distress had only increased. It has often -been said that we should not keep many friends if we could hear those to -whom we give that title speak of us behind our back. It is an even less -satisfactory experiment to take by surprise the woman we love. René had -just tried it, but he was too passionately fond of Suzanne to believe in -this first vision of his Madonna's duplicity. - -'What am I worrying about after all?' he thought, on waking next -morning, and finding that he was still a prey to his painful feelings. -'That she was in a good temper last night? I must be very selfish to -reproach her with that! That Baron Desforges was in her box when she had -told me that she was going to the theatre with her husband alone? She -will explain that next time I see her. That her husband's face was not -in keeping with his character? Appearances are so deceptive! How -thoroughly have I been deceived in Claude Larcher, with his wheedling -ways and his frank face! How often has he done me a favour and then -pretended he had forgotten it, and yet how basely he has betrayed me -after all!' - -All the cruel impressions he had experienced on the preceding evening -were now concentrated in a fresh and more furious fit of resentment -against the man who, by his wicked gossip, had been the primary cause of -his trouble. In the excess of his unjust anger René ignored the -unquestionable merits of his friend and protector--absolute -disinterestedness, a devotion that hoped for no return, and a total lack -of literary envy. He was not even charitable enough to admit that Claude -might have spoken to Colette unthinkingly and incautiously, but without -any treacherous intentions. Suzanne's lover felt that he could not -remain the friend of a man who had gone so far as to say what Larcher -had said of his mistress. That is what René kept repeating to himself -the whole day. On his return from the Bibliothèque, where he had found -it almost impossible to work, he sat down to his table to write this -villain one of those letters that are not easily forgotten. Having -finished it, he read it over. The terms in which he defended Madame -Moraines proclaimed his love, and now more than ever did he wish to keep -that a secret from Claude. - -'What is the use of writing to him at all?' he thought; 'when he comes -back I will tell him what I think of him--that is much better.' - -He was just about to destroy this dangerous letter when Emilie came in, -as she often did before dinner, to ask him how he was getting on with -his work. With a woman's innate curiosity, she read the address on the -envelope, and said, 'Oh! is Claude in Venice? Then you've heard from -him!' - -'Never utter that name before me again!'replied René, tearing up the -letter in a kind of cool rage. - -Emilie said no more. She had not been mistaken in her brother's accents. -René was in pain, and his anger against Claude was very great; but -since he was silent concerning its cause, his sister knew that the -latter must be something more than a mere literary dispute. By that -intuition which always accompanies tender affection, Emilie guessed that -the two writers had quarrelled on account of Madame Moraines, whose name -René never mentioned now, and whom she was beginning to hate for the -same reasons that had at first prompted her to like her. For some weeks -past she had noticed a great mental and physical change coming over her -brother. Although a model of purity herself, she was shrewd enough to -attribute this degeneration to its true cause. She noticed it as she -copied the fragments of the 'Savonarola' in the same way as she had -copied the 'Sigisbée'; and although her admiration for the lightest -trifle that came from René's pen was intense, there were many signs by -which she could see how differently the two works had been -inspired--from the number of lines written at each sitting to the -continual reconstruction of the scenes and even to the handwriting, -which had lost a little of its bold character. - -The bubbling spring of clear, fresh poetry in which the 'Sigisbée' had -had its source seemed to have dried up. What change had taken place in -René's life? A woman had entered it, and it was therefore to this -woman's influence that Emilie attributed the momentary impairment of the -poet's faculties. She went still further, and hated this unknown but -formidable creature for the pain inflicted on Rosalie. By a strange -lapse of memory, frequently met with in generous natures, she forgot -what part she had herself taken in her brother's rupture with his former -_fiancée._ It was Madame Moraines whom she blamed for it all, and now -this same woman was embroiling René with the best and most devoted of -his friends--the one whom his faithful sister preferred because she had -gauged the strength of his friendship. - -'But how could it have happened,' she thought, 'since Claude is not -here?' - -She cudgelled her brains for a solution to this problem whilst attending -to her household duties, hearing Constant's home lessons, making out -Fresneau's bills, and conscientiously examining every button-hole and -seam of her brother's linen. René was shut up in his room, where -everything reminded him of Suzanne's one heavenly visit, and with -feverish impatience he awaited the day appointed for their next meeting. -Slander was doing its secret work, like some venomous sting. A poisoned -man will go about without knowing that he is ill, except for a vague -feeling of restlessness, but all the while the virus is fermenting in -his blood and will produce sudden and terrible results. - -The poet still treated the shameful accusations brought by Colette -against Suzanne with scorn, but, by dint of pondering on her words in -order to refute them, his mind became more accustomed to their tenour. -At the moment when the actress had made her terrible charge he had not -stooped to rebut it; but now, as he turned it over in his mind, he tried -to save himself from a terrible abyss of doubt and from the most -degrading jealousy by clutching at the marks of sincerity Suzanne had -given him. What, then, were his feelings when, at the very outset of -their next meeting, he received undeniable proofs that her sincerity was -not what he had thought it? - -He had reached the Rue des Dames with a troubled look on his face that -had not escaped Suzanne. In reply to her solicitous inquiries he had -pretended that it was due to an unfair article that had appeared in some -paper, but had almost immediately felt ashamed of this innocent excuse, -so sweetly had his mistress rebuked him. - -'You big baby, you cannot have success without inspiring jealousy.' - -'Let us talk about you instead,' he replied, and then asked, with a -beating heart: What have you been doing since I saw you last?' - -Had Suzanne been watching him at that moment she must have seen his -agitation. It was a trap--innocent and simple enough--but a trap for all -that. In three times twenty-four hours suspicion had brought the -enthusiastic lover to this degree of distrust. But Suzanne could not -know this, for he was treating her in exactly the same way as she was -treating Desforges. She did not think René capable of stepping out of -the only _rôle_ in which she had seen him. How could she imagine that -this simple boy was trying to catch her? - -'What have I been doing?' she repeated. 'First of all I went to the -Gymnase the other evening with my husband. Fortunately we haven't much -to say to each other, so I could think of you just as well as if I were -alone--I do feel so alone when I am with him. You talk of the troubles -of your literary life--if you only knew the misery of my so-called life -of pleasure and the loneliness of these weary _tête-à-têtes!_' - -'Did you feel bored at the theatre, then?' continued René. - -'You were not there,' she replied with a smile, and looked more intently -at him. 'What is the matter, love?' - -She had never seen this bitter, almost hard, expression on René's face. - -'It's very stupid of me, but I can't forget that article,' said the -poet. - -'Was it so very bad, then? Where did it appear?' she asked, her instinct -of danger thoroughly aroused; but René, being unable to reply to this -unexpected question, merely stammered, 'It isn't worth your troubling to -read it.' - -This only confirmed her suspicions--he was angry with her about -something. A question rose to her lips: 'Has some one been speaking ill -of me?' Her diplomacy, however, got the better of her impetuosity. Is -not anxiety to disarm suspicion almost a confession in itself? The -really innocent are quite callous. Her best course was to find out what -René had been doing himself, and what persons he had seen who might -have told him something. - -'Did you go and see Mademoiselle Rigaud?' she asked, indifferently. - -'Yes,' replied René, unable to disguise his embarrassment at the -question. - -'And has she forgiven poor Claude?' continued Suzanne. - -'No,' he rejoined, adding: 'She is a very bad woman,' and in such a -bitter tone that Madame Moraines at once guessed part of the truth. The -actress must certainly have spoken of her to René. She was again seized -with a desire to provoke his confidence, and reflected that the surest -means of attaining her object was by intoxicating her lover with -passion. She knew how powerless he would be to resist the emotions her -caresses would let loose, and at once sealed his lips with a long kiss. -By the silent and frenzied ardour with which he returned it Suzanne -understood not only that René had suffered, but that she had, to a -great extent, been the cause. - -In her sweetest voice, and in tones best calculated to reach that heart -which had always been open to her, she said, 'What is this trouble that -you won't tell me?' - -Had she uttered those words at the beginning of their interview he would -not have been able to resist them. Amidst tears and kisses, he would -have repeated what Colette had said! But alas! it was no longer -Colette's words that caused him his present sufferings. What now gave -him frightful pain and pierced his heart like a dagger was the fact of -having caught her, his idol, in a deliberate lie. Yes, she had lied; -this time there was no doubt about it. She had told him that she had -been to the theatre with her husband only, and that was false; that she -had been sad, and that was false too. Could he reply to her question, -which betrayed affectionate concern, by two such clear, explicit, and -irrefutable charges? He had not the courage to do it, and got out of the -dilemma by repeating his former reply. Suzanne looked at him, and he was -obliged to turn his head. She only sighed and said, 'Poor René!' and, -as it was almost time for her to go, she pushed her inquiries no -further. - -'He will tell me all about it next time,' she thought as she went home. -In spite of herself she was worried by René's silence. Her love for the -poet was sincere, though it was a very different passion from that which -she expressed in words. Before all else it was a physical love, but, -corrupted as Suzanne was by her life and her surroundings, or perhaps -because of this very corruption, the poet's nobility of soul did not -fail to impress her. And to such an extent that she imagined their -romance would be robbed of half its delight if ever the circle of -illusions she had drawn round him were broken. That some one had tried -to break this magic circle was evident, and this some one could only be -Colette. Everything seemed to prove it. But, on the other hand, what -reason could the actress have for hating her, Suzanne, whom she probably -did not know, even by name? Colette and Claude were lovers, and here -Madame Moraines again came upon the man whom she had distrusted from the -first day. If Colette had spoken to René about her, Claude himself must -have spoken about her to Colette. At this point her ideas became -confused. Larcher had never seen her with René. And the latter, whose -word she did not doubt, had told her that he had confided nothing to his -friend. - -'I am on the wrong track,' thought Suzanne. Argue as she would, she -could not convince herself that René was so troubled on account of this -pretended newspaper article. There was danger in store for the dear -relations that existed between them. She felt it, and the feeling became -still more pronounced by what her husband told her on the very next day -after her unsatisfactory interview with René. - -It was just before seven, and Suzanne was alone in the little _salon_ -where she had first cast her net over the poet--a net as finely woven -and as yielding as the web in which the spider catches the unwary fly. -She had had more callers than usual that afternoon, and Desforges had -only just gone. Suddenly Paul came in his wonted noisy way and in -high animal spirits. Seizing her by the waist--for she had started up at -his boisterous entry--he said, 'Give me a kiss--no, two kisses,' taking -one after the other, 'as a reward for having been good.' Seeing the look -of interrogation in Suzanne's eyes, he added, 'I have at last paid -Madame Komof that visit I've owed her for so long. Whom do you think I -met there? Guess--that young poet, René Vincy. I can't understand why -Desforges doesn't like him. He's a charming fellow; he pleased me -immensely. We had quite a long talk. I told him that you would be very -glad to see him. Was I doing right?' - -'Quite right,' replied Suzanne; 'and who else was there?' - -Whilst her husband was reciting a list of familiar names she was -thinking: 'What reason had René for going to Madame Komof's?' This was -the first call of that kind he had made since the beginning of their -attachment. He had so often said to his mistress: 'I want only you and -my work.' It had been his custom during the past few months to give her -a full account not only of what he had done, but of what he was going to -do, and yet he had said nothing of this visit, so entirely out of -keeping with his present mode of life. And he had met Paul, who had no -doubt proved himself the very opposite of what his wife had described -him to be. - -Suzanne felt quite out of temper with the kindhearted fellow who had -been guilty of calling on the Comtesse on the same day as the poet, and -she said, in an almost petulant tone: 'I am sure you haven't written to -Crucé for that Alençon.' - -'I have written,' replied Moraines, with an air of triumph, 'and you -shall have it.' Crucé, who acted as a sort of private art broker, had -spoken to Suzanne about some old lace, and it was this she wished her -husband to get her. From time to time she would ask him for something -that she could show her friends and say, 'Paul is so good to me. This a -present he brought me only the other day.' She would forget to add that -the money for such presents generally came from Desforges--in an -indirect way, it is true. Although the Baron seldom troubled himself -with business matters except so far as the careful investment of his -capital necessitated, he often had opportunities for speculating with -almost absolute safety, and always gave Moraines a chance of doing the -same. The Compagnie du Nord, of which Desforges was a director, had -recently taken over a local line that was on the brink of ruin. Paul had -succeeded in making a profit of thirty thousand francs by purchasing -some shares at the right moment, and it was out of this profit that -Suzanne was going to have her lace. This little business operation, too, -had indirectly led to a somewhat strange scene between René and his -mistress. - -In the course of conversation she had asked him how much the 'Sigisbée' -had produced, adding, 'What have you done with all that money?' - -'I don't know,' René had replied, with a laugh. 'My sister bought me -some stock with the first few thousand francs, and I have kept the rest -in my drawer.' 'Will you let me talk to you like a sister, too?' she had -said. 'A friend of ours is a director of the Compagnie du Nord, and he -has given us a valuable tip. Do you promise to keep it a secret?' -Thereupon she had explained to him how to get hold of some shares. 'Give -your orders to-morrow, and you can make as much as you like.' - -'Hold your tongue!' René had said, putting his hand over her mouth. 'I -know it's very kind of you to talk like that, but I can't allow you to -give me that sort of information. I should feel ashamed of myself.' - -He had spoken so seriously that Suzanne had not dared to press the -matter, though his scruples had appeared to her somewhat ridiculous. But -then, if he had not been so unsophisticated and such a _gobeur_, as she -called him in that horrible Parisian slang that spares not even the -highest forms of sentiment, would she have been so fond of him? And yet -it was this very innocence of soul that she feared. If ever he should -get to hear what her life was really like, how his noble heart would -turn against her, and how incompatible it would be with his high sense -of honour ever to forgive her! A hint had, nevertheless, somehow reached -him. In going over the different signs of danger that she had noticed -one after another--René's trouble, his anger against Colette Rigaud, -his reticence and his unexpected visit to Madame Komof--Suzanne said to -herself: 'I made a mistake in not getting him to explain at once.' - -When, therefore, she made her appearance in the Rue des Dames a few days -later she was fully determined not to fall into the same error again. -She saw at once that the poet was even more distressed than before, -though she pretended not to notice this distress nor the cool manner in -which he received her first kiss. With a sad smile she said to him: - -'It was very silly of you, dear, not to tell me you were about to call -on the Comtesse. I would have taken care that you were spared a meeting -which must have been very painful?' - -'Painful?' repeated René in an ironical tone that Suzanne had never -heard him use before, 'why, M. Moraines was charming.' - -'Yes,' she replied, 'you have made a conquest. He, so sarcastic as a -rule, spoke of you with an enthusiasm that really pained me. Didn't he -invite you to call on us? You may be proud. It is so rare that he -welcomes a new face. Poor René,' she continued, placing both her hands -on her lover's shoulder, and laying her cheek on her hands, 'how you -must have suffered!' - -'I have indeed suffered,' replied René, in a hollow voice. He looked at -the pretty face so near his own and remembered what Suzanne had said to -him in the Louvre before the portrait of the Giorgione's mistress, 'How -can anyone lie with a face like that?' Yet she had lied to him. And what -proof had he that she had not been lying all along? Whilst a prey to the -torments of suspicion, and especially since his meeting with Paul, the -most frightful conjectures had entered his mind. The contrast between -the Moraines he had seen and the tyrannical husband described by Suzanne -had been too great. 'Why has she deceived me on that point too?' René -had asked himself. - -He had called on Madame Komof without any distinct aim, but in the -secret hope of hearing Suzanne spoken of by those of her own set. They -at least would be sure to know her! But alas! his conversation with -Moraines had sufficed to involve him in more horrible doubt than ever. -One thing was now very plain to him; Suzanne had used her husband as a -bugbear to keep him, René, from visiting their house. Why--if it were -not that she had something in her life to hide? What was this something? -Colette had taken upon herself to answer this question in advance. Under -the influence of that horrible suspicion, René had conceived a plan, -very simple of execution, and the result of which he thought would prove -decisive. He would take advantage of the husband's invitation to ask -Suzanne for permission to visit her at home. If she said yes, she had -nothing to hide; if she said no---- - -And as this resolution recurred to the poet he continued to gaze upon -that adorable face resting on his shoulder. Each one of those dear -features recalled fresh memories! Those eyes so clear and blue--what -faith he had had in them! That noble brow--what refined thoughts he had -imagined it to shelter! Those delicate, mobile lips--with what sweet -abandonment had he heard them speak! No--what Colette had told him was -impossible! But why these lies--a first, a second, and a third time? -Yes, she had lied three times. There is no such thing as a trivial lie. -René understood this now, and felt that confidence, like love, is -governed by the great law of all or nothing. We have it or we have it -not. Those who have lost it know this only too well. - -'My poor René!' repeated Suzanne. She saw that he was in that state -when compassion softens the heart and opens it wide. - -'Poor indeed!' replied the poet, moved by this mark of pity, that came -just when he had most need of it; then, looking into her eyes, he -unburdened himself. - -'Listen, Suzanne, I prefer to tell you all. I have come to the -conclusion that the life we are leading now cannot last. It makes me too -unhappy--it does not satisfy my love. To see you only by stealth, an -hour to-day and an hour in a few days' time, to know nothing of what you -are doing, to share no part of your life, is too cruel. Be quiet--let me -speak. There was a weighty objection to my being received in your -house--your husband. Well--I have seen him. I have borne the ordeal. We -have shaken hands. Since it is done, allow me at least to benefit by my -effort. I know there is nothing very noble in what I am saying, but I -have no desire to be noble--I love you. I feel that my mind is getting -full of all kinds of ideas about you. I entreat you to let me come to -your house, to live in your world, to see you elsewhere than here, where -we meet only to--' - -'To love each other!' she exclaimed, interrupting him and shaking her -head; 'do not utter blasphemy.' Then, sinking down into a chair, she -continued, 'Alas! my beautiful dream is over then--that dream in which -you seemed to take as much delight as I--the dream of a love all to -ourselves, and only for ourselves, with none of those compromises that -horrified us both!' - -'Then won't you let me come and see you as I ask?' said René, returning -to the charge. - -'What you are asking me to do is to kill our happiness,' cried Suzanne; -'so sensitive as I know you to be, you would never stand the shocks to -which you would be exposed. You know nothing of that world in which I am -obliged to live, and how unfitted you are for it. And afterwards you -would hold me responsible for your disenchantment. Give up this fatal -idea, love, give it up for my sake.' - -'What is there then in this life of yours that I may not see?' asked the -poet, looking at her fixedly. He could not be aware that Suzanne had -only one aim in view--to get him to tell her the reason of this sudden -desire--for she concluded that it must be the same reason which had -caused his distress the other day, and which had taken him to Madame -Komof's so unexpectedly. She was not mistaken as to René's meaning, and -replied in the broken accents of a woman unjustly accused: - -'How can you talk to me like that, René? Some one must have poisoned -your mind. You cannot have got hold of such ideas yourself. Come to my -house, love! Come as often as you like! "Something in my life that you -may not see"--I, who would rather die than tell you a lie!' - -'Then why did you tell me a lie the other day?' cried René. Conquered -by the despair he thought he could see in those beautiful eyes, disarmed -by the permission she had just given him, unable to keep the secret of -his grief any longer, he felt that necessity of unbosoming himself -which, in a quarrel with a woman, is as good as putting one's head into -a noose. - -'I told you a lie?' exclaimed Suzanne. - -'Yes, when you told me you went to the theatre with your husband.' - -'But I did go----' - -'So did I,' said René; 'there was some one else in your box.' - -'Desforges!' cried Suzanne; 'you're mad, my dear René--mad! He came -into our box during one of the intervals, and my husband made him stay -till the piece was over. Desforges!' she repeated with a smile, 'why, -he's nobody. I didn't even think of mentioning him. Seriously, you don't -mean to say you're jealous of Desforges?' - -'You looked so bright and happy,' rejoined René, in a voice that -already showed signs of relenting. - -'Ungrateful man,' she said; 'I wish you could have read what was going -on within me! It is this necessity for continual dissimulation which is -the bane of my life; and now, to have you reproach me with it! No, -René--this is too cruel, too unjust!' - -'Forgive me! Forgive me!' cried the poet, now perfectly convinced by the -natural manner of his mistress. 'It is true. Some one has poisoned my -mind. It was Colette! How justified you were in your distrust of Claude -Larcher!' - -'I did not allow him to pay me attentions,' said Suzanne; 'men never -forgive that.' - -'The wretch!' cried the poet angrily, and then, as if to rid himself of -his grief by telling it, he went on: 'He knew that I loved you. How? -Because I hesitated and got confused the only time I ever mentioned your -name to him. He knows me so well! He guessed my secret and told his -mistress all about it--and a lot of other lies. I can't repeat them to -you.' - -'Tell me, René, tell me,' said Suzanne, wearing at that moment the -noble look of resignation that is seen on the faces of those who go to -the scaffold innocent. 'Did they say that I had had lovers before you?' - -'Would that it were only that!' exclaimed René. - -'What then, _mon Dieu?_' she cried. 'What does it matter to me what they -said, but that you, René, should believe it! Come, confess, so that you -may have nothing on your mind. I have at least the right to demand -that.' - -'True,' replied the poet, and looking as shamefaced as though he were -the guilty one, he stammered rather than pronounced the following words: -'Colette told me she heard from Claude that you were . . . No--I can't -say it--well, that Desforges . . .' - -'Still Desforges,' said Suzanne, interrupting him with a sweet but -ironical smile; 'it is too comical.' She did not want René to formulate -the charge that she could now guess. It would have wounded her dignity -to descend to such depths. 'You were told that Desforges had been my -lover--that he was still so, no doubt. But that is not slander--it is -too ridiculous to be that. Poor old friend--he who knew me when I was as -high as that!--he and my father were always together. He has seen me -grow up, and loves me as if I were his own child. And it is this man -whom---- No, René, swear to me that you didn't believe it. Have I -deserved that you should think so badly of me?' - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -PROOFS - - -In that strange mental disease called jealousy the intervals between the -attacks are periods of delight. For some days or for some hours the -feelings of love regain their divine sweetness, like a return to -strength in convalescence. Suzanne had so fully convinced René of the -absurdity of his suspicions that he did not wish to be behind her in -generosity, and refused to avail himself of the permission to call in -the Rue Murillo for which he had so earnestly entreated. Two or three -phrases uttered in the right manner and with the right expression will -always overcome the deepest distrust of a devoted lover, provided he has -not had ocular proofs of treason--and even then? But here the elements -of which this first suspicion was composed were so fragile! - -It was therefore with absolute good faith that the poet said to Suzanne, -who was herself quite delighted with this unexpected result, 'No, I -shall not come to your house. It was foolish of me to desire any change -in our relations. We are so happy as we are.' - -'Yes, until some wretch libels me again,' she replied. 'Promise me that -you will always tell me.' - -'I swear I will, love,' said he. 'But I know you now, and I am more sure -of myself.' - -He said so, and he thought so. Suzanne thought so too, and gave herself -up to the delights of her paradise regained, though fully aware that she -would have a second battle to fight when Claude returned. But could -Larcher say more than he had already said? Besides, René would tell her -of his return, and if the first meeting of the two men did not result in -a definite rupture it would be time to act. She would make her lover -choose between breaking entirely with Claude or with herself, and about -his choice she had no doubt whatever. In spite of his protests, the poet -seemed to be less sure of himself, for his heart beat fast when, on his -return home from the Bibliothèque one evening about a week after the -scene with Suzanne, his sister said to him, 'Claude Larcher is back.' - -'And has he dared to call here?' cried René. - -Emilie was visibly embarrassed and said, 'He asked me when he could see -you?' - -'You should have answered "Never,"' replied the poet. - -'René!' exclaimed Emilie, 'how could I say that to an old friend who -has been so kind and devoted to you? I think I had better tell you----' -she added; 'I asked him what had taken place between you. He seemed so -surprised--so painfully surprised--that I will swear he has never done -you any harm. There is some misunderstanding. I told him to come -to-morrow morning, and that he would be sure to find you in.' - -'Why don't you mind your own business?' cried René angrily; 'did I ask -you to meddle in my affairs?' - -'How unkind you are!' said Emilie, deeply hurt by her brother's words, -and almost in tears. - -'All right, don't cry,' replied the poet, somewhat ashamed of his -roughness; 'perhaps it is better that I should see him. I owe him that. -But after that, I never want to hear his name again. You -understand--never!' - -In spite of his apparent firmness, René did not sleep much that night, -but lay awake thinking of the approaching meeting. Not that he had much -doubt about the issue, but, try as he would to increase his resentment -against his old friend, he could not get as far as hating him. He had -grown extremely fond of this peculiar individual who, when not -intentionally disagreeable, commanded affection by his sincere though -frivolous nature, by his originality, by those very faults which only -harmed himself, and above all by a kind of innate, indestructible, and -invincible generosity. - -On the eve of severing their friendship René recalled to mind how it -had originated. Claude, then very poor, was a tutor in the Ecole -Saint-André when René himself was a scholar in the sixth form. A -curious legend concerning the eccentric professor was told in this -well-conducted and eminently religious institution. Some of the boys -declared they had seen him seated in an open carriage next to a very -pretty woman dressed in pink. Then one day Claude disappeared from the -school, and René did not see him again until he turned up at Fresneau's -wedding as best man, and already on the road to fame. After some talk -over old times, Claude had asked to see his poems. The writer of thirty -had shown as much indulgence as an elder brother in reading these first -essays, and had immediately treated the aspiring lad as an equal. With -what tact had he submitted these rough sketches to the processes of a -higher criticism--a criticism which encourages an artist by pointing out -his defects without crushing him beneath their weight. And then had -followed the episode of the 'Sigisbée,' in which Claude had displayed -unusual devotion for one who was himself a dramatic author. - -The poet was sufficiently well acquainted with literary life to know -that even simple kindness is rarely met with between one generation and -the next. His rapid success had already procured him what is perhaps the -bitterest experience of the years of apprenticeship--the jealousy of -those very masters he admired most, in whose school he had formed his -style, and at whose feet he would so gladly have laid his sprig of -laurel. Claude Larcher's delight in another's talent was as spontaneous -and as sincere as if he had not already wielded the pen for fifteen -years. And now this valuable, nay, unique friendship was to be severed. -But was it his fault, René asked himself, as he tossed about in his -bed, and recalled all these things one after another? Why had Larcher -spoken to this wretched girl as he had done? Why had he betrayed his -young friend, who looked up to him as a brother? Why? - -This distressing question again led René's mind to ideas from which he -turned instinctively. Basilio's famous phrase--'Slander, slander--some -is sure to stick'--expresses one of the saddest and most indisputable -truths concerning the human heart. René would, it is true, have -despised himself for doubting Suzanne after their reconciliation, but -every suspicion, even a groundless one, leaves behind it some poisonous -remnant of distrust, and had he dared to look into the very depths of -his soul he would have recognised that fact in the unhealthy curiosity -he felt to learn from Claude what reasons had led him to make his lying -accusation. This curiosity, the reminiscences of a long friendship, and -a kind of fear of the man who, by his age alone, had always had an -advantage over him--all tended to lessen the anger of the wounded lover. -He tried to work himself up to the same degree of fury that had -possessed him on leaving Colette's dressing-room, but he was not -successful. Like all who know themselves to be weak, he wished to rear -an insurmountable barrier between Claude and himself at once, and when -Larcher made his appearance at nine o'clock, and held out his hand in -friendly greeting, the poet kept his own hand in his pocket. - -The two men stood for a moment facing each other, both very pale. -Claude, though tanned by his travels, looked thin and careworn, and his -eyes blazed at the insult offered him. René knew to what lengths -Larcher's anger would lead him, and expected to see the hand he had -refused raised to strike a blow. But Claude's will was stronger than his -offended pride, and he spoke in a voice that trembled with suppressed -passion. - -'Vincy, do not tempt me. You are only a child, and it is my duty to -think for both of us. Come, come! Listen, René--I know all. Do you -understand? All--yes, all. I arrived yesterday. Your sister told me that -you were angry with me, and a good many other things that opened my -eyes. Your silence had frightened me. I thought that you had betrayed me -with Colette. Fool that she is! Fortunately she hadn't the sense to -guess that there was my vulnerable point. On leaving here I went to her -house. I found her alone. She told me what she had done--what she had -told you, and gloried in it, the hussy. Then I did what was right.' Here -he began to march up and down the room, absorbed in recollections of the -scene he described and almost oblivious of the poet's presence. 'I beat -her--beat her like a madman. It did me good. I flung her to the ground -and rained blow upon blow until she cried "Mercy! mercy!" I could have -killed her--and taken a delight in it. How beautiful she looked, too, -with her hair all tumbling about and her dress hanging in shreds where I -had torn it from her snowy shoulders. Then she grovelled at my feet, but -I was relentless, and left the house. She can show the marks on her body -to her next lover if she likes, and tell him from whom she got them. How -it relieves one to be a brute sometimes!' Then, suddenly stopping before -René, he said, 'And all because she had touched you. Yes or no,' he -cried, in his same angry tone, 'is it on account of what this jade told -you that you are angry with me?' - -'It is on that account,' replied René coldly. - -'Very well,' said Claude, taking a seat, 'then we can talk. There must -be no misunderstanding this time, so I shall be as plain as I possibly -can. If I understand rightly, this wretch of a girl has told you two -things. Let us proceed in order. This is the first--that I told her you -were intimate with Madame Moraines. Excuse me,' he added, as the poet -made a gesture. 'Between us two, in a matter affecting our friendship, I -don't care a rap for the conventionalities that forbid us to mention a -woman's name. I am not conventional myself, and so I mention her. Infamy -number one. Colette told you a lie. This was exactly what I had said to -her--I recollect the words as though it were yesterday, and regretted -them before they had left my mouth--"I think poor René is falling in -love with Madame Moraines." The only thing I went by was your -embarrassed manner when mentioning her to me. But Colette had seen you -sitting next to her at supper and paying her great attention. We had -joked about the matter--as people will joke about these things--without -attaching much importance to it. At least, I didn't--but all that's -nothing. You were my friend. Your feeling might have been a serious -one--it was, as it happened. I was wrong, and I frankly apologise in -spite of the insult which, on the word of this vile drab, you have just -offered me--me, your best and oldest friend!' - -'But then why,' cried René, 'did you give me away to this creature, -knowing what she was? And again, had you spoken only of me, I would have -forgiven you----' - -'Let us pass on to this second point,' said Claude, in his calm, -methodical tone, 'that is to say, to the second lie. She told you that I -had informed her of Madame Moraines' relations with Desforges. That is -false. She had heard of them long ago from all the Salvaneys with whom -she dined, supped, and flirted. No, René--if there is anything with -which I reproach myself, it is not for having spoken to her about Madame -Moraines--I could not have told her anything she didn't know. It is for -not having spoken to you openly when you came to see me. I was fully -acquainted with the depravity of this second but more fashionable -Colette, and I did not warn you of it while there was yet time. Yes, I -ought to have spoken--I ought to have opened your eyes and said: "Woo -this woman, win her and wear her, but do not love her." And I held my -peace. My only excuse is that I did not think her sufficiently -disinterested to enter into your life as she has done. I said to myself: -"He has no money, so there is no danger."' - -'Then,' cried René, who had scarcely been able to contain himself -whilst Claude was speaking of Suzanne in such terms, 'do you believe -this vile thing that Colette has told me of Madame Moraines and Baron -Desforges?' - -'Whether I believe it?' replied Larcher, gazing at his friend in -astonishment. 'Am I the man to invent such a story about a woman?' - -'When you have paid a woman attentions,' said the poet, uttering his -words very slowly, and in a tone of deepest contempt, 'attentions which -she has repulsed, the least you can do is to respect her.' - -'I!' cried Claude, 'I! I have paid Madame Moraines attentions? I -understand--this is what she has told you.' He broke into a nervous -laugh. 'When we put such things into our plays these harlots accuse us -of libelling them. Of libelling them! As if such a thing were possible! -They are all the same. And you believed her! You believed me, Claude -Larcher, to be such a villain as to dishonour an honest woman in order -to avenge my wounded pride? Look me well in the face, René. Do I look -like a hypocrite? Have you ever known me to act as one? Have I proved my -affection for you? Well--I give you my word of honour that this woman -has lied to you, like Colette. The hussies! And there was I dying of -grief, without a word of pity, because this woman, who is worse than a -prostitute, had accused me of this dirty thing. Yes--worse than a -prostitute! They sell themselves for bread--and she, for what? For a -little of the wretched luxury that _parvenus_ indulge in.' - -'Hold your tongue, Claude, hold your tongue!' cried René, in terrible -accents. 'You are killing me.' A storm of feelings, irresistible in its -fury, had suddenly burst forth within him. He could not doubt his -friend's sincerity, and this, added to the assurance with which Claude -had spoken of Desforges, forced upon the wretched lover a conviction of -Suzanne's duplicity too painful to endure. He could restrain himself no -longer, and, rushing upon his tormentor, seized him by the lapels of his -coat and shook him so violently that the material gave way. - -'When you tell a man such things about the woman he loves you must give -him proofs--you understand--proofs!' - -'You are mad!' replied Claude, disengaging himself from his grasp; -'proofs!--why, all Paris will give you them, my poor boy! Not one -person, but ten, twenty, thirty, will tell you that seven years ago the -Moraines were ruined. Who got the husband into the Insurance Company? -Desforges. He is a director of that company, as he is also a director in -the Compagnie du Nord, and a deputy and an ex-Councillor of State, and -Heaven knows what besides! He is a big man, this Desforges, although he -doesn't look it, and one who can indulge in all kinds of luxuries. Whom -do you always find in the Rue Murillo? Desforges. Whom do you meet with -Madame Moraines at the theatre? Desforges. And do you think the fellow -is a man to play at Platonic love with this pretty woman married to her -ninny of a husband? Such nonsense is all very well for you and me, but -not for a Desforges! Wherever are your eyes and ears when you go to see -her?' - -'I have only been to her house three times,' said René. - -'Only three times?' repeated Claude, looking at his friend. Emilie's -plaintive confidences on the preceding evening had left him no doubt -concerning the relations between Suzanne and the poet. René's imprudent -exclamation, however, opened his eyes to the peculiar character these -relations must have assumed. - -'I don't want to know anything,' he went on; 'it is an understood thing -that honour forbids us to talk of such women, just as if real honour did -not call upon us to denounce their infamy to the whole world. So many -fresh victims would then be spared! Proofs? You want proofs. Collect -them for yourself. I know only two ways of getting at a woman's -secrets--by opening her letters or having her watched. Madame Moraines -never writes--you may be sure of that. Put some one on her track.' - -'You are advising me to commit an ignoble action!' cried the poet. - -'Nothing is noble or ignoble in love,' replied Larcher. 'I have myself -done what I advise you to do. Yes, I have set detectives to watch -Colette. A connection with one of these hussies means war to the knife, -and you are scrupulous about the choice of your weapon.' - -'No, no,' replied René, shaking his head; 'I cannot.' - -'Then follow her yourself!' continued the relentless logician. 'I know -my Desforges. He's a character, don't you make any mistake. I made a -study of him once, when I was still fool enough to believe that -observation led to talent. This man is an astonishing compound of order -and disorder, of libertinism and hygiene. Their meetings are no doubt -regulated, like all else in his life,--once a week, at the same -hour,--not in the morning, which would interfere with his exercise,--not -too late in the afternoon, which would interfere with his visits and his -game of bézique at the club. Watch her. Before a week is over you will -know the truth. I wish I could say that I had any doubt concerning the -result of the experiment And it is I, my poor boy, who led you into this -mire! You were so happy here until I took you by the hand and introduced -you to that wicked world where you met this monster. If it hadn't been -she it would have been another. I seem to bring misfortune on all those -I love. But tell me you forgive me! I have such need of your friendship. -Come, don't say no!' - -Then, as Claude held out his hands, René grasped them fervently, and -sinking down into a chair--the same in which Suzanne had sat--he burst -into tears and exclaimed, 'My God, what suffering this is!' - - * * * * * - -Claude had given his friend a week. Before the end of the fourth day -René called at the Sainte-Euverte mansion in a state of such agitation -that Ferdinand could not repress an exclamation as he opened the door. - -'My poor Monsieur Vincy,' said the worthy man, 'are you going to kill -yourself with work like master?' - -Claude was seated at his writing-table in the famous 'torture-chamber,' -smoking as he worked, but, on seeing René, he threw down his cigarette, -and a look of intense anxiety came into his face as he cried, '_Mon -Dieu!_ What has happened?' - -'You were right,' replied the poet, in a choking voice, 'she is the -vilest of women.' - -'Except one,' remarked Claude bitterly, and, parodying Chamfort's -celebrated phrase, added, 'Colette must not be discouraged. But what -have you done?' - -'What you advised me to do,' replied René, in accents of peculiar -asperity, 'and I have come to beg your pardon for having doubted your -word. Yes--I have played the spy upon her. What a feeling it is! The -first day, the second day, the third day--nothing. She only paid visits -and went shopping, but Desforges came to the Rue Murillo every day. I -was in a cab stationed at the corner of the street, and when I saw him -enter the house I suffered agonies of torture. At last, to-day, about -two o'clock, she goes out in her brougham. I follow her in my cab. After -stopping at two or three places, her carriage draws up in front of -Galignani's, the bookseller's, under the colonnade in the Rue de Rivoli, -and she gets out. I see her speak to the coachman, and the brougham goes -off without her. She walks for a short distance under the colonnade, and -I see that she is wearing a thick veil. How well I know that veil! My -heart beat fast and my brain was in a whirl. I felt that I was nearing a -decisive moment. She then disappears through an archway, but I follow -her closely and find myself in a courtyard with an opening at the other -end, affording egress into the Rue du Mont-Thabor. I look up and down -the latter street. No one. She could not have had time to get out of -sight. I decide to wait and watch the back entrance. If she had an -appointment there she would not go out the same way she came in. I -waited for an hour and a quarter in a wine-shop just opposite. At the -end of that time she reappeared, still wearing her thick veil. The -dress, the walk, and the veil--I know them all too well to be mistaken. -She had come out by the Rue du Mont-Thabor. Her accomplice would -therefore leave by the Rue de Rivoli. I rush through to that side. After -a quarter of an hour a door opens and I find myself face to face -with--can you guess? Desforges! At last I have them--the proofs! Wretch -that she is!' - -'Not at all! Not at all!' replied Claude; 'she is a woman, and they're -all alike. May I confide in you in return--that is, make an exchange of -horrors? You know how Colette treated me when I begged for a little -pity? The other night I flogged her till she was black and blue, and -this is what she writes me. Read it.' And he handed his friend a letter -that was lying open on the table. René took it and read the following -lines: - - -'2 A. M. - -'I have waited for you till now, love, but you haven't come. I shall -wait for you at home all day to-day, and to-night after I come from the -theatre. I only act in the first piece, and I shall make haste to get -back. Come for the sake of our old love. Think of my lips. Think of my -golden hair. Think of our kisses. Think of her who adores you, who is -wretched at having given you pain, and who wants you, as she loves -you--madly. - - -'Your own COLETTE.' - - -'That's something like a love letter, isn't it?' said Larcher with a -kind of savage joy. 'It's more cruel than all the rest to have a woman -love you like that because you've beaten her to a jelly. But I'll have -no more to do with them--neither with her nor anyone else. I hate love -now, and I'm going to cut out my heart. Follow my example.' - -'If I could!' replied René, 'but it's impossible. You don't know what -that woman was to me.' And again yielding to the passion that raged -within him, he wrung his hands and broke into a fit of convulsive sobs. -'You don't know how I loved her, how I believed in her, and what I've -given up for her. And then to think of her in the arms of this -Desforges--it's horrible!' A shudder of disgust ran through him. 'If she -had chosen another man, a man of whom I could think with hatred or -rage--but without this feeling of horror! Why, I can't even feel jealous -of him. For money! For money!' He rose and caught hold of Claude's arm -frantically. 'You told me that he was a director of the Compagnie du -Nord. Do you know what she wanted to do the other day? To give me a few -good tips in shares. I, too, would have been kept by the Baron. It's -only natural, isn't it, that the old man should pay them all--the wife, -the husband, and the lover? Oh! if I only could! She is going to the -Opera to-night--what if I went there? What if I took her by the hair and -spat in her face, before all the people who know her, telling them all -that she is a low, filthy harlot?' - -He fell back into his chair, once more bursting into tears. - -'She occupied my thoughts every hour, every moment of the day. You had -told me to be on my guard against women, it is true. But then you were -beguiled by a Colette, an actress, a creature who had had other lovers -before you--whilst she---- Every line in her face swears to me that it -is impossible--that I have been dreaming. It is as if I had seen an -angel lie. And yet I have the proof, the undeniable proof. Why did I not -confront her there in the street, on the threshold of that vile place? I -should have strangled her with my hands, like some beast. Claude, my -dear fellow, how I wronged you! And the other! I have crushed and -trodden under foot the noblest heart that beat in order to get to this -monster. It is but just--I have deserved it all. But what can there be -in Nature to produce such beings?' - -For a long, long time these confused lamentations continued. Claude -listened to them in silence, his head resting on his hand. He too had -suffered, and he knew what consolation it gives to tell one's sorrow. He -pitied the poor youth who sat there sobbing as if his heart would break, -and the clear-sighted analyst within him could not help observing the -difference between the poet's grief and that which he himself had so -often felt under similar circumstances. He never remembered having -suffered this torture, even when hard hit, without probing his wounds, -whilst René was the picture of a young and sincere creature who has no -idea of studying his tears in a mirror. These strange reflections upon -the diversity of men's souls did not prevent him from sympathising most -deeply with his friend, and there was a note of true feeling in his -voice when he at last took advantage of a break in René's lament to -speak. - -'It is as our dear Heine said--Love is the hidden disease of the heart. -You are now at the period of inception. Will you take the advice of a -veteran sufferer? Pack up your traps and put miles upon miles between -you and this Suzanne. A pretty name and a well-chosen one! A Suzanne who -makes money out of the elders! At your age you will be quickly cured. I -am quite cured myself. Not that I know how and when it happened--in -fact, it amazes me! But for the past three days I have been rid of my -love for Colette. Meanwhile, I'm not going to leave you alone; come and -dine with me. We shall drink hard and be merry, and so avenge ourselves -upon our troubles.' - -After his fit of passion had spent itself René had fallen into that -state of mental coma which succeeds great outbursts of grief. He -suffered himself to be led, like one in a trance, along the Rue du Bac, -then along the Rue de Sèvres and the boulevard as far as the Restaurant -Lavenue at the corner of the Gare Montparnasse, long frequented by many -well-known painters and sculptors of our day. Claude led the way to a -_cabinet particulier_, in which he pointed out to René Colette's name, -scratched on one of the mirrors amidst scores of others. Rubbing his -hands, he exclaimed: 'We must treat our past with ridicule,' and ordered -a very elaborate meal with two bottles of the oldest Corton. During the -whole of the dinner he did not cease to propound his theories on women, -whilst his companion hardly ate, but sat lost in mental contemplation of -the divine face in which he had so fully believed. Was it possible that -he was not dreaming, and that Suzanne was really one of those of whom -Claude was speaking in terms of such contempt? - -'Above all,' said Larcher, 'take no revenge. Revenge in love is like -drinking alcohol after burning punch. We become attached to women as -much by the harm we do them as by that which they do us. Imitate me, not -as I used to be, but as I am now, eating, drinking, and caring as much -for Colette as Colette cares for me. Absence and silence--these are the -sword and buckler in this battle. Colette writes to me, and I don't -answer. She comes to the Rue de Varenne. No admission. Where am I? What -am I doing? She cannot get to know. That makes them madder than all the -rest. Here's a suggestion: To-morrow morning you start for Italy, or -England, or Holland, whichever you prefer. Meanwhile Suzanne thinks you -are piously meditating upon all the lies she has told you, but in -reality you are comfortably seated in your compartment watching the -telegraph poles scud past and saying to yourself, "We are on even terms -now, my angel." Then in three, four, or five days' time the angel begins -to get uneasy. She sends a servant with a note to the Rue Coëtlogon. -The servant comes back:--"Monsieur Vincy is travelling!" "Travelling?" -The days roll on and Monsieur Vincy does not return, neither does he -write--he is happy elsewhere. How I should like to be there to see the -Baron's face when she vents her fury upon him. For these equitable -creatures invariably make the one who stays behind pay for the one who -has gone. But what's the matter with you?' - -'Nothing,' said René, though Claude's mention of Desforges had caused -him a fresh fit of pain. 'I think you are right, and I shall leave Paris -to-morrow without seeing her.' - -It was on that understanding that the two friends separated. Claude had -insisted on escorting René back to the Rue Coëtlogon, and, as he shook -hands with him at the gate, said, 'I will send Ferdinand to-morrow -morning to inquire what time you start. The sooner the better, and -without seeing her, mind--remember that!' - -'You need not be afraid,' replied René. - -'Poor fellow!' muttered Claude, as he returned along the Rue d'Assas. -Instead of going towards his own home he walked slowly in the direction -of the cab rank by the old Couvent des Carmes, turning round once or -twice to see whether his companion had really disappeared. Then he -stopped for a few minutes and seemed to hesitate. His eyes fell upon the -clock near the cab rank, and he saw that it was a quarter-past ten. - -'The piece began at half-past eight,' he said to himself, 'and she's -just had time to change. I should be an ass to miss such a chance. -_Cocher!_' he cried, waking up the man whose horse seemed to have most -speed in him, 'Rue de Rivoli, corner of Jeanne d'Arc's statue, and drive -quickly.' - -The cab started off and passed the top of the Rue Coëtlogon. 'He is -weeping now,' said Claude to himself; 'what would he say if he saw me -going to Colette's?' He little thought that as soon as he had entered -the house René had told his sister to get out his dress suit. -Astonished at such a request, Emilie ventured upon an interrogation, but -was met with, 'I have no time to talk,' uttered in such harsh tones that -she dared not insist. - -It was Friday, and René, as he had told Claude, knew that Suzanne was -at the Opera. He had calculated that this was her week. Why had the idea -that he must see her again and at once taken such a firm hold upon him -that, in his impatience to be off, he quite upset both his sister and -Françoise? Was he about to put his threat into practice and insult his -faithless mistress in public? Or did he only wish to feast his eyes once -more on her deceptive beauty before his departure? On the occasion of -his visit to the Gymnase a week ago, after his interview with Colette, -his aim had been clear and definite. It was the outward similarity of -that visit with the step he was now taking that made him feel more -keenly what a change had come over him and his surroundings in such a -short space of time. How hopefully had he then betaken himself to the -theatre, and now in what mood of despair! Why was he going at all? - -He asked himself this question as he ascended the grand staircase, but -he felt himself impelled by some force superior to all reason or effort -of will. Since he had seen Suzanne leave the house in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor he had acted like an automaton. He took his seat in the -stalls just as the ballet scene from 'Faust' was drawing to a close. The -first effect produced by the music on his overstrung nerves was a -feeling of almost morbid sadness; tears started to his eyes and dimmed -his vision as he turned his opera-glasses upon Suzanne's box--that box -in which she had looked so divinely modest and pretty on the morrow of -Madame Komof's _soirée_, though not more so than she did now. - -To-night she was in blue, with a row of pearls round her fair throat and -diamonds in her golden hair. Another woman, whom René had never seen, -was seated beside her; she was a brunette, dressed in white, and wore a -number of jewels. There were three men behind them. One was unknown to -the poet, the other two were Moraines and Desforges. The unhappy lover -gazed upon the trio before him--the woman sold to this aged libertine, -and the husband who profited by the bargain. At least, René believed -that it was so. This picture of infamy changed his feelings of sadness -into fury. All combined to madden him--indignation at finding such ideal -grace in Suzanne's face when but that afternoon she had hurried home -from her disgusting amours, physical jealousy wrought to its highest -pitch by the presence of the more fortunate rival, lastly a kind of -helpless humiliation at beholding this perfidious mistress happy and -admired, in all the glamour of her queenly beauty, whilst he, her -victim, was almost dying of grief and unavenged. - -By the time that the ballet was over René had lashed himself into that -state of fury which in every day language is expressively styled a cool -rage. At such moments, by a contrast similar to that observed in certain -stages of madness, the frenzy of the soul is accompanied by complete -control of the nerves. The individual may come and go, laugh and talk; -he preserves a perfectly calm exterior, and yet inside him there is a -whirlwind of murderous ideas. The most unheard-of proceedings then seem -quite natural as well as the most pronounced cruelties. The poet had -been struck with a sudden idea--to go into Madame Moraines' box and -express to her his contempt! How? That did not trouble him much. All he -knew was that he must ease his mind, whatever the result might be. As he -made his way along the corridor, just then filled with the gilded youth -of Paris, he was so beside himself that he came into collision with -several people, but strode on unheedingly and without proffering a word -of excuse. On reaching the _ouvreuse_, he asked her to show him the -sixth box from the stage on the right. - -'The box belonging to Monsieur le Baron Desforges?' said the woman. - -'Quite right,' replied René. 'He pays for the theatre, too,' he -thought; 'that's only as it should be.' The door was opened, and in a -trice he had passed through the small ante-room that leads to the box -itself. Moraines turned round and smiled at him in his frank and simple -way. The next moment he was shaking hands with René in English fashion -and saying, 'How d'you do?' as though they were accustomed to meet every -day. - -Then, turning to his wife, who had witnessed René's entrance without -betraying the slightest surprise, he said, 'My darling, this is Monsieur -Vincy.' - -'I haven't forgotten Monsieur Vincy,' replied Suzanne, receiving her -visitor with a graceful inclination of her head, 'although he seems to -have forgotten me.' - -The perfect ease with which she uttered this phrase, the smile that -accompanied it, the painful necessity of shaking hands with this husband -whom he regarded as an accessory to his wife's guilt, and of bowing to -Baron Desforges as well as to the other persons present in the box--all -these details were so strangely out of keeping with the fever consuming -the poet that for a few moments he was quite taken aback. Such is life -in the world of fashion. Tragedies are played in silence, and amidst an -interchange of false compliments, an assumption of meaningless manners, -and an empty show of pleasure. Moraines had offered René a seat behind -Suzanne, and she sat talking to him about his musical tastes with as -much apparent indifference as if this visit were not of terrible -significance for her. - -Desforges and Moraines were talking with the other lady, and René could -hear them making remarks concerning the composition of the audience. He -was not accustomed to impose upon himself that self-control which -permits women of fashion to talk of dress or music whilst their hearts -are being torn with anxiety. He stammered forth replies to Suzanne's -words without the least idea of what he was saying. As she bent slightly -forward he inhaled the heliotrope perfume she generally used. It -awakened tender memories within him, and at last he dared to look at -her. He saw her mobile lips, her fair, rose-like complexion, her blue -eyes, her golden hair, her snow-white neck and shoulders over which his -lips had often strayed. In his eyes there was a kind of savage delirium -that almost frightened Madame Moraines. His bare coming had told her -that something extraordinary was taking place, but she was under the -watchful eye of Desforges, and she could not afford to make a single -mistake. On the other hand, the least imprudence on René's part might -ruin her. Her whole life depended upon a word or gesture of the young -poet, and she knew how easily such word or gesture might escape him. She -took up her fan and the lace handkerchief she had laid on the ledge of -the box, and rose. - -'It is too warm here,' she said, passing her hand over her eyes and -addressing René, who had risen at the same time. Will you come into the -ante-room? It will be cooler there.' - -As soon as they were both seated on the sofa she said aloud, 'Is it long -since you last saw our friend Madame Komof?' Then, in an undertone, -'What is the matter, love? What does this mean?' - -'It means,' replied René, in a suppressed voice, 'that I know all, and -that I am come to tell you what I think of you. You need not trouble to -answer. I know all, I tell you--I know at what time you went into the -house in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, at what time you left it, and whom you -met there. Don't lie; I was there--I saw you. This is the last time I -shall ever speak to you, but you understand--you are a wretch, a -miserable wretch!' - -Suzanne was fanning herself whilst he flung these terrible phrases at -her. The emotions they aroused did not prevent her from perceiving that -this scene with her enraged lover, who was evidently beside himself, -must be cut short at any price. Bending forward, she called her husband -from the box. - -'Paul,' she said, 'have the carriage called. I don't know whether it's -the heat in the house, but I feel quite faint. You will excuse me, -Monsieur Vincy?' - -'It's strange,' said Moraines to the poet, who was obliged to leave the -box with the husband, 'she had been so bright all the evening. But these -theatres are very badly ventilated. I am sure she is sorry at being -unable to talk to you, for she is such an admirer of your talent. Come -and see us soon--good-bye!' - -And with his usual energy he again shook hands with René, who saw him -disappear towards that part of the vestibule where the footmen stand in -waiting. The orchestra was just attacking the first bars of the fifth -act of 'Faust.' A fresh fit of rage seized the poet, and found vent in -the words which he almost shouted in the now deserted corridor: 'I will -be revenged!' - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR - - -Suzanne knew the Baron's eagle eye too well to imagine that the scene in -the box had entirely escaped him. How much had he seen? What did he -think? These two questions were of capital importance to her. It was -impossible to formulate any reply to them during the few minutes -occupied--she leaning on his arm and he supporting her as though he -really believed her to be ill--in passing from the box to the entrance -reserved for carriages. The Baron's face remained impenetrable and she -herself felt unable to exercise her usual faculties of observation. -René's sudden onslaught had inspired her with such terror and pain that -her indisposition had been a sham only to a certain extent. She had been -afraid that the poet, evidently beside himself, might create a scene and -ruin her for ever. At the same time her sincere and deep-rooted passion -had received a severe blow in this terrible insult and still more -terrible discovery. As she lifted up the train of her dress and -descended the steps in her blue satin shoes she shuddered as we -sometimes do when we escape from a danger which we have had the courage -to brave. A faint smile hovered upon her quivering lips, but her face -was ashy pale, and it was a real relief to her when she sat down in the -corner of her carriage with her husband by her side. Before him, at -least, there was no necessity to control herself. As the horses started -she bent forward to bow her adieux. A gas-lamp shed its light full upon -the Baron's face, which now betrayed his real thoughts. Suzanne read -them in a second. - -'He knows all,' she thought. 'What is to be done?' - -For a few moments after the carriage had gone Desforges still stood -there twirling his moustache--with him a sign of extraordinary -preoccupation. It being a fine night, he had not ordered his brougham. -It was his custom, when the weather was dry, to walk to his favourite -club in the Rue Boissy-d'Anglas from any place in which he had been -spending the evening--even if such place was some small theatre situated -at the other end of the boulevards. Whilst smoking his third -cigar--Doctor Noirot only allowed him three a day--he loved to stroll -through the streets of that Paris which he justly prided himself upon -knowing and enjoying as well as anyone. Desforges was no cosmopolitan, -and had a horror of travelling, which he called 'a life of luggage.' -This promenade in the evening was his delight. He utilised it for -'making up his balance'--that was his expression--for going over the -different events of the day, placing his receipts in one column and his -expenses in another. 'Massage, fencing, and morning ride,' were put down -in the column of receipts to the credit of his health. 'Drinking -burgundy or port'--his pet sin--'or eating truffles or seeing Suzanne' -went into the column of expenditure. When he had indulged in some -trifling excess that contravened his well-regulated lines of conduct he -would carefully weigh the pros and cons, and conclude by pronouncing -with the solemnity of a judge whether 'it was worth it' or 'not worth -it.' - -This Paris, too, in which he had dwelt since his earliest youth, always -awakened in him memories of the past. His cynicism went hand in hand -with cunning, and he practised only the Epicureanism of the senses. He -was a master in the art of enjoying happy hours long after they had -passed. In such a house, for instance, he had had appointments with a -charming mistress; another recalled to his mind exquisite dinners in -good company. 'We ought to make ourselves four stomachs, like oxen, to -ruminate,' he used to say; 'that is their only good point, and I have -taken it them.' - -But when the Moraines had driven away in their brougham on this mild and -balmy May evening he began his walk, a prey to most sad and bitter -impressions, although the day had been a particularly pleasant one until -René Vincy's entry in the box. Suzanne had not been mistaken. He knew -all. The poet's visit had struck him all the more forcibly since, that -very afternoon, on leaving the house in the Rue de Rivoli, he had found -himself face to face with the young man, who stared hard at him. 'Where -the deuce have I seen that fellow before?' he had asked himself in vain. -'Where could my senses have been?' he said, when Paul Moraines mentioned -René's name to Suzanne. The expression on the visitor's face had -immediately aroused his suspicions; when Suzanne went into the ante-room -he had placed himself so as to follow the interview from the corner of -his eye. Without hearing what the poet said, he had guessed by the look -in his eyes, the frown on his brow, and the gestures of his hands that -he was taking Suzanne to task. The feigned indisposition of the latter -had not deceived him for a single moment. He was one of those who only -believe in women's headaches when there is nothing to be gained by them. -The manner in which his mistress's hand trembled on his arm as they -descended the staircase had strengthened his convictions, and now, as he -crossed the Place de l'Opéra, he told himself the most mortifying -truths instead of going into his usual raptures before the vast -perspective of the avenue, but lately lighted by electricity, or before -the façade of the Opera, which he declared to be finer than Notre Dame. - -'I have been let in,' he said, 'and at my age, too! It's rather too -bad--and for whom?' All combined to render his humiliation more -complete--the absolute secresy with which Suzanne had deceived him, and -without arousing the slightest suspicion; the startling suddenness of -the discovery; lastly, the quality of his rival, a bit of a boy, a -scribbling poet! A score of details, one more exasperating than the -other, crowded in upon him. The forlorn and bashful look on the poet's -face when he had seen him on the day after Madame Komof's _soirée_; -Suzanne's inexplicable fits of abstraction, which he had scarcely -noticed at the time and her allusions to matutinal visits to the -dentist's, the Louvre, or the Bon Marché. And he had swallowed it -all--he, Baron Desforges! - -'I have been an ass!' he repeated aloud. 'But how did she manage it?' It -was this that completely floored him; he could not understand how she -had gone about it, even when René's attitude in the box left him no -doubt as to their relations. No, there was no possibility of doubt. - -Had Suzanne not been his mistress he would never have dared to speak to -her as he did, nor would she have allowed it. 'But how?' he asked -himself; 'she never received him at home, or I should have known it -through Paul. She did not see him out; he goes nowhere.' Once more he -repeated, 'I have been an ass!' and felt really angry with the woman who -was the cause of his perturbation. He had just passed the Café de la -Paix and had to brush aside two women who accosted him in their usual -shameless manner. 'Bah!' he exclaimed; 'they are all alike.' He walked -on for a few paces and saw that he had let his cigar go out. He threw it -away with a gesture of impatience. 'And cigars are like women.' Then he -shrugged his shoulders as it occurred to him how childishly he was -behaving. 'Frédéric, my dear fellow,' whispered an inner voice, 'you -have been an ass, and you are continuing the _rôle._' He took a fresh -cigar from his case, held it to his ear as he cracked it, and went into -a cigar-shop for a light. The havana proved to be delicious, and the -Baron, a connoisseur, thoroughly enjoyed it. 'I was wrong,' he thought; -'here is one that is not a fraud.' - -The soothing effect of the cigar changed the tenour of his ideas. - -He looked about him and saw that he had almost reached the end of the -boulevard. The pavement was as crowded as at midday, and the carriages -and cabs went hurrying by. The gas-lamps glinted upon the young foliage -of the trees in a fantastic manner, and on the right the dark mass of -the Madeleine stood out against the dark blue sky studded with stars. -This Parisian picture pleased the Baron, who continued his reflections -in a calmer frame of mind. 'Hang it all!' he cried; 'can it be that I am -jealous?' As a rule he shook his head whenever he was treated to an -example of that mournful passion, and would generally reply, 'They pay -your mistress attentions! But that is merely a compliment to your good -taste.' 'I, jealous! Well, that would be good!' - -When we have accustomed ourselves to play a certain part in the eyes of -the world for years together we continue to play it even when alone. -Desforges was ashamed of his weakness--like an officer who, sent out on -a night expedition, blushes to find himself afraid and refuses to admit -the presence of that feeling. 'It is not true,' he said to himself; 'I -am not jealous.' He conjured up a vision of Suzanne in René's arms, and -it tickled his vanity to feel that the picture, though not a pleasant -one, did not cause him one of those fits of intense pain that constitute -jealousy. By way of contrast, he recalled the poet's entry in the box, -his agitated manner, and the unconquerable frenzy that betrayed itself -in every lineament. There you had a really jealous man, exposed to the -full fury of that terrible mania. - -The antithesis between the relative calm he felt within him and his -rival's despair was so flattering to the Baron's vanity that for a -moment he was absolutely happy. He caught himself making use of his -customary expression, one he had inherited from his father, a clever -speculator, who had again had it from his mother, a fine Normandy woman -who had linked her fortunes with those of the first Baron Desforges, a -Prefect under the _grand empereur_, 'Gumption! Why should I be jealous? -In what has Suzanne deceived me? Did I expect her to love me with a love -such as this fool of a poet no doubt dreamt of? What could a man of more -than fifty ask of her? To be kind and amiable? That she has been. To -afford me an opportunity of spending my evenings agreeably? She has done -so. Well, what then? She has met a strapping youth, a bit wild, with a -fresh-looking complexion, and a fine pair of lips. As she couldn't very -well ask me to get him for her, she has indulged in a little luxury on -her own account. But, of the two of us, I should say that he is the -cuckold!' - -This reflection, so purely Gallic in form, occurred to him just as he -reached the door of his club. The plain language in which it had found -expression relieved him for a moment. 'That's all very well,' he -thought; 'but what would Crucé say?' The adroit collector had once sold -him a worthless daub at an exorbitant figure, and Desforges had ever -since entertained for him that mixture of respect and resentment felt by -very clever men for those who have duped them well. He drew a picture of -the small club-room and the cunning Crucé relating Suzanne's adventure -with René to two or three of his most envious colleagues. The idea was -so hateful to the Baron that it stopped him from entering the club, and -he walked away in the direction of the Champs-Elysées trying to shake -off its influence. 'Bah! Neither Crucé nor the others will know -anything of it. It's lucky after all that she didn't hit upon any of -these men about town.' He threw a glance at the club windows that looked -out upon the Place de la Concorde, and which were all lit up. 'Instead -of that she has taken some one who is not in Society, whom I never meet, -and whom she has neither patronised nor presented. I must do her the -justice to admit that she has been very considerate. Her trepidation, -too, just now, was entirely on my account. Poor little woman!' - -'Poor little woman!' he repeated, continuing his soliloquy under the -trees of the avenue. 'This beast is capable of making her repent her -caprice most bitterly. He seemed in a pretty rage to-night! What want of -taste and manners! In my box, too! What irony! If this good Paul were -not the husband I have made him, she would be a ruined woman. And then -he has discovered the secret of our meetings, and we shall have to leave -the Rue du Mont-Thabor. No--the fellow is impossible!' This was one of -his favourite expressions. A fresh fit of ill humour had seized him, -this time directed against the poet, but, as he prided himself upon -being a man of sense and upon his clear-sightedness, he suppressed it at -once. 'Am I going to be angry with him for being jealous of me? That -would be the height of folly! Let me rather think upon what he is likely -to do. Blackmail! No. He is too young for that. An article in some -paper? A poet with pretensions to sentiment--that won't be in his line. -I wonder whether his indignation will lead him to cast her off -altogether? That seems too good to be true. A young scribbler, as poor -as a church mouse, shall give up a beautiful and loving mistress, -surrounded by all the refinements of luxury, who costs him nothing! Get -out! But what if he asks her to break with me, and she is foolish enough -to yield?' He saw at once and clearly what disturbance such a rupture -would create in his life. 'Firstly, there would be the loss of Suzanne, -and where should I find another so charming, so sprightly, so accustomed -to my ways and habits? Then, again, I should have to find something to -do in the evenings, to say nothing of the fact that I have no better -friend in Paris than this excellent Paul.' To remove his fears -concerning these contingencies he was obliged to recapitulate the bonds -of interest that made him indispensable to the Moraines. 'No,' he -concluded, as he reached the door of his mansion in the Cours-la-Reine, -'he will not let her go, she will not give me up, and everything will -come right. Everything always comes right in the end.' - -This assurance and philosophy were probably not so sincere as the -Baron's vanity--his only weakness--would have him believe, and for the -first time in his life he got out of patience with his valet, a pupil of -his who for years had helped him to undress. Though he was still anxious -about the future, and more inwardly upset than he cared to admit, this -easy-going egoist nevertheless slept right off for seven hours, -according to his wont. Thanks to a life of moderate and continual -activity, to a careful system of diet, to absolute regularity in rising -and retiring, and, above all, to the care he took to rid his brain at -midnight of all troublesome thoughts, he had acquired such a fixed habit -of dropping off to sleep at the same hour that nothing less than the -announcement of another Commune--the most terrible calamity he could -think of--would have kept him awake. On opening his eyes in the morning, -his mind refreshed by his recuperative slumbers, all irritation was so -completely dispelled that he recalled the events of the preceding night -with a smile. - -'I am sure that _he_ has not done as much,' he said to himself, thinking -of the sleepless hours that René must have spent, 'nor Suzanne -either'--she had been so agitated--'nor Moraines.' An indisposition of -his wife's always turned that poor fellow upside down. 'What a fine -title for a play--"The happiest of the four!" I must take credit for its -invention.' His joke pleased him immensely, and when Doctor Noirot, -during the process of massage, had said to him, 'Monsieur le Baron's -muscles are in excellent condition this morning; they are as healthy, -supple, and firm as those of a man of thirty,' the sensation of -well-being abolished the last traces of his ill humour. - -He had now but one idea--how to prevent last night's scene from bringing -any change into his comfortable existence, so well adapted to his dear -person. He thought of it as he drank his chocolate, a kind of light and -fragrant froth which his valet prepared according to the precepts of a -master of the culinary art. He thought of it as he galloped through the -Bois on this bright spring morning. He thought of it as he sat down to -luncheon about half-past twelve opposite the old aunt whose duties -consisted of looking after the linen, the silver, and the servants' -accounts, until such time as she should be called upon to look after -him. He decided to adopt the principle of every wise policy, both public -and private--to wait! 'Better give the young man time to make a fool of -himself and slip away of his own accord. I must be very kind, and -pretend I have seen nothing.' - -Turning this resolve over in his mind, he made his way on foot to the -Rue Murillo about two o'clock. He stopped before the shop window of an -art dealer whom he knew very well, and his eyes fell upon a Louis XVI. -watch, its chased gold case set in a wreath of roses and bearing a -charming miniature. 'An excellent means,' he thought, 'of proving to her -that I am for the _status quo._' He bought the pretty toy at a reasonable -price, and congratulated himself upon its acquisition when, on entering -Suzanne's little _salon_, he saw how anxiously she had awaited his -coming. Her careworn look and her pallor told him that she must have -spent the night in concocting plans to get out of the dilemma into which -the scene with René had led her, and by the way in which she eyed him -the Baron saw that she knew she had not escaped his perspicacity. This -compliment was like balm to his wounded vanity, and he felt real -pleasure in handing her the case containing the little bauble with the -words, 'How do you like this?' - -'It is charming,' said Suzanne; 'the shepherd and shepherdess are most -life-like.' - -'Yes,' replied Desforges; 'they almost look as though they were singing -the romance of those days: - - -'I gave up all for fickle Sylvia's sake, -She leaves me now and takes another swain . . .' - - -His fine and well-trained tenor voice had once gained him some success -in the drawing-rooms, and he hummed the refrain of the well-known lament -with a variation of his own: - - -'Love's pangs last but a moment, -Love's pleasures last for life . . .' - - -'If you will place this shepherd and shepherdess on a corner of your -table, they will be better than with me.' - -'How you spoil me!' said Suzanne, with some embarrassment. - -'No,' replied Desforges, 'I spoil myself. Am I not your friend before -all else?' Then, kissing her hand, he added in a serious tone that -contrasted with his usual bantering accents, 'And you will never have a -better.' - -That was all. One word more and he would have compromised his dignity. -One word less and Suzanne might have believed him her dupe. She felt -deeply grateful for the consideration with which he had treated her--the -more so since that consideration left her free to devote her mind to -René. All her thoughts had been concentrated during her sleepless night -upon this one question--how to manage the one while keeping the other, -now that the two men had seen and understood each other? Break with the -Baron? She had thought of it, but how could it be done? She saw herself -caught in the web of lies which she had spun for her husband this many a -year. Their mode of life could not be kept up without the aid of her -rich lover. To break with him was to condemn herself to immediately seek -a new relationship of the same kind. On the other hand, to keep -Desforges meant breaking with René. The Baron, she had said to herself, -would never understand that in loving another she was not robbing him of -a whit of affection. Do men ever admit such truths? And now he was kind -and considerate enough not even to mention whatever he had noticed. -Never, even when paying the heaviest bills, had he appeared so generous -as at that moment, when, by his attitude, he allowed her to devote -herself to the task of winning back her young lover and the kisses she -neither could nor would do without. - -'He is right,' she said to herself when Desforges had gone; 'he is my -best friend.' And immediately, with that marvellous facility women -possess for indulging in fresh hopes on the slightest provocation, she -was ready to believe that matters would arrange themselves as easily on -the other side. As she lay at full length on the sofa, her fingers idly -toying with the pretty little watch, her thoughts were busied with the -poet and with the means she should employ to win him back. She must -examine the situation carefully and look it full in the face. What did -René know? This first point had been already answered by himself; he -had seen both her and the Baron come out of the house in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor. Now Desforges, from motives of prudence, never went out the -same way as she did. René must therefore know of the existence of the -two exits. Had he seen her leave her carriage and walk as far as the -entrance in the Rue de Rivoli. It was very probable. If chance alone had -brought him into contact with her first, and then with the Baron, he -could have drawn no conclusions from the double meeting. No, he must -have watched her and followed her. But what had induced him to do so? At -their last interview at the beginning of the week she had left him so -reassured, so full of love and happiness! There was only one thing that -could possibly have caused a revival of suspicion so violent as to lead -him to watch her movements--Claude's return. Once more a feeling of rage -against that individual came over her. - -'If it is to him that I owe this fresh alarm, he shall pay for it,' she -thought. But she soon returned to the real danger, which, for the -moment, was of more importance to her than her rancour against the -imprudent Larcher. The fact remained that in some way or other René had -detected the secret of her meetings with Desforges, and this evidently -caused him such intense pain that he had been compelled to fling his -discovery at her as soon as it was made. His mad conduct at the Opera -was but a proof of love, though it had nearly ruined her, and, instead -of her being angry with him for it, she only cherished him the more. His -passion was a sign of her power over him, and she concluded that a lover -who loved so madly would not be difficult to win back. Only she must see -him, speak to him, and explain her visit to the Rue du Mont-Thabor with -her own lips. She could say that she had gone to see a sick friend who -was also a friend of the Baron's. But what of the carriage sent back -from Galignani's? She had wanted to walk a little way. But the two -entrances? So many houses are built like that. She had had too much -experience of René's confiding nature to doubt that she would convince -him somehow or other. He had simply been overwhelmed at the moment by -proofs that corroborated his suspicions, and was probably already -doubtful and pleading with himself the cause of his love. - -Her reflections had carried her as far as this when her carriage was -announced. The desire to get René back had taken such a hold upon her, -and she was, moreover, so convinced that her presence would overcome all -resistance, that a bold plan suddenly occurred to her. Why should she -not see the poet at once? Why not, now that she had nothing to fear from -Desforges? In love quarrels the quickest reconciliations are the best. -Would he have the courage to repulse her if she came to him in the -little room that had witnessed her first visit, bringing him a fresh and -indisputable proof of love? She would say, 'You have insulted, -slandered, and tortured me--yet I could not bear to think you in doubt -and pain--and I came!' No sooner had she grasped the possibility of -taking this decisive step than she clung to it as if it were a sure way -out of the anguish that had tortured her since the preceding evening. -She dressed so hurriedly that she quite astonished her maid, and yet she -had never looked prettier than in the light grey gown she had chosen. -Without a moment's hesitation, she told her coachman to drive to the Rue -Coëtlogon. To that point had this woman, generally so circumspect and -so careful of appearances, come. - -'Just for once!' she said to herself as her brougham rolled along; 'I -shall get there quicker.' The ideas of worldly prudence had soon made -way for others. 'I wonder whether René is at home? Of course he is. He -is waiting for a letter from me, or for some sign of my existence.' It -was almost the same question she had asked herself and the same answer -she had given on the occasion of her first visit in March, two months -and a half before. By the difference in her feelings she could measure -the progress she had made since that time. Then, she had hastened to the -poet's dwelling in obedience to a violent caprice--but still only a -caprice. Now, it was love that coursed through her veins, the love that -thirsts for love in return, that sees nought else in the world but the -object it desires, and that would unflinchingly make for its goal under -the cannon's mouth. She loved now with all her body and soul; she had -proofs of it in her unreasonable impatience to get along still faster -and in her fears that the step she had taken might be in vain. Her -agitation was intense when the carriage stopped at the gate that barred -the entrance to the street. The latter, thanks to the trees whose -foliage overtopped the garden wall on the right, looked fresh and green -in the soft sunlight of this bright May afternoon. - -She had undoubtedly been less moved on the former occasion when asking -the _concierge_ whether M. Vincy was at home. The man told her that he -was in. She rang the bell, and, as before, the sound of it caused a -thrill to run through her from head to foot. She heard a door open and -light footsteps approaching. Remembering the heavy tread she had once -heard in the same place, she concluded that the person now coming to the -door was neither the maid nor René; the footfall of the latter she knew -too well. She had a presentiment that she was about to face her lover's -sister--the woman whose absence had favoured her former visit. She had -no time to think of the drawbacks of this unexpected incident, for -Madame Fresneau had already opened the door. Her face left Suzanne no -doubt as to her identity, so great was the resemblance between the -brother and sister. Neither had Emilie any hesitation in deciding who -the visitor was. The sight of René's fresh sufferings during the past -few days, added to the information she had gleaned from Claude, had -intensified her hatred towards Madame Moraines, and as she replied to -Suzanne's question she could not help giving her words a tone of bitter -and unconcealed hostility. - -'No, madame, my brother is not in.' Then, her sisterly affection -suggesting a way to avoid all further questions as to the time of -René's return, she added: 'He left town this morning.' - -The reply given her by the _concierge_ told Suzanne that this was a lie, -but she had no reason for believing the lie to be an invention of -Emilie's. She was obliged to believe, and did believe, that Madame -Fresneau was obeying the orders given her by her brother. She tried to -learn nothing further, a graceful inclination of her head in the very -best form being the only revenge she took for the almost rude manners of -the _bourgeoise._ Her outward calm, however, hid a great deal of -disappointment and real pain. She did not stop to ask herself whether -Emilie's strange behaviour was due to René's indiscreet confidences or -not. She merely said to herself, 'He does not wish to see me again,' and -that idea hurt her deeply. On reaching the street she turned to cast a -glance at the window of the room into which she had once made her way, -and remembered how, on that occasion, she had also looked round on -leaving, and had seen the poet standing behind the half-drawn blinds. -Would he not take up the same position to see her go when his sister -told him who had called? She stood waiting for five minutes, and the -fact of the blinds remaining down was a source of fresh grief to her. As -she got into her brougham she was as agitated as only a woman can be who -loves sincerely and who is obliged to be incessantly changing her plans. -After turning the matter over again and again, she, who never wrote, -decided to send the following letter: - - -Saturday, 5 o'clock. - -'Dear René,--I called at your house, and your sister told me you had -left town. But I know that is not true. You were there, only a few yards -away from me, in that room where every object must have reminded you of -my former visit, and yet you would not see me. You can surely have no -doubts of my sincerity on that occasion? Why should I have acted a lie? -I entreat you to let me see you, if it be only for a minute. Come and -read in my eyes what you swore never to doubt--that you are my all, my -life, my heaven. Since last night I am as one dead. Your horrible words -are continually in my ears. It cannot be you who spoke them. Where could -you have got that bitterness, almost akin to hatred? How can you condemn -me unheard on a suspicion for which you will blush when I have proved to -you how false it is? I ought, it is true, to be indignant and angry with -you, but my heart, dear René, contains only love for you, and a desire -to efface from your soul all that the enemies of our happiness have -engraved there. The step I took this morning, though contrary to all -that a woman owes herself, I took so cheerfully that, had you seen me, -you could have had no doubt respecting the sentiments that animate me. -Send me no answer. I feel even as I write how powerless a letter is to -describe the feelings of the heart. I shall expect you on Monday at -eleven in _our sanctuary._ It should be my right to tell you I demand to -see you there, for those accused have always the right to defend -themselves. I will only say, Come, if you ever loved, even for a day, -the woman who has never told you and never will tell you aught but the -truth. I swear it, my only love.' - - -When Suzanne had finished her letter she read it over. A lingering -instinct of prudence made her hesitate before signing it, but the -sincerity of her passion caused her to blush for her momentary weakness, -and, taking up her pen, she wrote her name at the bottom of this -faithful description of the strange moral condition into which she had -drifted. She lied once more in swearing that she spoke the truth, and -yet nothing was truer, more spontaneous, and less artificial than the -feelings which dictated the supreme deception that capped all the rest. -She summoned her footman, and, again scorning all ideas of prudence, -told him to give the letter--any single sentence in which would have -ruined her--to a commissionaire for immediate delivery. During the -thirty-six hours that separated her from the rendez-vous she had fixed -she lived in a state of nervous excitement of which she would never have -deemed herself capable. - -This woman, who had such perfect control over herself, and who had -entered upon this adventure with the same Machiavelian _sangfroid_ she -had maintained in all her Society relations for years, now felt -powerless to follow, or even to form, any kind of plan respecting the -attitude to be assumed towards her lover. She was to dine out that -night, but she went through the process of dressing in an absolutely -listless way--an unusual thing for her--and without even looking in the -glass. During the whole of the dinner she found not a word to say to her -neighbour, the ubiquitous Crucé, and her brougham had been ordered for -ten o'clock on the plea that she was still suffering from her -indisposition of the preceding evening. On her way home she paid not the -slightest attention to her husband's words; his very presence was -intolerable to her, for it was on his account, remaining at home as he -did on Sundays, that she had been obliged to put off her meeting with -René until Monday. Would the poet consent to come? How anxiously, as -the servant helped her off with her cloak, did she scan the tray on -which were placed the letters that had come by the evening post! The -poet's writing was not to be seen on any envelope. She spent the whole -of Sunday in bed, under pretext of a bad headache, but in reality trying -to think out some plan in case René refused to believe her story of a -sick friend as an explanation of her visit to the Rue du Mont-Thabor. - -But he would believe it. She could not admit to herself that he would -not; the supposition was too painful. Her fever of longing and suspense, -of hope and fear, reached its climax on Monday morning as she ascended -the stairs of the house in the Rue des Dames. If René were waiting for -her, hidden, as usual, behind the half-open door, it would prove that -her letter had conquered him, and in that case she was saved. But -no--the door was closed. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key in -the lock. She entered the first room and found it empty and the blinds -drawn. She sat down in the semi-darkness and gazed upon the objects that -recalled a happiness so recent and yet already so far away. There was -just the ordinary furniture of a modest drawing-room--a few arm-chairs -and a sofa in blue velvet, with antimacassars carefully hung at the -proper height. The handful of books René had brought were ranged in -perfect order on a well-dusted shelf, and the worthy landlady had even -taken care that the gilt clock, with its figure of Penelope, had been -kept going. - -Suzanne listened to the swing of the pendulum as it broke the silence in -the apartment. Seconds passed, then minutes, then quarters, and still -René did not come. He would not come now. As this fact dawned upon her -Madame Moraines, accustomed from her earliest youth to having all her -wishes gratified, was seized with a fit of real despair. She began to -weep like a child, and her tears fell faster and faster, unaccompanied -now by any thoughts of simulation. She felt a desire to write, but no -sooner had she found some paper in the blotting-book left by her lover -and dipped the pen in the ink than she pushed the things away, -exclaiming, 'What is the good of it?' To show that she had been there in -case René should come after she was gone she left behind her the -scented handkerchief with which she had dried her bitter tears. She -murmured to herself, 'He used to like this scent!' and by the side of -the handkerchief she laid the gloves that he had always buttoned for her -as she was going. Then, with a heavy heart, she left the room in which -she had been so happy. Could it be possible that those happy hours had -gone--and for ever? - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -ALL OR NOTHING - - -The Fresneau family were at dinner when the commissionaire delivered -Suzanne's letter. Françoise entered, holding the dainty envelope in her -great red hand, and the expression on René's face as he tore it open -sufficed to tell Emilie from whom the missive came. She trembled. The -sight of her brother's wild despair had emboldened her to refuse -admission to the unknown visitor whom she had instinctively recognised -as its undoubted cause, the dangerous woman Claude Larcher had spoken of -as the most wanton creature living. But to face René's anger and tell -him what she had done was beyond her strength, and she postponed the -unpleasant step from hour to hour. The look her brother gave her after -reading the letter made her drop her eyes and colour to the roots of her -hair. Fresneau, who was carving a fowl with rare ability--he had learnt -the art, a strange one for him, at his father's table in days gone -by--was so struck by the expression on his brother-in-law's face that he -sat staring at him with a wing stuck on the point of his fork. Then, -being afraid that his wife had noticed his surprise, he broke out into a -laugh and tried to excuse his momentary abstraction by saying, 'This -knife will cut butter.' - -His jocular remark was followed by a silence that lasted until dinner -was over--a silence threatening to Emilie, inexplicable to Fresneau, and -unperceived by René, who was almost choking and did not eat a mouthful. -Hardly had Françoise removed the cloth and placed the tobacco bowl and -the decanter of brandy on the table when the poet went off to his room, -after having asked the maid to light him a lamp. - -'He looks annoyed, doesn't he?' observed the professor. - -'Annoyed?' replied Emilie. 'Some idea for his play has probably occurred -to him, and he wants to put it into writing at once. But it's a bad -thing to work immediately after dinner--I'll go and tell him so.' - -Glad to have found some excuse, Emilie went into her brother's room. She -found him scribbling a reply to Suzanne's note in the twilight, without -even waiting for the lamp. He was no doubt expecting his sister to come -in, for he said roughly and in an angry tone; 'Oh, there you are! Some -one called to see me to-day, and you said I was out of town?' - -'René,' said Emilie, joining her hands, 'forgive me; I thought I was -doing right. I was afraid of your seeing this woman in your present -state.' Then, finding strength in the ardour of her affection to bare -her inmost thoughts, she went on, 'This woman is your evil genius----' - -'It seems,' cried the poet, with suppressed rage, 'that you still take -me for a child of fifteen. Am I at home here--yes or no?' he shouted, -bursting out. 'If I cannot do as I like, say so, and I'll go and live -elsewhere. I have had enough of this coddling, you understand. Look -after your son and your husband, and let me do as I like.' - -He saw his sister standing there before him pale and overcome by the -harsh words he had used. He was himself ashamed of his outburst. It was -so unjust to make poor Emilie atone for the pain that was gnawing at his -heart. But he was not in a mood just then for acknowledging himself in -the wrong, and, instead of taking in his arms the woman he had so -cruelly wounded in her most sensitive parts, he left the room, closing -the door behind him with a bang. He snatched up his hat in the -ante-room, and from the place where he had left her, trembling with -agitation, Emilie could hear him leave the house. - -The worthy Fresneau, who, after listening in amazement to René's -excited accents, had also heard the noise of his departure, now entered -the room to learn what had happened. He saw his wife standing there in -the semi-darkness like one dead. Seizing her hands, he cried, 'What's -the matter?' in such an affectionate tone that she flung her arms round -his neck and cried out amidst her sobs: - -'_Mon ami_--I have no one but you in the world!' - -She lay there weeping, with her head on her husband's shoulder, whilst -the poor fellow scarcely knew whether to curse or bless his -brother-in-law, his despair at his wife's grief and his joy at seeing -her fly to him for comfort being equally great. - -'Come, come,' he said, 'don't be silly. Tell me what has taken place -between you.' - -'He has no heart, he has no heart,' was all the answer he could get. - -'Nonsense, nonsense!' he replied, adding, with that clear-sightedness -which true affection brings to the dullest, 'He knows how much you love -him, and he abuses his knowledge--that's all!' - -Whilst Fresneau was consoling Emilie as well as he could, though without -getting her to divulge the secret of her quarrel with the poet, the -latter was striding along the streets a prey to a fresh attack of that -grief which had tortured his soul for the past twenty-four hours. -Suzanne had been right in thinking that a voice within him would plead -against what he knew--against what he had seen. Who that has loved and -been betrayed has not heard that voice which reasons against all reason -and bids us hope against all hope? Faith has gone for ever, but how -pleased we should be to find ourselves again at the stage of doubt! How -regretfully we then recall as some happy period the cruel days when -suspicion had not yet grown into horrible and unbearable certainty! - -René would have purchased with his blood the shadow of the shadow of a -doubt, but the more he dwelt upon all the details that had led to his -conviction the more firmly did that conviction take root in his heart. -'But if she had been paying a harmless visit?' hazarded the voice of -love. Harmless? Would she have concealed her destination from her -coachman? Would she have gone out by the other door, thickly veiled, -walking straight before her, but looking furtively about her just as she -did on leaving him? And then the appearance of Desforges almost -immediately after at the other entrance! . . . All the proofs brought -forward by Claude occurred to him one after another--the Society -rumours, the recent ruin of the Moraines, the post obtained for the -husband, the suggestion made to him by Suzanne for purchasing shares, -and her lies, now proved to be such. 'What more positive proofs can I -have,' he asked himself, 'except one?' And as the terrible vision of -Suzanne in the arms of her aged lover rose up before him he closed his -eyes in pain. Then came thoughts of her visit to the Rue Coëtlogon and -of the letter he had in his pocket. 'And she dares ask to see me? What -can she have to say? I will go, as she asks, and take my revenge by -insulting her as Claude insults Colette. . . . No,' he continued, 'that -would be degrading myself to her level; true revenge consists in -ignoring her. I shall not go.' - -He wavered between these two decisions, feeling quite powerless to make -up his mind, so intense was his longing to see Suzanne once more and so -sincere his resolution not to be duped again by her lies. His perplexity -became so great that he resolved to go and ask Claude's advice. Now only -did he begin to feel some surprise that this faithful friend had not -sent to inquire about him in the morning, as he had promised to do. - -'I'll go and call on him, although he'll probably not be in,' said René -as he bent his steps towards the Rue de Varenne. It was about half-past -ten when he rang the ponderous bell of the Sainte-Euverte mansion. There -was a light burning in one of the apartments occupied by Claude, who, -contrary to René's expectations, was not out. The poet found him in the -smoking-room, the first of the small set at the top of the stairs. A -lamp with a pink globe shed a soft light round the apartment, the walls -of which were adorned with a large piece of tapestry and a copy of the -'Triumph of Death' attributed to Orcagna. In a corner of the room the -bluish flame of a spirit lamp was burning under a small tea kettle; -this, with the two cups, a decanter of sherry, and some _bouchées au -foie gras_ on a china dish were proofs that the occupant of this quiet -abode expected a visitor. A bundle of small Russian cigarettes with long -mouthpieces--Colette's favourites--plainly revealed to René who that -visitor was. He would still have hesitated to believe his own eyes had -not Claude, in evident embarrassment, said, with a shamefaced smile: - -'After all, it's as well that you should know it--_canis reversus ad -vomitum suum._ Yes, I am expecting Colette. She is coming here after the -theatre. Do you object to meeting her?' - -'Candidly,' replied René, 'I prefer not to see her.' - -'And how do matters stand with you?' asked Claude. - -After the poet had briefly acquainted him with the present position, the -scene at the Opera, Suzanne's visit, and her request for a meeting, -Larcher rejoined: 'What can I say to you? Have I the right to advise -you, weak as I am myself? But does that really matter? I can see my own -follies clearly enough, although I am continually stumbling like a blind -man. Why, then, should I not see clearly for you, who have perhaps more -energy than I? You are younger, and have never stumbled yet. . . . It -comes to this. Have you resolved to become, like me, an erotic maniac, a -madman ruled only by sexual passion, and--worse than all--a wretch -sensible of his own degradation? Then keep this appointment. Suzanne -will give you no reasons, not one. Don't you see that if she were -innocent the very sight of you would be hateful to her after what you -have said? She came to your house. Why? To blind you once more with her -beauty. Now she summons you to the very place where you will be least -able to resist that beauty. She will say what women always say in these -cases. Words--and words--and words again. But you will see her, you will -hear the rustle of her skirts. And, believe me, there is no love-potion -so powerful as treachery! You will feel the truth of this when you -stifle her with savage and brutish embraces--and then, good-bye to -reproaches! Everything is forgotten. But what follows? You saw how brave -I was yesterday. See what a coward I am to-day, and say to yourself, -like the workman who sees his drunken comrade staggering helplessly -along, "That's how I shall be on Sunday!" If, after all, you feel unable -to do without her--if you must have her, as the drunkard must have his -wine--you will find solace in this cowardice, even though it kill you. -That solace I have found. Glut yourself with this woman's love. It will -rid you either of your love for her or of your self-respect. You will -learn to treat Suzanne exactly as I treat Colette. But remember what I -have told you to-night--it is the end of all. Talent I no longer -possess. Honour! What should I do with it, having forgiven what I have -forgiven? My poor boy,' he concluded in tones of entreaty, 'you can -still save yourself. You are at the top of the ladder that leads down to -the sewer--listen to the cry of an unhappy wretch who is up to his neck -in filth at the bottom. And now, good-bye, if you don't want to see -Colette. Why did she tell you what she did? You knew nothing, and where -ignorance is bliss---- Good-bye once more, old man. Think of me and pity -me!' - -'No,' said the poet, as he made his way home, 'I will not descend to -such depths.' For the first time perhaps since witnessing Claude's -unhappy passion he really understood the nature of his wretched friend's -malady. He had just discovered in himself feelings identical to those -which had made such an abject slave of Colette's lover--a mingling of -utter contempt and ardent physical longing for a woman justly tried and -condemned. Yes, in spite of all he had learnt he still desired -Suzanne--still desired those lips kissed by Desforges and all that -beauty which the hoary libertine had stained but not destroyed. It was -that fair white flesh that troubled his senses now--nought but that -flesh! To this had come his noble love, his worship of her whom he had -once called his Madonna. Claude was right: if he yielded to this base -longing but once, all would be lost. His loathing for the slough of -corruption in which his friend was helplessly struggling was so intense -that it gave him strength to say, 'I pledge myself not to go to the Rue -des Dames on Monday,' and he knew he would keep his word. - -Whilst Suzanne was undergoing the tortures of hope and despair in the -little blue _salon_ on the appointed morning René too was suffering -intensely, but it was in his own room. 'I won't go--I won't go!' he -muttered repeatedly. Then he thought of his friend, and he sighed 'Poor -Claude!' as he fully realised the position of the man who had been -beaten in the struggle in which he himself was now engaged. He pitied -himself whilst pitying Colette's victim, and this pity, as well as his -old and long-continued religious habits, aided his courage. For some -time now he had refrained from all observances, and had surrendered -himself to those doubts which all modern writers entertain more or less -before returning to Christianity as the sole source of spiritual life. -But even during the period of doubt the moral muscle, developed by -exercise in childhood and youth, continues to put forth its strength. In -his resistance to the most pressing calls of passion, the nephew and -pupil of the Abbé Taconet once more found this power at his service. -When the last stroke of twelve had died away he said to himself, -'Suzanne has gone home--I am saved.' - -Saved he was not, and his inability to follow Claude's advice to the -letter ought to have convinced him of this. Neither on the Monday nor -the following days could he summon up sufficient courage to leave the -city that contained the woman from whom he now both wished and thought -himself freed. He invented all kinds of shallow pretexts for remaining -in Paris. 'I am as far from her in this room as I should be in Rome or -Venice; I shall not go to her, and she will not come here.' In reality, -he was expecting--he scarce knew what. He only knew that his passion was -too intense to die in this way. A meeting would take place between -Suzanne and himself. How or where mattered little, but it would -certainly take place. He would not confess to this cowardly and secret -hope, but it had taken such hold upon him that he remained a prisoner in -the Rue Coëtlogon in hourly expectation of receiving another letter or -of finding himself the object of some last attempt. No letter came, no -attempt was made, and his heart grew heavier within him. - -At times this desire to see Suzanne once more--a desire he felt, but -would not admit--drove him to his writing-table, where he would sit and -indite page after page of the wildest sentiment to the abandoned -creature. His pent-up rage found vent in the mad lines in which he both -insulted and idolised her, and in which terms of endearment mingled with -words of hatred. Then Claude's piteous laments would re-echo in his -ears, and he would tear up the paper as he stifled an answering wail -that rose within him. He lay down at night with despair in his heart, -thinking of death as the only thing to be desired. He rose, and his -thoughts were unchanged. The bright days, so glorious in the budding -time of Nature, were to him intolerable, and his poetic soul longed for -the twilight hour and the darkness that matched so well the black night -in his heart. In the gloaming, too, he could find sweet solace in tears. -It was the hour that his poor sister feared most for him. They had -become reconciled on the very next day after their quarrel. - -'Are you still angry with me?' she had asked him, with that gentleness -of voice that betokens true affection. - -'No,' he replied; 'I was entirely in the wrong; but, unless you wish to -see me act so unjustly again, I entreat you never to re-open that -subject.' - -'Never,' she said, and she kept her word. Meanwhile she saw her brother -wasting away, his cheeks growing still thinner and a fierce light that -frightened her burning in his sunken eyes. It was for this reason, then, -that she generally chose the dangerous hour of twilight to come and sit -with him. One day Fresneau had gone to take Constant for a walk in the -Luxembourg; she herself had found some pretext for staying at home. She -took her darling brother's hand in hers, and this dumb caress made the -unhappy fellow feel inexpressibly sad. He returned her pressure without -a word, her benign and soothing influence controlling him until thoughts -of Desforges suddenly flashed across his brain. 'Leave me,' he said to -Emilie, and she obeyed him in the hope of easing his pain. As soon as -she was gone he buried his head in the pillows of the bed whilst -jealousy gripped his heart with relentless claws. Ah! the agony of it! - -How many days had he spent in this fashion? Scarcely seven, but in his -present sufferings they appeared to him an eternity. Looking at the -almanac on the morning of the eighth day, he saw that May was drawing to -an end. Although the pilgrimage he contemplated inspired him with -horror, the bourgeois habits of regularity that had animated him -throughout his life induced him to turn his steps once more towards the -Rue des Dames. There was the landlady's bill to be paid and notice of -leaving to be given her. He chose the afternoon for his visit, so as to -be sure of not meeting Suzanne. 'Just as if she had not already -forgotten me,' he said to himself. What were his feelings on finding not -only her handkerchief and gloves, but next to them a note she had left -there on a second visit addressed to 'M. d'Albert!' He tore it open, but -his hands shook so terribly that it took him quite five minutes to read -the few sentences it contained, many of the words, too, being half -effaced by tears. - -'I came back once more, my love! From the shrine of our passion, and in -the name of the memories it must contain for you as well as for me, I -entreat you to see me once again. Darling--will you not think of me here -without those horrible flashes of hatred I have seen in your eyes? -Remember what proofs of affection I have given you on the spot where you -are reading these lines. No! I cannot live if you doubt what is the one, -the only great truth of my life. I repeat once more that I am not angry -nor indignant--I am in despair; if you do not believe me it is because, -with my heart full of love and pain, I cannot stoop to artifice to make -you believe anything. Good-bye, my love! How often have I repeated these -words on the threshold of this room! And then I would add--_Au revoir!_ -But I suppose it must really be good-bye now, both on my lips and in my -heart--can it be good-bye for ever?' - -'Good-bye, my love!' repeated René, trying in vain to steel his heart. -The simple, loving words, the sight of the room, the thought that -Suzanne had come here without the hope of seeing him, and merely as a -pilgrim to the shrine of their past love--all contributed to work him up -to a pitch of frenzy, which he did his best to withstand. 'Her love!' he -cried, with a sudden outburst of fury, 'and she went to another--for -money! What a coward I am!' To escape the painful feelings he could not -banish he left the room hurriedly and rang Madame Raulet's bell. The -fair-spoken and accommodating landlady soon made her appearance, and led -the way into her own little parlour, furnished with the remaining -articles she could not get into the other. On his telling her that he -was giving up the apartments her face showed signs of real annoyance. - -'The bill is not quite ready,' she said. - -'I am in no hurry,' replied René, and, fearing a fresh attack of -despair if he returned to the room he had left, he added, 'I'll wait -here, if you don't mind.' - -Although he was in no observant mood, he could not help noticing that in -the twenty minutes she kept him waiting Madame Raulet had found time to -change her dress. Instead of the striped cotton wrapper in which she had -received him, she now wore a becoming evening dress of black grenadine. -The corsage consisted of bands of stuff alternating with lace -insertions, through which might be seen the fair neck and shoulders of -the coquettish widow. There was a brighter look in her eyes and a more -vivid colour in her cheeks than usual, and, laying the bill on the -table, she said: - -'Excuse me for having kept you waiting. I didn't feel very well. I have -such palpitations of the heart--feel!' Taking René's hand with a smile -that would not have deceived the simplest soul living, she placed it on -the spot where her heart should have been. - -She had suspected the rupture between the pseudo-d'Albert and his -mistress by the two solitary visits of Madame Moraines. The fact of -René giving up the apartments proved her suspicions to be correct, and -an idea of taking advantage of the rupture had suddenly entered her -head, either because the poet with his manly beauty really pleased her -or because she had an eye to pecuniary considerations she could not -afford to despise. She was by no means old and thought herself very -attractive. But on looking at her lodger as she carried his hand to her -side she saw in his eyes a look of such cool contempt and disgust that -she immediately loosed her hold of his fingers. She took up the bill, -the writing in which showed that it had been prudently made out -beforehand, and tried to cover her confusion by entering into profuse -explanations of this or that item in a highly inflated account which the -poet did not even stoop to verify. He handed her the sum he owed her, -half in paper, half in gold. The humiliating defeat of her amorous -attempt had not deprived her wits of their sharpness, for she examined -the notes by holding each one up to the light, and looked closely at -each of the gold pieces as she counted them. She even sounded one of the -coins that seemed a little light in weight, and, after a moment's -hesitation, said: 'I must ask you to let me have another for this.' - -The impressions produced by this shamelessness and sordid greed were so -well in keeping with the rest of René's feelings that during the -quarter of an hour it took him to carry the few things he had in the -three rooms to his cab he--to use the apt and expressive words of a -humourist--'was as merry as a mute going to his own funeral.' As the old -'growler' jolted along over the stones, carrying in its musty-smelling -interior the emblems of his happiness, his cruel merriment changed to a -fit of most abject melancholy. He recognised every inch of the way he -had so often trodden in the ecstasy of love, and which he would never -tread again. Dark and lowering clouds hung over the city. Since the -preceding evening there had been one of those unexpected returns of -winter to which Paris is frequently exposed about the middle of spring, -and which nip the young verdure with frost. As the cab crossed the -Seine, flowing darkly and drearily along, the unhappy man looked down -into the water and thought, 'How easy it would be to end it all!' - -After this movement of despair he felt in his pocket for Suzanne's -letter, as if to convince himself of the reality of his grief. He also -took out her handkerchief and inhaled its perfume--for some time; then -he gazed at her gloves, and saw in them the shape of the fingers he had -loved so well. He felt that he had exhausted all his energy in resisting -temptation, and as soon as he was alone in his room after this fresh and -painful crisis he cried aloud, 'I cannot bear it any longer!' - -Calmly, almost mechanically, he opened a drawer and took out of a -leather case a small revolver his sister had given him to carry in his -pocket when coming home late from the theatre. It was not loaded, and, -taking out a packet of cartridges, he weighed one in the palm of his -hand. Poor human machine, how little is required to bring you to a -standstill! He loaded the revolver and unbuttoned his shirt; then, -feeling for the place where his heart throbbed within him, he pressed -the barrel against it. - -'No,' he said, in a firm tone, 'not before I have tried.' - -These words were the outcome of an idea which had repeatedly entered his -mind, and which, repeatedly rejected as a crazy one, now took shape and -form with the precision our thoughts assume in moments of important -action. He put the revolver back in the drawer, and sitting down in his -arm-chair--Suzanne's arm-chair--he plunged into that abyss of tragic -thought in which visions stand out in bold relief, arguments follow on -each other with lightning rapidity, and desperate resolutions are -adopted. 'My love!' he repeated to himself, remembering the words of -Suzanne's letter. Yes, in spite of her lies, in spite of the play she -had acted--the innumerable scenes of which now passed through his -mind--in spite of her base connection with Desforges, she had truly and -passionately loved him. If that love were not sincere, then the story of -the past few months was perfectly unintelligible! What other motive -could have thrown her into his arms? It could not have been an -interested one. He was so poor, so humble, so utterly beneath her. -Neither was it the glory of enslaving a fashionable author, for she had -herself begged that their relations should be kept a secret. It could -not be vanity, for she had not stolen him from any rival, nor had she -held out long to give her conquest more value. No--monstrous as that -love might be, mingled as it was with corruption and deceit, there was -no doubt that she had loved him and that she loved him still. That soul -whose moral leprosy had struck him with horror was yet capable of some -kind of sincerity. There was still something within this woman better -than her life, better than her actions. René at length consented to -listen to the voice which pleaded for his mistress, and calmly and -dispassionately did he now weigh the crime of venality that had at first -so disgusted him. - -His visits to the Komof mansion and his intimate relations with Suzanne -had opened his eyes to a new world and initiated him into the mysteries -of the highest forms of luxury and refinement. The false notions of high -life which the unsophisticated _bourgeois_ poet had at first entertained -were soon dispelled by a more correct idea of the frightful extravagance -which fashionable existence in Paris involves. Now, whilst his love was -struggling for life and attempting to justify Suzanne, or at least to -understand her, to discover in her something to save her from utter -contempt, he began to see, thanks to his truer knowledge of the world, -the tragedy in which this woman had played a leading part. Claude had -summed up the situation briefly in these words: 'Seven years ago the -Moraines were ruined.' Ruined! That word was now synonymous in René's -ears with all the privation and humiliation it generally brings. Suzanne -had been brought up in luxury to lead a life of luxury. It was as -necessary to her as the air she breathed. Her husband had no doubt been -the first to urge her to adopt her sinful expedient--so at least did the -poet continue to judge poor Paul. Desforges had presented himself, and -she had sinned, but not from love. When at length love did come to her -could she break her chains? Yes--she could, by proposing to him, René, -that each should give up all that bound them here, and that they two -should go and live together for ever! - -'Give up all! . . . They two! . . . Live together!' He caught himself -uttering these words as in a dream. Was it too late? What if he went to -Suzanne now and offered to sacrifice all to their love, to wipe out all -the past except that love, and to bind up and identify with it their -whole being, their whole present, their whole future? What if he said: -'You swear that you love me, that this love is the one and only truth in -your heart. Prove it. You have no children, you are free. Take my life -and give me yours. Go with me, and I will forgive you and believe in -you. . . . I am going mad,' he said, suddenly bringing his mind to a -standstill as this idea presented itself so clearly that he could -actually see Suzanne listening to him. Mad? But why? The stories he had -read in his youth about the redemption of fallen women by love--an idea -of such sublime conception that it has attracted the greatest -writers--came back to him. Balzac's Esther, the most divine character of -an amorous courtesan ever painted, had often figured in his dreams of -long ago, and natures like his, in which literary impressions precede -those of life itself, never altogether lose the impress of such dreams. - -He loved Suzanne, and Suzanne loved him. Why should he not attempt to -save her, in the name of that sublime passion, from the infamy that -covered her, and try to drag himself away from the dark abyss of death -towards which he felt drawn? Why should he not offer her this unique -opportunity of repairing the hideous wretchedness of her fate? But -she--what answer would she make? 'I shall know then whether she loves -me,' continued René. 'Yes--if she loves me, how eagerly will she seize -this means of escaping from the horrible luxury to which she is chained! -And if she says no?' A thrill of terror shot through him at the thought. -'It will be time enough to act then,' he concluded. - -The whirlwind of passion let loose by the sudden conception of this plan -raged for nearly three hours. As his thoughts swayed hither and thither -the poet seemed unconscious of the fact that his mind was already made -up, and that the fluctuations only served to disguise from him the one -feeling that dominated all the rest--a furious longing, amounting almost -to a necessity, to have his mistress back. Even had this plan of -elopement been more irrational, more impracticable, and less likely to -succeed, he would have taken it up as the most reasonable, the easiest, -and most certain of success, simply because it was the only one that -reconciled the irrepressible ardour of his love with that dignity his -still unsullied honour would never compromise. - -'To action,' he said at last. He sat down to his table and wrote Suzanne -a note in which he asked her to be at home the next day at two o'clock. -He took the letter to the post himself, and immediately experienced that -relief which invariably follows upon some definite resolve. He who for a -whole week, and ever since his first wild fit of grief, had felt himself -unable to put forth the least energy, and incapable even of opening the -manuscript of his 'Savonarola,' at once set about preparing everything, -as if there could be no doubt what Suzanne's reply would be. He counted -out the money he had in his drawer; there was a little over five -thousand francs. That would suffice for the initial expenses. And -afterwards? He made a calculation of the amount to which he was entitled -out of the patrimony that had never been divided between Emilie and -himself. The great thing was to get over the first two years, during -which he would finish his play and have it staged. Immediately after -that he would publish his novel, which the success of his piece would -help on, just as one wave sweeps on another, and then would come his -collection of poems. A boundless horizon of work and of triumph seemed -to lie before him. Of what efforts would he not be capable, sustained by -the divine elixir of happiness and by the desire to provide Suzanne with -that luxury she would have sacrificed for him? When his sister entered -his room she surprised him arranging his papers, putting his books in -order, and sorting some prints. - -'What are you doing?' she asked. - -'You can see that,' he replied, 'I'm getting ready to go.' - -'To go!' - -'Yes,' he rejoined; 'I think of going to Italy.' - -'When?' asked Emilie in astonishment. - -'Most probably the day after to-morrow.' - -He meant what he said. He had calculated that Suzanne would require -about twenty-four hours for her preparations if she decided to go. If -she decided to go! The mere possibility of his attempt failing caused -him such pain that he did not care to dwell upon it. Since the scene at -the Opera, when he had left her pale and crushed in the semi-darkness of -the private box, he had imposed almost superhuman restraint upon himself -by stemming the torrent of passionate longing within him. The hope so -suddenly conceived was a kind of breach through which the torrent swept -with such unrestrained and violent fury that it overturned and carried -away all before it. In his madness René even went so far as to look at -some trunks in two or three shops in the Rue de la Paix. Since the -departure from Vouziers no one in the Vincy family had left Paris, even -for twenty-four hours. The only articles in the Rue Coëtlogon that -could hold anything were two old worm-eaten coffers and three leather -portmanteaus falling to pieces from age. These preparations, which lent -an appearance of reality to the poet's dreams, cheated the fever of -suspense until the hour of his appointment. The illusion in which he had -indulged had been so strong that he did not realise his actual position -until he stood in the little _salon_ in the Rue Murillo. Nothing had yet -been achieved. - -'Madame will be here in a moment,' the servant had said, leaving him -alone in the room. He had not been there since the day when he read his -choicest verses to her whom he then regarded as a Madonna. Why did she -keep him waiting for full five minutes in this place that must awaken in -him so many recollections? Was it yet another ruse on her part? -Recollections did indeed rise up before him, but produced an effect -totally different from that anticipated by Suzanne. The elegance of -these surroundings, once so much admired, now inspired him with horror. -An atmosphere of infamy seemed to hang over all these objects, many of -which had no doubt been paid for by Desforges. The horror he felt -intensified his desire to drag the woman he loved away from her misery, -and when she appeared on the threshold it was not love that she read in -his eyes, but a fixed and determined look of resolve. - -What resolve? Of the two she was undoubtedly the most agitated and least -under control. Her long white lace robe lent a sickly hue to her face, -already drawn and haggard by the trouble she had lately undergone. There -had been no necessity for her to pencil her eyes--a custom practised by -actresses of the drawing-room as well as by those of the stage--nor of -studying the movement with which, at sight of René, she brought her -hand to her heart and leant against the wall for support. At the first -glance she saw that she had a hard battle to fight, and she feared the -result. There fell upon the two lovers one of those spells of silence so -awful in their solemnity that in them we seem to hear the flight of -destiny! - -The silence became unbearable to the unhappy woman, and she broke it by -saying in a low tone, 'René, how you have made me suffer!' Then, -rushing forward in her mad state of agitation, she took hold of his two -hands, and, throwing herself upon him, sought his lips for a kiss. But -he had the strength to shake her off. - -'No,' he said, 'I won't.' - -Wringing her hands, she cried in distress, 'Then you still believe in -those vile suspicions! You did not come, and you condemned me unheard! -What proofs had you? That you saw me leave a certain house! Not a single -doubt in my favour--not one out of twenty suppositions that might have -pleaded for me! What if I tell you that a friend of mine living in that -house was ill, and that I had been to call on her? What if I tell you -that the presence of the other person whose sight drove you mad was due -to the same cause? Shall I swear it by all I hold most sacred, by----' - -'Don't swear,' exclaimed René in harsh tones, 'I shouldn't believe -you--I don't believe you.' - -'He does not believe me even now--my God! What shall I do?' She paced up -and down the room, repeating, What shall I do? What shall I do?' - -During the whole of that week she had been tormented by the thought that -he might be so thoroughly exasperated as not to believe her. If but a -single suspicion were left him she was lost. He would follow her again -or have her watched. He would know that she met Desforges every time she -visited her imaginary friend, and the whole thing would begin over -again. What, then, was the use of going on with her lies? She had had -enough of it all. Now that her heart was stirred by the sincerest of -passions she felt a desire to tell her lover the truth--the whole truth, -and, while telling him, to convince him of the depth of her love. He -must be made to hear the cry that came from her heart, and made to -believe it. - -Almost beside herself, she commenced her story. - -'It is true--I lied to you. You want to know all--you shall know all.' - -She stopped for a moment and passed her hands wildly over her face. No, -no! She felt incapable of making this confession. He would despise her; -and inventing, as she went on, a kind of incoherent compromise between -her desire to unbosom herself and the fear of repelling René, she began -again. - -'It is a horrible story. My father died. There were letters to get back -with which his enemies might have blackened his memory. This required -money--a good deal. I had none. My husband stood aloof. Then this man -came. I lost my head, and once he had me in his grasp he would not let -me go. Ah! can you not understand that I lied only to keep you?' - -René had been watching her as these hurried words fell from her lips. -The story of rescuing her father's honour he knew to be a fresh lie, but -her last cry, uttered with almost savage ardour, had the ring of truth -in it What mattered to him all the rest? He would know by her answer -whether this love, the only sincerity to which she now laid claim, was -strong enough to triumph over all else. - -'So much the better!' he replied. 'Yes, so much the better if you are -the slave of a wretched past that weighs you down! So much the better if -your subjection to this man causes you such horror! You say that you -have loved me--that you still love me, and that you lied only to keep -me? I now, offer you an opportunity of giving me such proofs of that -love as will put an end to all my doubts. - -'I ask you to efface the past for ever and with one stroke. I too love -you, Suzanne--ah! how tenderly! Do not ask me what my feelings were on -learning what I have learnt, on seeing what I have seen. If it has not -killed me, it is because we do not die of despair. I am ready to forgive -all, to forget all, provided I know of a certainty that you really love -me. I am free, and, since you have no children, you too are free. I am -ready to give up everything for you, and I have come to ask you whether -you are ready to do the same. We will go wherever you like--to Italy, to -England, to any country where we shall be sure of finding no traces of -your past life. That past I will blot out; my belief in your love will -give me strength to do this. I shall say to myself: "She did not know -me; but as soon as I bared my heart there was nothing that could -withstand her love." To accept the present horrible state of things is -impossible. To see you coming to me stained by this man's caresses--or -even, if you should break with him, to doubt the reality of the rupture, -and to reassume the degrading _rôle_ of a spy I have already -played--no, Suzanne, do not ask it of me! We have reached that point -when we must be all or nothing to each other--either absolute strangers -or lovers who find in their love compensation for the loss of family, -country, and the whole world. It is for you to choose.' - -He had spoken with the concentrated energy of a man who has sworn to -carry out what he has in his mind. Mad as the proposal seemed in the -eyes of a woman accustomed only to such forms of passion as are -compatible with the laws and usages of social life, Suzanne did not -hesitate for a moment. René had spoken in all sincerity, but in doing -so had given proofs of such deep-rooted affection that she had no doubt -as to her final triumph over the rebellious and mad schemes of the poet. - -'How good you are to talk to me like that!' she replied with a thrill of -joy. 'How you love me! How you love me!' In uttering these words she -hung her head a little, as if the happiness brought her by these proofs -were almost too much to bear. 'God! how sweet this is!' she murmured. - -Then, approaching him once more, she took his hand, almost timidly this -time, and held it tightly clasped in her own. - -'Child that you are, what is it you offer me? If it were only a question -touching myself, how gladly I would say, "Take all my life," and deserve -little praise for doing so! But how can I accept the sacrifice of yours? -You are twenty-five years old and I am more than thirty. Close your -eyes, and look at us in ten years' time. I shall be an old woman, whilst -you will still be a young man. What then? And what about your work--that -art to which you are so attached that it makes me quite jealous? Why -should I hide it from you now? You must be in Paris to be able to write. -I should see you pining away beside me. I should see you, an unwilling -slave, bestowing affection upon me out of pity and from a sense of duty. -No--I could not bear it! My love, lay aside this mad plan and say that -you forgive me without it--say it, René, I implore you!' - -Whilst speaking she had nestled closer to the poet, and now hung her -arms about his neck, seeking his lips with hers. An intense desire to -fold her in his arms came over him, but it was drowned in the disgust he -felt at her lasciviousness. - -Seizing her by the wrist, he flung her from him, shouting in his fury, -'Then you refuse to come--tell me once more you refuse to come!' - -'René, I entreat you,' she went on, with tears in her voice and in her -eyes, 'do not cast me off! Since we love each other, let us be happy. -Take me as I am, with all the wretchedness of my life. It is true--I -love luxury, I love gaiety, I love the Paris you hate. I shall never -have the courage to break my bonds and give all this up. Take me for -what I am, now that you know all, now that you feel I am speaking the -truth when I swear I love you as I have never loved before. Keep me! I -will be your slave, your thing! When you call me, I will come. When you -drive me away, I will go. Do not look at me with such eyes, I implore -you--let your heart be softened! When you came to me, did I ask you -whether you had another mistress? No; I had but one wish--to make you -happy. Can you reproach me for having kept all the misery of my life -from you? Look at me--I kneel before you and beseech you----' - -She had, indeed, thrown herself at his feet. She took no heed of -prudence now, nor of the possibility of a servant entering the room. -Clinging to his garments, she dragged herself about on her knees. Never -had she looked so beautiful as when, with eyes aglow and her face -burning with all the fire of passion, she at length laid aside the mask -and proclaimed herself the sublime courtesan she had always been. -René's senses were in a state of wild commotion, but a cruel -reminiscence flashed across his brain, and he flung his words at her -with an insulting sneer-- - -'And what about Desforges?' - -'Don't speak of him,' she moaned, 'don't think of him! If I could get -rid of him or forbid him the house, do you think I should hesitate? -Don't you understand what a hold he has upon me? My God! My God! It is -not right to torture a woman like this! No,' she added, in a dull, -despairing tone, still on her knees, but now immovable and with hanging -head, 'no, I can bear it no longer!' - -'Then accept my offer,' said René; 'there is still time. Let us fly -together.' - -'No,' she replied, in accents of still greater despair, 'no; I can't do -that either. It would be so easy to make a promise and break it. But I -have already lied too much.' She rose. The crisis through which she had -passed was beginning to react upon her nerves, and she repeated wearily, -'I can't do that either--I can't.' - -'What, then, do you want?' he cried in tones of fury. 'Why were you on -your knees just now? A toy--a plaything--is that what you want me to be? -A young man whose caresses would compensate you for those of the -_other!_' His anger carried him away, and the brutal words almost led to -deeds. He strode towards her with uplifted fist and with an expression -so terrible that she thought he was going to kill her. She drew back, -pale with fear, and with outstretched hands. - -'Forgive me, forgive me!' she cried in her distraction. 'Don't hurt me!' - -She had taken shelter behind a table upon which, amongst other trifles, -there stood the photograph of the Baron in a plush frame. In struggling -with the horrible temptation to strike this defenceless woman René had -turned his eyes from her. As they fell upon the portrait he broke out -into a hideous laugh. Taking up the frame, he seized Suzanne by the hair -and rubbed the portrait violently over her lips and face, at the risk of -cutting her, continuing his frantic laughter all the time. - -'Here,' he cried, 'here is your lover! Look at him--your lover!' - -He threw the frame upon the floor, and crushed it with his heel. But no -sooner had he committed this mad action than he was ashamed of it. For -the last time he looked at Suzanne as, with dishevelled hair and staring -eyes, she stood in a corner overcome with fear--then without a word he -left the room, and she had not the strength to utter a syllable to -retain him. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THE ABBÉ TACONET - - -Two days after this terrible scene Claude Larcher was standing on the -balcony of Colette's rooms, which overlooked the Tuileries gardens. It -was about two in the afternoon, and there had been a return of glorious -spring weather, bringing a bright blue sky and warm May breezes. Claude -had spent several days with Colette. The two lovers had been seized with -one of those revivals of passion which are all the more ardent and -vehement on account of the memories of past quarrels and the certainty -of others to come. Larcher was reflecting upon this curious law of love -as he watched the smoke of his cigar curling up in thin blue wreaths in -the sunshine. Then he looked down upon the line of carriages in the -street and the crowd of promenaders under the scanty foliage of the -gardens. - -He was astonished at the state of perfect felicity into which these few -days of indulgence had plunged him. His painful jealousy, his legitimate -anger, his feelings of degradation--all had passed away since Colette -had acted in accordance with his wishes and closed her door to Salvaney. -This would not last, he knew full well, but the presence of this woman -was to him such complete happiness that it allayed his fears for the -future as it effaced his rancour for the past. He smoked his cigar -slowly and peacefully, turning round every now and then to look at -Colette through the open window as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, -dressed in a Chinese gown of pink satin embroidered with gold--a -duplicate of the one in her dressing-room at the theatre. Swinging -herself to and fro, she slipped her dainty feet in and out of her -embroidered morocco leather slippers, displaying, as she did so, a pair -of pink silk stockings to match her dress. - -The room in which she sat was filled with flowers. The walls were -covered with souvenirs of an artist's life--water-colour drawings of -scenes in the green-room, tambourines won in cotillons, photographs, and -wreaths. A small white Angora kitten, with one eye blue and the other -black, was lying on its back playing with a ball whilst Colette -continued rocking herself--now smiling at Claude between the puffs at -her Russian cigarette, now reading a newspaper she held in her hand, and -all the time humming a charming ballad of Richepin's recently set to -music by a foreign composer named Cabaner. - - -'One month flies by, another comes, -And time runs like a hare----' - - -'_Mon Dieu!_' murmured the writer as he listened to the couplets of the -only poet of our time who has been able to compete successfully with the -divine _Chansons populaires_--'these lines are very fine, the sky is -very blue, my mistress is very pretty. To the deuce with analysis!' - -The actress interrupted this placid soliloquy of her contented lover -with a cry of alarm. She had risen from her chair and was holding the -paper with a trembling hand. After having, according to her wont, looked -over the contents of the third page, where the theatrical news are -chronicled, she had turned to the second and then to the first. It was -there she had just read what had so upset her, for she stammered, as she -handed Claude the paper-- - -'It is horrible!' - -Claude, terrified by her sudden and intense agitation, took the paper -and read the following lines under the heading, 'Echos de Paris:' - -'As we go to press we hear of an event that will cause much grief and -consternation in the literary world. M. René Vincy, the successful -author of the "Sigisbée," has made an attempt to commit suicide in his -rooms in the Rue Coëtlogon by discharging a revolver in the region of -his heart. In order to remove the fears of M. Vincy's numerous admirers, -we hasten to add that the attempt will have no fatal results. Our -sympathetic _confrère_ is indeed grievously wounded, but the ball has -been extracted, and the latest news are most reassuring. Much -speculation is indulged in concerning the motive of this desperate act.' - -'Colette!' cried Claude, 'it is you who killed him!' - -'No, no!' moaned the actress wildly; 'it can't be. He won't die. You -see, the paper says he is better. Don't say that! I should never forgive -myself. How was I to know? I was so mad with you--you had behaved so -cruelly that I would have done anything to be revenged. But you must go -to him--run! Here is your hat, your gloves, your stick. Poor little -René! I will send him some flowers; he was so fond of them. And do you -think it is on account of that woman?' - -As she spoke--her incoherent sentences betraying both her customary -puerility and the real good feeling she possessed in spite of all--she -had dressed Larcher and pushed him towards the door. - -'And where shall I find you?' he asked. - -'Fetch me here at six o'clock to go and dine in the Bois. _Mon Dieu!_' -she added, 'if I hadn't these two appointments with the milliner and the -dressmaker, I would go with you. But I must see them.' - -'Do you still want to go and dine in the Bois?' said Claude. - -'Don't be unkind,' she replied, giving him a kiss; 'it is such fine -weather, and I do so want to dine out in the open.' With these words -closed a scene which described the actress to a nicety, with her sudden -transitions from sincerest grief to a most passionate love of pleasure. - -Larcher kissed her in return, though despising himself in a vague kind -of way for being so indulgent to her least whims even now after hearing -of a catastrophe that touched him so closely. Rushing out of the room, -he flew down the stairs four at a time, jumped into a cab, and at the -end of fifteen minutes found himself before the gate in the Rue -Coëtlogon through which he had passed but a few months since. - -All that had struck him so forcibly then suddenly came back to him -now--the frowning sky, the pale moon sailing amid the swift-scudding -clouds, and the strange presentiment that had chilled his heart. Now the -bright May sunshine filled the heavens with light, and the narrow strip -of garden in front of the house was decked with green. The air of spring -that hung over the peaceful abode was an excellent presentment of what -René's life had long been, and what it would have remained if he had -never met Suzanne. Who had been the indirect author of that meeting? In -vain did Claude try to shake off his remorse by saying, 'Could I foresee -this catastrophe?' He had foreseen it. Nothing but evil could result -from the poet's sudden transplantation to a world of luxury in which -both his vanity and sensuality had been drawn to the surface. The worst -had come to pass--by a terrible run of ill luck, it is true. But who had -provoked that ill luck? The answer to that question was a cruel one for -a true friend, and it was with a heavy heart that Claude walked up to -the house in which formerly there had dwelt naught but simplicity, -honest labour, and a pure and noble love. - -How many deadly stings had entered it since then, and what an infinity -of grief! This came home to him once more on seeing the maid's agitated -face and on hearing the sobs which burst from her as she opened the door -and recognised the visitor. Wiping her eyes with the corner of her blue -apron, she let loose a flow of words thickly sprinkled with her own -_patois._ - -'_Ah! l'la faut-i! Mon bon monsieur!_ To try and kill himself like -that--a child I've known as tender and as gentle as a girl! _Jésus, -Marie, Joseph!_ Come in, Monsieur Claude, you will find Madame Fresneau -and Mademoiselle Rosalie in the _salle-à-manger._ Monsieur l'Abbé -Taconet is with _him!_ - -Emilie and Rosalie were together in the room in which Claude had so -often been welcomed by a charming family picture. The doctor had -evidently just gone, for there was a strong smell of carbolic acid, like -that left by rebandaging. A bottle bearing a red label was standing on -the table with a saucer beside it, and close by lay a small heap of -square pieces of cotton. A packet of linen bandages, some strips of -plaster, a pot of ointment labelled red like the bottle and covered with -tinfoil, some nursery pins, and a stamped prescription gave the room the -appearance of a hospital ward. Emilie's pallor revealed more than words -what she had gone through during the past forty-eight hours. The sight -of Claude produced the same effect upon her as upon Françoise. His mere -presence recalled to her the old days when she had been so proud of her -René. - -She burst into tears, and, giving him her hand, said: 'You were right!' - -Rosalie had darted a look at the visitor charging him as plainly as -possible with René's attempted suicide. Her eyes expressed such deep -hatred and their meaning was so fully in keeping with Claude's secret -remorse that he turned his own eyes away, and asked, after a moment's -silence, 'Can I see him?' - -'Not to-day,' replied Emilie, 'he is so weak. The doctor fears the least -excitement.' She added, 'My uncle will tell you how he is now.' - -'When did this happen? I only heard of it from the papers.' - -'Has it got into the papers?' said Emilie. 'I tried so hard that it -should not.' - -'A few lines of no importance,' replied Claude, guessing the truth from -Rosalie's sudden change of colour. Old Offarel had a young man under him -in the War Office who was connected with the Press, and whom Larcher -knew. The _sous-chef_ had no doubt been gossiping, and his daughter had -already got to hear of it. Larcher made an attempt to gain fresh favour -in Rosalie's eyes by allaying Madame Fresneau's suspicions. 'The -reporters ferret out everything,' he said; 'no one who is the least bit -known can escape them. But,' he continued, 'what are the details?' - -'He came home the day before yesterday about four o'clock, and I saw at -once by his face that there was something wrong with him. I had, -however, been so accustomed to see him look sad of late that it did not -strike me very much. He had told me that he was going to Italy on a long -tour. I said to him: "Do you still intend going to-morrow?" "No," he -replied, and, taking me in his arms, held me there for some time, whilst -he sobbed like a child. I asked him what was the matter. "Nothing," he -said; "where is Constant?" His question surprised me. He knew that the -boy never comes home from school before six o'clock. "And Fresneau?" he -added. Then he drew a deep sigh and went into his room. I stood there -for five minutes debating with myself--I thought that perhaps I ought -not to leave him alone. At last I began to get frightened--he is so -easily led away in his fits of despair. And then I heard the report--I -shall hear it all my life!' - -She stopped, too agitated to go on, and, after another storm of tears -had spent itself, Claude asked, 'What does the doctor say?' - -'That he is out of danger, unless some unforeseen complication sets in,' -replied Emilie; 'he has explained to us that the trigger of the -revolver--it was I who gave it him!--was somewhat hard to pull. The -pressure that he brought to bear upon it must have altered the direction -of the ball; it passed through the lung without touching the heart, and -came out on the other side. At twenty-five! _Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ What a -terrible thing! No--he does not love us; he has never loved us!' - -Whilst she was thus lamenting and laying bare a heart suffering from -those pangs of unrequited affection that mothers know so well the Abbé -Taconet appeared on the threshold of the sick-room. He shook hands with -Claude, whom he had long since forgiven for having run away from the -Ecole Saint-André, and replied to the inquiring looks of his niece and -Rosalie: - -'He is going to sleep, and I must get back to my school.' - -'Will you allow me to walk with you?' said Claude. - -'I was going to ask you to do so,' replied the priest. - -For some minutes the two men walked side by side in silence. The Abbé -Taconet had always inspired Larcher with respect. His was one of those -spotless natures which form such a contrast to the ordinary low standard -of morality that their mere existence is a standing reproach to a man of -the period like the writer, given up to vice though craving for the -ideal. Even now, as the Abbé walked beside him with his somewhat heavy -tread, Claude looked at him and thought of the moral gulf that separated -them. The director of the Ecole Saint-André was a tall, strong-looking -man of about fifty. At first sight there was nothing in his robust -corpulence to betray the asceticism of his life. His rounded cheeks and -ruddy complexion might even have lent him an air of joviality had not -the serious lines of his mouth and the usually serene look in his eyes -corrected this impression. The sort of imagination found in true -artists, and which, elaborated by heredity, had produced the morbid -melancholy of René's mother, the poet's own talent, his delight in all -things brilliant, and even Emilie's inordinate affection for her -brother--that imagination which will not allow the mind to be satisfied -with the present and the positive, but which paints all objects in too -bright or too dark a colour--this dangerous yet all-powerful faculty had -also its reflex in the eyes of the priest. But Catholic discipline had -corrected its excesses as deep faith had sanctified its use. The -serenity of his piercing glance was that of a man who has lain down at -night and risen each morning for years together with but one idea, and -that--of self-sacrifice. - -Claude was well acquainted with the precise terms in which this idea was -couched, and to which the Abbé Taconet always reverted in his -conversation--the salvation of France by the aid of Christianity. Such -was, according to this robust worker in moral spheres, the task laid -down in our day for all Frenchmen who were willing to undertake it. -Claude was also aware of the hopes this truly eminent priest had -cherished concerning his nephew. How often had he heard him say 'France -has need of Christian talent'! He therefore looked at him with -particular curiosity, discovering in his usually calm face a trace of -anxiety--he would almost have called it an expression of doubt. They -were walking along the Rue d'Assas, and were just about to cross the Rue -de Rennes, when the Abbé stopped and turned to his companion. - -'My niece tells me you know the woman who has driven my nephew to this -desperate act. God has not permitted the poor boy to disappear in this -fashion. The body will be healed, but the soul must not be allowed to -relapse. What is she?' - -'What all women are,' replied the writer, unable to resist the pleasure -of displaying before the priest his pretended knowledge of the human -heart. - -'If you had ever sat in the confessional you would not say all women,' -remarked the Abbé. 'You do not know what a Christian woman is, and of -what sacrifices she is capable.' - -'What almost all women are,' repeated Claude, with a touch of irony, and -began to relate what he knew of René's story, drawing a fairly exact -portrait of Suzanne with the aid of many psychological expressions, and -speaking of the multiplicity of her person--of a first and a second -condition of her 'I.' 'There is in her,' he said, 'a woman who is fond -of luxury, and she therefore keeps a lover who can give it her; then -there is a woman who is fond of love, and so she takes a young lover; a -woman who is fond of respect, and so she lives with a husband whom she -treats with consideration. And I will wager that she loves all -three--the paying lover, the loving lover, and the protecting -husband--but in a different way. Certain natures are so constructed, -like the Chinese boxes which contain six or seven others. She is a very -complicated animal!' - -'Complicated?' said the Abbé, throwing back his head. 'I know you use -these words to avoid uttering more simple ones. She is merely an unhappy -woman who allows herself to be governed by her senses. All this is -filth.' - -There was a look of profound disgust on his noble face as he uttered -these words of brutal simplicity. It was plain that the thought of -matters concerning the flesh provoked in him that peculiar repugnance -found in priests who have had to struggle hard against a natural -inclination for love. His disgust soon made way for a deep melancholy, -and he continued his remarks. - -'It is not this woman who causes me alarm in René's case. According to -what you tell me, she would have left him when once her whim was -gratified. In his present state she will not give him a thought. It is -the moral condition of the poor lad, as shown by this affair, which -troubles me. Here is a young man of twenty-five, brought up as he has -been, knowing how indispensable he is to the best of sisters, possessing -that divine and incomparable gift called talent--a gift which, if -properly directed, can produce such great things--and possessing it, -too, at a tragic moment in the history of our country; here is one, I -say, who knows that to-morrow his country may be lost for ever in -another hurricane, that its safety is entrusted to every one of us--to -you and me and each of these passers-by--and yet all this does not -outweight the grief of being deceived by a wretched woman! But,' he -continued, as if his remarks applied to Claude as much as to the wounded -man he had just quitted, 'what is it you hope to find in that troubled -sea of sensuality into which you plunge on a pretext of love, except sin -with its endless misery? You speak of complication. Human life is very -simple. It is all comprised in God's Ten Commandments. Find me a case, a -single one, which is not provided for there. Has a blindness fallen upon -the men of this generation that a lad, whom I knew to be pure, has sunk -so low in so short a time, and only through breathing the vapours of the -age? Ah, sir,' he added in the accents of a father deceived in his son, -'I was so proud of him! I expected so much of him!' - -'You talk as if he were dead,' said Claude, feeling both moved and -irritated by the Abbé's words. On the one hand, he pitied him for his -evident distress; but, on the other hand, he could not bear to hear the -priest enunciate such ideas, although they were also his own in his fits -of remorse. Like many modern sceptics, he was incessantly sighing for a -simpler faith, and yet his taste for intellectual or sentimental -complexities was incessantly leading him to look upon any and every -faith he examined as a mutilation. There suddenly came over him an -irresistible desire to contradict the Abbé Taconet and to defend the -very youth whose fate he had himself so bewailed on reaching the Rue -Coëtlogon that afternoon. - -'Do you think,' he said, 'that René will not be all the stronger for -this trial--more able to exercise and to develop that talent in which -you at least believe, Monsieur l'Abbé? If we writers could evolve our -ideas as easily as a mathematician solves his problems on the -black-board, and enunciate them, coolly and calmly, in well-chosen and -precise terms--why, every one would set up as an author instead of -turning engineer or lawyer. They would only require patience, method, -and leisure. But writing is a different thing altogether.' He was -getting more excited as he went on. 'To begin with, one must live, and, -to know life, in every one of its peculiar phases, become acquainted -with every possible sensation. We must experiment upon ourselves. What -Claude Bernard used to do with his dogs, what Pasteur does with his -rabbits, we must do with our heart, inoculating it with every form of -virus that attacks humanity. We must have felt, if only for an hour, -each of the thousand emotions of which our fellow-man is capable, and -all in order that some obscure reader in ten, a hundred, or two hundred -years' time may stop at some phrase in one of our books and, recognising -the disease from which he is suffering, say, 'This is true.' It is -indeed a terrible game, and we run a terrible risk in playing it. -Greater even than that incurred by doctors, for they run no risk of -cutting themselves with the dissecting knife nor of being struck down -when visiting a cholera hospital. It was nearly all over with poor -René, but when he next writes of love, jealousy, or woman's treachery, -his words will be tinged with blood--the red blood that has coursed -through his veins--and not with ink borrowed from another's pen. And it -will make a fine page, too, one that will swell the literary treasures -of that France you accuse us of forgetting. We serve our country in our -own fashion. That fashion may not be yours, but it has its greatness. Do -you know what a martyrdom of suffering has to be endured before an -_Adolphe_ or a _Manon_ can be dragged from the soul?' - -'_Beati pauperes spirtu_,' replied the priest. 'I remember having heard -something of the kind in the Ecole Normale thirty years ago as I walked -in the courtyard with some of my comrades who have since distinguished -themselves. They possessed fewer metaphors, but greater powers of -abstraction than you have, and they called it the antinomy of art and -morality. Words are but words, and facts remain facts. Since you talk of -science, what would you think of a physician who, under pretence of -studying an infectious disease, gave it to himself and so to all the -town? Do you ever think of the terrible responsibility that rests upon -those great writers whom you envy for having been able to give the world -their own wretched experiences? I have not read the two novels you -mention, but I well remember Goethe's "Werther" and de Musset's "Rolla." -Don't you think that the pistol-shot René fired at himself was somewhat -influenced by these two apologies of suicide? Do you know that it is -awful to think that both Goethe and de Musset are dead, but that their -work can still place a weapon in the hand of a heart-broken lad? The -sufferings of the soul should be laid bare only to be relieved, and a -cold, pitiless interest in human woe inspires me with horror whenever I -meet with it. Believe me,' he added, pointing to the crucifix that -adorned the gateway of the Couvent des Carmes, 'no one can say more than -He has said about sufferings and passions, and you will find a remedy -nowhere else.' - -Irritated by the priest's air of conviction, Claude replied, 'You -brought René up in His name, and you yourself admit that your hopes -have been deceived.' - -'The ways of God are inscrutable,' replied the Abbé, with a look of -mute reproach that made Claude blush. In attacking René's uncle in a -painful spot, simply because the argument was going against him, he had -yielded to an evil impulse of which he was now ashamed. The two men -passed the corner of the Rue de Vaugirard and the Rue Cassette in -silence, and reached the door of the Ecole Saint-André just as a class -of boys was entering. There were about forty of them--lads of about -fifteen or sixteen years old, all looking very well and happy. As they -passed the _Directeur_ they saluted him so deferentially and with such -evident heartiness that this act alone would have shown what rare -influence their excellent instructor possessed. Claude, however, also -knew from experience how conscientiously the Abbé discharged his duty; -he knew that each of these boys was followed daily, almost hourly, by -the serene but vigilant eyes of the worthy priest. - -A sudden rush of feeling prompted him to seize the latter by the hand -and to exclaim, 'You are an upright man, Monsieur l'Abbé, and that is -the best and finest talent one can have!' - -'He will save René,' he said, as he saw the good Christian's robe -disappear across the threshold that he had himself so often crossed in -less happy days. His thoughts became singularly serious and sad, and as -his steps wandered almost mechanically towards his rooms in the Rue de -Varenne, where he had not put in an appearance for several days, he -allowed his mind to dwell upon the ideas awakened by the conversation -and the life of the priest. The feeling of physical beatitude -experienced two hours ago on Colette's balcony had fled. All the -wretchedness of the undignified life he had been leading for the past -two years came home to him, and looked still more wretched when compared -with the hidden glory of the perfect life of duty he had been privileged -to behold. - -His disgust grew stronger when he found himself in his own rooms, -recalling, as they did, the memories of so many hours of shame and pain. -A score of visions rose up before him illustrating the drama in which he -had played a part--René reading the manuscript of the 'Sigisbée,' the -first performance at the Comédie Française, the _soirée_ at Madame -Komof's, Suzanne's appearance in her red gown, and Colette in his rooms -on the day after the _soirée_; then René telling him of his visit to -Madame Moraines, his own departure for Venice, his return, the scenes to -which it had led, and the two parallel passions that had sprung up in -his heart and René's, ending with the attempted suicide of the one and -the abasement of the other. 'The Abbé is right,' he thought; 'all this -is filth.' He went on with his soliloquy. 'Yes, the Abbé will save -René; he will compel him to go for a tour of six months or a year as -soon as he is better, and he will come back rid of this horrible -nightmare. He is young--a heart of twenty-five is such a vigorous and -hardy plant. Who knows? He may perhaps be moved by Rosalie's love and -marry her. Anyhow, he will triumph. He has suffered, but he has not -debased himself. But I?' - -In a few moments he had drawn up a statement of his actual -position--well over thirty-five years of age, not a single reason for -remaining alive, disorder within and disorder without, in his health and -in his thoughts, in his money matters and in his love affairs, an -absolute conviction of the emptiness of literature and the degrading -power of passion, coupled with sheer inability to turn aside from the -profession of letters or to give up his libertine life. - -'Is it really too late?' he asked himself, as he paced up and down his -room. He could see, like a port in the distance, the country home of his -old aunt, his father's sister, to whom he wrote two or three times a -year, and nearly always to ask for money. He saw before him the little -room that awaited his coming, its window looking out upon a meadow. The -meadow, through which ran a stream bordered with willows, was closed in -by some rising ground. Why not take refuge there and try to commence -over again? Why not make one more attempt to escape the misery of an -existence in which there was not a single illusion left? Why not go at -once, without again beholding the woman who had exercised a more baneful -influence upon him than Suzanne had had upon René? - -The agitation brought on by this sudden prospect of a still possible -salvation drove him from his rooms, but not before he had told Ferdinand -to pack his trunk. He went out and wandered aimlessly as far as the -entrance to the Champs-Elysées. On this bright May evening the roadway -was crowded with an interminable line of carriages. The contrast between -the moving panorama of Paris at its gayest, once his delight, and the -quiet scene he had evoked for his complete reform, charmed his artistic -soul. He sat down upon a chair and watched the string of vehicles, -recognising a face here and there, and recalling the rumours, true or -false, he had heard about each. Suddenly a carriage came in view that -attracted his particular attention--no, he was not mistaken! It was an -elegant victoria, in which sat Madame Moraines with Desforges by her -side, and Paul Moraines facing them. Suzanne was smiling at the Baron, -who was evidently taking his mistress and her husband to the -Bois--probably to dine there. She did not see René's friend, who gazed -after her shapely blonde head, half turned to her protector, until it -was lost to view. - -He laughed. - -'What a comedy life is, and how silly we are to turn it into a drama!' - -He took out his watch and rose hurriedly. - -'Half-past six--I shall be late for Colette.' 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Living Lie</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Paul Bourget</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: John De Villiers</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 21, 2021 [eBook #65887]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIVING LIE ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/living_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<h2>A LIVING LIE</h2> - - -<h4>(MENSONGES)</h4> - - - - -<h4>BY</h4> - -<h3>PAUL BOURGET</h3> - - - - -<h5>TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH</h5> - -<h5>BY</h5> - -<h4>JOHN DE VILLIERS</h4> - - - - -<h5>NEW YORK</h5> - -<h4>R. F. FENNO & COMPANY</h4> - -<h5>112 FIFTH AVENUE</h5> - -<h5>LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS</h5> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p class="noindent">CHAPTER<br /> -<br /> -I. <a href="#chap01">A Provincial Corner of Paris</a><br /> -II. <a href="#chap02">Simple Souls</a><br /> -III. <a href="#chap03">A Lover and a Snob</a><br /> -IV. <a href="#chap04">The 'Sigisbée'</a><br /> -V. <a href="#chap05">The Dawn of Love</a><br /> -VI. <a href="#chap06">An Observer's Logic</a><br /> -VII. <a href="#chap07">The Face of a Madonna</a><br /> -VIII. <a href="#chap08">The Other Side of the Picture</a><br /> -IX. <a href="#chap09">An Actress in Real Life</a><br /> -X. <a href="#chap10">In the Toils</a><br /> -XI. <a href="#chap11">Declarations</a><br /> -XII. <a href="#chap12">Cruel to be Kind</a><br /> -XIII. <a href="#chap13">At Home</a><br /> -XIV. <a href="#chap14">Happy Days</a><br /> -XV. <a href="#chap15">Colette's Spite</a><br /> -XVI. <a href="#chap16">The Story of a Suspicion</a><br /> -XVII. <a href="#chap17">Proofs</a><br /> -XVIII. <a href="#chap18">The Happiest of the Four</a><br /> -XIX. <a href="#chap19">All or Nothing</a><br /> -XX. <a href="#chap20">The Abbé Taconet</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<h4>MY DEAR DE VILLIERS,</h4> - -<p> -In the first place, you must let me thank you for having undertaken the -task of introducing 'Mensonges' to the English-reading public; and also -express the hope that this novel, which is no longer new, may not cause -a recurrence of that misconception which too often arises when a work -written in and for a Latin country is suddenly transplanted to -Anglo-Saxon soil. -</p> - -<p> -One of the most grievous results of such misconception, and one which -French writers—I speak from experience—feel most keenly, is the -reproach of immorality. Balzac spent a lifetime in defending himself -against that charge; so it was with Flaubert; so it is with Emile Zola. -I well remember how hurt I felt myself when, in the course of an action -brought some ten years since against a publishing firm in London—who -had, by the way, issued a translation of the work without my -permission—'Un Crime d'Amour' was harshly spoken of by one of your -judges. Not only then, but on many occasions, have I had an opportunity -of remarking that the English regard the novelist's art from a -standpoint differing entirely from that taken up by French writers. That -difference is well worth dwelling upon here, for the problem it raises -is neither more nor less than the problem of the whole art of -novel-writing. -</p> - -<p> -To French writers—and I refer more particularly to the great school -which follows Balzac and Stendhal—the first quality of that art is -analytical precision. Balzac called himself 'a doctor of social -sciences.' Stendhal-Beyle, when asked his profession, used to reply, -'Observer of the human heart'; and upon the title-page of 'Rouge et -Noir' he wrote as a motto the significant words, 'The truth, the ugly -truth.' Every word of Flaubert's correspondence breathes forth the -conviction that the novelist must always and before all else paint life -as it is. These writers and their disciples do but follow, consciously -or unconsciously, the scientific movement of the age. They are -sociologists and psychologists who write in an imaginative form. The -attitude they usually take up towards the object they are studying is -explained by the fact that, as analysts, they are obliged to assume that -absolute indifference to morality or immorality which should animate -every <i>savant</i> whilst pursuing his investigations. -</p> - -<p> -For them the whole question resolves itself into this: they must look -the bare realities of life full in the face, reproduce them with -absolute fidelity, and reject nothing they find; it should be their aim -to produce a work of truth rather than a work of beauty. That is why -Balzac, for example, did not hesitate, in 'Splendeurs et Misères des -Courtisanes,' and in 'La Cousine Bette,' to lay bare with the brutal -bluntness of a police report the lowest depths of Parisian vice. That, -too, is why Flaubert had no compunction in placing before the readers of -his 'Madame Bovary' the repulsive picture of Emma and Léon meeting in a -house of ill-fame in Rouen. In his conception of imaginative literature -the writer takes no heed of what will please or displease, what will -comfort or afflict, what will affect or disgust. His aim is to add one -document more to the mass of information concerning mankind and society -collected by physiology, psychology, and the history of languages, -creeds, and institutions. The novelist is merely a chronicler of actual -life, and the value of his testimony lies in its truth. -</p> - -<p> -It is easy to see, as I shall presently prove, that these æsthetics are -intimately related to that great principle of intellectual -conscientiousness which, under the name of science, animates the present -age; and this relationship would in itself endow with idealism an art -which has apparently no ideal. But a big objection to these theories has -long been formulated—an objection that seems to spring up most -readily in English minds when confronted with the bold utterances such -theories authorise. The novel, it is said, necessarily appeals to the -popular taste and places its impress upon the imagination of readers who -are totally devoid of the ideal impartiality of those who take up a -scientific standpoint. When such readers dip into a work like -'Splendeurs et Misères' or 'Madame Bovary,' they at once enter into the -very life and spirit with which these books are permeated. The author's -genius, reproducing in vivid colours scenes of questionable morality, -makes them almost real, and to man, naturally imitative, such studies -form a standing danger. If a bad example is contagious in real life, -surely, it is urged, it is none the less so when enhanced by the magic -of a master's style. -</p> - -<p> -I do not think that, in stating the case for the other side I have -weakened their argument. At the first glance, it seems irrefutable. I -think, however, that novelists of the school of Balzac and Flaubert may -justly reply that the morality of a book is something totally distinct -from the danger that its perusal presents. Before deciding whether the -total effect of a certain class of literature is worth the danger it -incurs, it would be necessary to ascertain how far a work has been -properly or improperly understood by all its readers. I, for my part, am -fully convinced that the safety of society is absolutely dependent upon -a true knowledge of human life, and that every work composed in a spirit -of truth is on that account alone conducive of good. If the work -occasionally shocks or offends a reader, it is none the less certain -that it adds to the knowledge of the laws governing the minds and -passions of men. Now, it is impossible to cite an example where the -general conclusions drawn by a novelist of the analytical school have -ever been contrary to the eternal laws set forth in the Decalogue. -</p> - -<p> -Balzac might well have headed the last part of his 'Splendeurs et -Misères' with this prophetic admonition from the Scriptures, <i>The way -of the ungodly shall perish.</i> Flaubert could have chosen no better -epigraph for the title-page of 'Madame Bovary' than the Seventh -Commandment; and, if a modest disciple may be permitted to compare -himself with these great masters, and his humble productions with their -superior works, the novel now presented to the English public has its -moral in the words addressed by the Abbé Taconet to Claude Larcher and -in the lesson of social Christianity they teach. -</p> - -<p> -These few remarks are necessary for the comprehension of passages in the -following pages that might be considered crude outside the Parisian -circle in which they were written. When 'Mensonges' was first published, -nearly ten years ago, it was generally admitted that the picture was -very faithfully drawn. On the other hand, it evoked a lively discussion -in the Press concerning the value of the process by which this study had -been produced—in other words, the value of psychological analysis. -</p> - -<p> -Eminent critics reproached me with carrying the dissection of motives -too far, and with too frequently laying bare the exquisitely delicate -fibres of the heart. I well remember that amongst my masters Alexandre -Dumas was most assiduous in warning me of the dangers of my method. 'It -is a very fine thing to show how a watch works,' he would say to me, -'but not if by doing so you prevent it from telling the time.' -</p> - -<p> -That all life is, to a great extent, unconscious is perfectly true, and -a psychological analyst may therefore imperil the beauty of the -particular life he proposes to describe by bringing into undue -prominence and bestowing too much care upon its hidden workings. So far -as I am concerned, I am quite willing to own that in so doing I may have -deserved reproach; but I am persuaded that, if such be the case, the -fault is mine and not that of the method employed. Every work of art, if -critically considered, will be found to contain incongruities which the -genius of the artist must conceal. The drama, for instance, in its use -of dialogue, must compress into a few minutes conversations that would, -in reality, occupy whole hours. It would therefore seem <i>a priori</i> as -if all semblance of truth were in that case impossible. In the same way a -lyric poet, by attempting to express in scholarly rhyme and in verse of -complicated structure the most simple and spontaneous feelings of the -heart, would seem to undertake a most paradoxical, I had almost said an -absurd, task. And yet the dialogue of a Shakespeare or of a Molière has -all the movement and colour of life itself. Heine's <i>Lieder</i> and -Shelley's lyrics are real vibrations of the heart; and, to come back to -the psychological novel, I may surely hold up the works of George Eliot, -Tourguenieff, and Tolstoi in reply to the objection that a too minute -analysis of character and feeling substitutes a dry anatomical study for -the glow and ardour of passion. If 'Mensonges' may not be added to the -list, it can only be because its author has not the necessary skill to -wield what is, after all, a most excellent instrument. -</p> - -<p> -These are a few of the ideas which I beg you to lay before the readers -of the English version of my story in order that their hearts may be -inclined to indulgence before they turn to the work itself. Allow me to -thank you, as well as MM. Chatto and Windus, once more for having -thought this study of Parisian life worthy the distinction of such a -careful and masterly translation as yours. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 50%;">Believe me,</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">Yours very faithfully,</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">PAUL BOURGET.</p> - -<p>HYÈRES, <i>January</i> 30, 1896.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<h4>A LIVING LIE</h4> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap01"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER I -<br /><br /> -A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS</h4> - -<p> -'The gates are closed, sir,' said the driver, bending down from his box. -</p> - -<p> -'Closed at half-past nine!' exclaimed a voice from the interior of the -cab. 'What a place to live in! You needn't trouble to get down. The -pavement's dry—I'll walk.' -</p> - -<p> -The door of the vehicle swung open, and a young man stepped gingerly -out, pulling the collar of his fur-lined coat a little more closely -about his throat. The dainty patent-leather shoes that left just an inch -of the embroidered silk socks visible, the plain black trousers and -opera hat, showed that the wearer was in evening dress. The cab was one -of those superior conveyances that ply for hire outside the Paris clubs, -and the driver, little accustomed to this provincial corner of the city, -began to peer, with almost as much interest as his fare, into the -strange street that, although situated on the borders of the Faubourg -Saint-Germain, had such an old-world look about it. At the time we write -of—the beginning of February, 1879—the Rue Coëtlogon, running -from the Rue d'Assas to the Rue de Rennes, still possessed the peculiarity -of being shut off from the rest of the world by gates, while at night it -was lit up by an oil lamp, hanging, in the old-fashioned way, from a -rope swung right across the roadway. Since then the appearance of the -place has changed a good deal. The mysterious-looking house on the -right, standing in its own bit of garden, and affording no doubt a quiet -retreat to some retiring old dame, has disappeared. The vacant land, -that rendered the Rue Coëtlogon as inaccessible to vehicles on the one -side as did the iron gates on the other, has been cleared of its heaps -of stones. Gas jets have taken the place of the oil lamp, and only a -slight unevenness in the pavement now marks the position of the posts -upon which the gates hung. These were never locked, but only swung to at -night; there was therefore no necessity for the young man to pull the -bell, but before entering the narrow lane he stopped for a few moments -to take in the strange scene presented by the dark outline of the houses -on the left, the garden on the right, a confused mass of unfinished -buildings at the bottom, and the old oil lamp in the middle. Overhead a -bright wintry moon hung in the vast expanse of the heavens, through -which sped a few swift-sailing clouds. As they scudded across the face -of the moon, and flew off into the dark immensity beyond, they seemed -only to enhance the metallic brilliancy of the luminary by the momentary -shadow they cast in sweeping by. -</p> - -<p> -'What a scene it would make for a parting!' murmured the young man, -adding, in a somewhat louder tone: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Until the hour when from the vault above us</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Glares down the frowning visage of the moon . . .</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Had any observant passer-by happened to hear these two lines from Victor -Hugo he would have recognised a man of letters by the way in which they -were delivered. The solitary speaker bore indeed a name well to the fore -in the literature of the day. But names so quickly disappear and get -forgotten in the incessant onward rush of new works, self-assertive -claims, and fleeting reputations that the successes of ten years ago -seem as distant and as vague as those of another age. Two dramas of -modern life, a little too directly inspired by the younger Dumas, had -brought this young man—he was thirty-five or more, but he looked -barely thirty—momentary renown, and he had not yet spoilt his name -by putting it at the bottom of hastily written articles or upon the -covers of indifferent novels. He was known only as the author of 'La -Goule' and 'Entre Adultères,' two plays of unequal merit, full of a -pessimism frequently conventional, but powerful in their trenchant -analysis, their smart dialogue, and their painful striving after the -Ideal. In 1879 these plays were already three years old, and Claude -Larcher, who had allowed himself to drift into a life of idle pleasure, -was beginning to accept lucrative and easy work, being no longer fit to -make any fresh and long-sustained effort. -</p> - -<p> -Like many analytical writers, he was accustomed to study and probe -himself incessantly, though all his introspection had not the least -influence upon his actions. The most trifling occurrences served as a -pretext for indulging in examination of himself and his destiny, but -long-continued dualism of this kind only resulted in keeping his -perceptive faculties uselessly and painfully alert. The sight of this -peaceful street and the thought of Victor Hugo immediately reminded him -of the resolutions he had been vainly formulating for some months past -to lead a retired life of regular work. He reflected that he had a novel -on order for a magazine, a play to write that had already been accepted, -and reviews to send to a 'daily,' whilst, instead of being seated at his -table in the Rue de Varenne, here he was gadding about at ten o'clock at -night dressed like an idler and a snob. He would pass the remainder of the -evening and a part of the night at a <i>soirée</i> given by the Comtesse -Komof, a Russian lady of fashion living in Paris, whose receptions at -the grand mansion in the Rue de Bel-Respiro were as magnificent as they -were mixed. He was about to do even worse. He had come to fetch another -writer, ten years younger than himself, who had till that moment led -precisely the noble life of hard work for which he himself so longed, in -one of the houses in this modest and quiet Rue Coëtlogon. -</p> - -<p> -René Vincy—that was the name of his young colleague—had -just leapt with one bound into the full glare of publicity, thanks to -one of those strokes of literary luck which do not occur twice in a -generation. The 'Sigisbée,' a comedy in one act and in verse, a -fanciful, dreamy work, written without any hopes of practical success, -had brought him sudden fame. Like our dear François Coppée's 'Le -Passant,' it had taken the <i>blasé</i> capital by storm, and had -called forth not only unanimous applause in the Théâtre Français, but -a chorus of praise in the newspapers next day. Of this astonishing -success Claude could claim a share. Was he not the first in whose hands -the manuscript of the 'Sigisbée' had been placed? Had he not taken it -to Colette Rigaud, the famous actress of the House of Molière? And -Colette, having fallen in love with the principal part, had smoothed -away all obstacles. It was he, Claude Larcher, who, consulted by Madame -Komof upon the choice of a play to be performed in her <i>salon</i>, had -suggested the 'Sigisbée;' the Comtesse had acted upon his suggestion, -and the performance was to take place that evening. Claude, who had -undertaken to chaperon the young poet, had come at the appointed hour to -the Rue Coëtlogon, where René Vincy lived with his married sister. -</p> - -<p> -This extreme kindness of an already successful author towards a mere -novice was not entirely devoid of a tinge of irony and pride. Claude -Larcher, who spent his time in slandering the wealthy and cosmopolitan -world in which the Comtesse Komof moved, and in which he himself was -always mixing, felt his vanity slightly tickled by being able to dazzle -his friend with the glamour of his fashionable connections. At the same -time the malicious cynic was amused by the simplicity of the poet and by -his childish awe of that magic and meaningless word—Society. He had -already enjoyed, as much as a play, Vincy's shyness during their first -visit to the Comtesse a few days before, and thoughts of the fever of -expectancy in which René must now be made him smile as he approached -the house in which his young friend lived. -</p> - -<p> -'And to think that I was just as foolish as that once!' he murmured, -remembering that he, too, as well as René, had had his <i>début</i>; then -he thought, 'That is a feeling of which those who have always lived in -that kind of world have no idea; and how absurd it is for us to go and -visit these people!' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst philosophising in this manner Claude had stopped before another -gate on the left, and, finding it locked, had rung the bell. The passage -to which this gate gave access belonged to a three-storeyed house -separated from the street by a narrow strip of garden. The porter's -lodge was under the arch at the end of the passage, but either the -<i>concierge</i> was absent or the pull at the bell had not been -sufficiently vigorous, for Claude was obliged to tug a second time at -the rusty ring that hung at the end of a long chain. He had time, -therefore, to examine this dull, dismal-looking house, in which there -was only one window lit up. This was on the ground floor, and belonged -to the suite of rooms occupied by the Fresneaus, four windows of which -looked out upon the little garden. -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle Emilie Vincy, the poet's sister, had married one Maurice -Fresneau, a teacher, whose colleague Claude had been upon first coming -to Paris—a <i>début</i> of which the pampered author of 'La -Goule' was weak enough to be ashamed. How happy he would have been had -he been able to say that he had frittered away his patrimony at cards or -upon women! He, however, kept up a close acquaintance with his former -colleague, out of gratitude for pecuniary services rendered long ago. He -had at first interested himself in René chiefly for the sake of this -old comrade of less happy days, but had afterwards yielded to the charm -of the young man's nature. How often, when tired of his artificial life -and tortured by painful indolence and bitter passions, had he not come -to obtain an hour's rest in René's modest room, next to that in which -the light was now burning, and which was the dining-room. In the short -interval that elapsed between his two rings, and thanks to the swift -imagination of his artistic mind, this room suddenly rose up before -him—symbolical of the purity of soul hitherto preserved by his -friend. The poet and his sister had with their own hands nailed to the -wall some thin red cloth adorned here and there with a few engravings, -chosen with the consummate taste of a lonely thinker—some studies -by Albert Dürer, Gustave Moreau's 'Hélène' and 'Orphée,' and one or -two etchings by Goya. The iron bedstead, the neatly kept table, the -bookcase filled with well-bound books, the red parquetting of the floor -forming a frame to the carpet in the centre—how Claude had loved -this familiar scene, with these words from the 'Imitatio' written over -the door by René in his boyish days: <i>Cella continuata dulcescit!</i> -Larcher's thoughts, at first ironical, had become suddenly modified by -the images his brain had conjured up, and he felt moved by the idea that -this entry into society through the portals of the Komof mansion was -after all a great event for a child of twenty-five who had always lived -in this house. What a heart full of ideals he was about to carry into -that pleasure-loving and artificial Society that crowded the Comtesse's -<i>salons!</i> -</p> - -<p> -'What a pity he should have to go!' he exclaimed, his reverie broken by -the click of the lock, adding, as he pushed the gate open, 'But it was I -who advised him to accept the invitation, and who got him dressed for -to-night.' He had, indeed, taken René to his tailor, his hosier, his -bootmaker, and even his hatter, in order to proceed to what he jestingly -called his investiture. 'The dangers of contact with the world ought to -have been thought of before. . . . But how foolish of me to meet -troubles half way! He will be presented to four or five women, he will -be invited to dinner two or three times, he will forget to call again, -he will forget—and he will be forgotten.' -</p> - -<p> -By this time he was half way down the passage, and had knocked at the -first door on the right before coming to the porter's lodge, which it -was not necessary to pass. His knock was answered by a big fat maid of -about thirty, with a short waist, square shoulders, and a great round -face surmounted by a huge Auvergne cap and lit up by two brown eyes -betraying animal simplicity. Instinctive distrust was expressed not only -in the woman's physiognomy, but also by the manner in which she held the -door instead of opening it wide, and by the way she blinked her eyes as -she raised the lamp to throw the light upon the visitor's features. On -recognising Claude her big face expressed a degree of satisfaction that -told plainly how welcome the writer was in the Fresneau household. -</p> - -<p> -'Good evening, Françoise,' said the young man; 'is your master ready?' -</p> - -<p> -'Oh!—it's Monsieur Larcher,' exclaimed the maid, with a joyful smile, -showing all her sharp little white teeth, of which she had lost one on -each side of the top row. 'He is quite ready,' she added, 'and looks -like an angel. You will find <i>la compagnie</i> in the dining-room. Let me -take your coat for you . . . Saints preserve us! My dear gentleman, what -a weight this must be on your back!' -</p> - -<p> -The familiarity of this maid-of-all-work, who had come straight to the -Fresneaus from the professor's native village in Auvergne, and who had -made herself thoroughly at home with them for the past fifteen years, -was a constant source of amusement to Claude Larcher. He was one of -those deep thinkers who worship utter simplicity, no doubt because they -find in it a relief from the incessant and exhaustive labour of their -own brain. Françoise would sometimes speak to him of his works in most -droll and grotesque terms, or with great ingenuousness express the fear -with which she was always haunted—that the author was going to put -her into one of his plays; or, again, she would, after the manner of her -kind, give a most ludicrous turn to some literary phrase she had picked -up in waiting at table. Claude remembered how he had once heard her say, -in praising René's ardour for work: 'He dentifries himself with his -heroes.' He could not help laughing at it even now. She would say -<i>ceuiller</i> for <i>cuiller</i>, <i>engratigner</i> for -<i>égratigner</i>, <i>archeduc</i> for <i>aqueduc</i>, to travel in -<i>coquelicot</i> for <i>incognito</i>, and a heap of other similar -slips which the writer would amuse himself by jotting down in one of his -innumerable notebooks for a novel that he would never finish. He was -therefore as a rule glad to provoke the woman's gossip; but that evening -he was not in a mood for it, being suddenly filled with melancholy at -the idea that he was playing the part of a vulgar worldly tempter. -Whilst Françoise was hanging up his coat for him he looked down the -corridor that he knew so well, with its doors on each side. René's -bedroom was on the right at the end of the passage, facing the south; -the Fresneaus were satisfied with a smaller apartment looking north, the -room next to this being occupied by their son Constant, a boy six years -old, of whom Emilie thought a good deal less than of René. Claude was -fully acquainted with all the reasons for this tender sisterly love, as -he was indeed with the whole history of this family. It was that -history, so touching in its modest simplicity, which amply justified his -remorse in dragging from this peaceful retreat the one in whom all was -centred. -</p> - -<p> -The father of Emilie and René, an attorney of Vouziers, had died a -wretched death from the effects of intemperate habits. The practice -having been sold and what little property there was realised, the widow, -after paying all debts, found herself in possession of about fifty -thousand francs. Feeling that life in Vouziers would recall too many -bitter memories, Madame Vincy went to live in Paris with her two young -children. She had a brother there, the Abbé Taconet, a priest of some -eminence, who, though educated in the Ecole Normale, had suddenly, and -without giving any reasons, entered into holy orders; the astonishment -of his former comrades was, if possible, increased when they saw him, -soon after leaving Saint-Sulpice, set up a school in the Rue Casette. A -conscientious but very liberal Catholic, with strong leanings to -Gallicanism, the Abbé Taconet had seen many families of the upper -middle class hesitate between purely secular and purely religious -colleges, not finding in either that combination of traditional -Christianity and modern development they sought, and he had taken orders -for the express purpose of carrying into effect a plan he had formed for -realising that combination. The height of his ambition was reached on -the day that he and two younger priests opened an ecclesiastical day -school, which he christened the Ecole Saint-André, after his patron -saint. The success that attended the Abbé's enterprise was so rapid -that already, in the third year, two small one-horse omnibuses were -required to fetch the pupils and take them back to their homes. -</p> - -<p> -This opportunity of giving her son, then ten years old, an exceptional -education, was one of the reasons that led Madame Vincy to choose Paris -for her residence, especially since Emilie's sixteen years promised the -mother valuable aid in the discharge of her household duties. By the -advice of the Abbé Taconet, whom the management of the school funds had -made quite a business man, she invested her fifty thousand francs in -Italian stocks, which at that time could be bought at sixty-five francs, -thus securing her an income of two thousand eight hundred francs per -year. The secret of the idolatrous affection which Emilie lavished upon -her young brother lay almost entirely in the innumerable daily -sacrifices entailed by the inadequacy of this amount, for in matters of -love we pursue our sufferings as at cards we pursue our losses. -</p> - -<p> -Almost immediately after her arrival in Paris—she had taken rooms in -this very house in the Rue Coëtlogon, but on the third floor—Madame -Vincy had become an invalid, so that from 1863 to 1871, when the poor -woman died, Emilie had discharged the triple duty of nursing her mother, -of carefully tending a household where fifty centimes meant much, and of -superintending step by step her brother's education. All this, too, she -had done without allowing the fatigue that stole the colour from her -cheeks to wring from her lips a single complaint. She resembled those -sempstresses in the old songs of Paris who consoled themselves in their -rude, incessant toil by cultivating some tender flower upon their window -sill. Her flower was her brother, a timid, loving child with wistful -eyes, and he had well repaid Emilie's devotion by his successes at -college—a source of great joy to women whose lives were so entirely -devoid of all pleasure. It was not long before René began to write -poems, and Emilie had been the happy confidante of the young man's first -attempts. Then, when Fresneau asked her to be his wife, not six months -after the death of her mother, she consented only on condition that the -professor, who had just passed his examinations, would not leave Paris, -and that René was to live with them, and devote himself to writing. -Fresneau joyfully acceded to these demands. He was one of those very -good and very simple men who are peculiarly fitted to be lovers, -granting blindly all that the object of their love desires. He had been -enamoured of Emilie, without daring to declare his passion, since first -making the acquaintance of the Vincys as René's master at the Ecole -Saint-André in 1865. This man, who was not far from forty, felt drawn -towards the girl by the strange similarity of their destinies. Had he -not also renounced all selfish ambition and all personal aspirations in -order to liquidate the debts which his father—a ruined -schoolmaster—had left behind? From 1851 to 1872, when he married, the -professor had paid twenty thousand francs to his father's creditors, and -that by giving lessons at five francs each, taking one with the other! -If we add to the number of working hours that produced this result the -time required for preparing the lessons, correcting exercises, and going -about from one place to another—Fresneau would sometimes have lessons -at all points of the Parisian compass on the same day—we shall have -the sketch of an existence, not uncommon in the profession of teaching, -that is capable of wearing out the strongest constitutions. His love for -Emilie had formed the one romance of Fresneau's life, too occupied as he -had been during his youth to find time for such sentiments. The Abbé -Taconet had given his blessing to their union, and an addition had been -made to the slaves of René's genius. -</p> - -<p> -Claude Larcher was not ignorant of any of these facts, which had all -been of importance in developing the character and talent of the young -poet. Whilst Françoise was hanging up his overcoat his rapid glance -travelled round the dimly-lighted passage and took in all those material -details which for him had a deeper and a moral signification. He knew -why, in the corner near the door, side by side with the professor's -stout alpaca umbrella with its clumsy handle, there stood a neat English -frame with an elegant stick, chosen by Madame Fresneau for her brother. -He knew, too, that it was the sister's love that had provided the dainty -Malacca that adorned the hall-stand, and which had probably cost thirty -times as much as the plain heavy stick carried by Fresneau when it was -fine. He knew that the professor's books, after having for a long time -been exposed to the dirt and dust on the blackened shelves of a bookcase -in this passage, had at length been banished even from that place to a -dark cupboard, and that the passage had then been given up to René's -decorative fancies. The walls were adorned with engravings of his -choosing—a whole row of Raffet's splendid studies of the great -Napoleon, which must have been very obnoxious to the Republican tastes -of the professor. But Claude knew well enough that Fresneau would be the -very last to notice the constant sacrifice of the whole household to -this brother, whom he, too, worshipped, out of love for Emilie, as -blindly as did the servant and even the uncle—the uncle, for the Abbé -Taconet had not been able to resist the influence of the young man's -disposition and talent. The Abbé did not forget that his nephew -possessed a modest income—the amount invested, by his advice, in -Italians, and afterwards transferred to safe French stocks, now bringing -in three thousand francs—and that he himself would double it at his -death. Was not René's Christian education a guarantee that his literary -talents would help to propagate the views of the Church? The priest had -therefore done what he could to start the poet on that difficult path of -letters where the fortunate youth had so far only met with happiness. -</p> - -<p> -Of this happiness, consisting of pure devotion, silent affection, loving -indulgence, and hearty, comforting confidence, Claude Larcher knew the -value better than anyone—he who, bereft of both his parents, had, -from his twentieth year, been compelled to battle alone against the -hardships, the disenchantments, and the contamination of a struggling -author's life in Paris. He never visited the Fresneaus without -experiencing a feeling of sadness, and to-night was no exception to the -rule. It was a feeling which generally made him laugh the louder and -exercise his most withering sarcasm. Too enervated to bear the slightest -emotion without feeling pain, he was, on such occasions, within an ace -of proclaiming his agony, and in view of the hopelessness of ever -conquering this excessive sensibility, ready, like a child, to be judged -by his words whilst uttering the most atrocious libels on his own heart. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap02"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER II -<br /><br /> -SIMPLE SOULS</h4> - -<p> -When, with his usual bantering smile, Claude entered the small -dining-room he found that <i>la compagnie</i>, as Françoise called it, -comprised René—the hero of what seemed to his friends a most -remarkable adventure—Madame Fresneau and her husband, Madame Offarel, -the wife of a <i>sous-chef de bureau</i> in the Ministère de la Guerre, and -her two daughters, Angélique and Rosalie. All these good people were -seated around the mahogany table on mahogany chairs, the horsehair seats -of which were glossy with the wear of years. This suite formed part of -the original household effects of the <i>avoué</i> of Vouziers, and owed -its marvellous state of preservation to the care bestowed upon it by its -present owners. A portable stove, fixed upon the hearth, did not tend to -improve the air in the somewhat small apartment, though it testified to -the housewife's habits of thrift. Emilie would have no wood fires except -in René's room. A lamp suspended by a brass chain illumined the circle -of heads that was turned towards the visitor as he entered and cast a -feeble light upon the yellow flowers of the wall-paper, relieved here -and there by a piece of old china. The lamp-light revealed more clearly -to the new arrival the feelings expressed in the faces of the different -occupants of the room. Likes and dislikes are not so easily concealed by -those who move in humble circles—there the human animal is less tamed, -less accustomed to the mask continually worn in more polite society. Emilie -held out her hand to Claude—an unusual thing for her to do—with -a happy smile upon her lips, and a look of joy in her brown eyes, her -whole being expressing the sincere pleasure she felt at seeing someone -whom she knew to be interested in her brother. -</p> - -<p> -'Doesn't his coat fit him beautifully?' she asked impetuously, before -Larcher had taken a chair or even exchanged a word of greeting with the -other visitors. -</p> - -<p> -René, it was true, was a perfect specimen of the creature so seldom -seen in Paris—a handsome young man. At twenty-five the author of the -'Sigisbée' was still without a wrinkle on his brow, while the freshness -of his complexion and the look of purity in his clear blue eyes told of -a virgin soul and a mind unsullied by the world. He bore a great -resemblance to the medallion, but little known, which David, the -sculptor, has left of Alfred de Musset in his youth, though René's -wealth of hair, his fair and already full beard, and his broad shoulders -gave him an air of health and strength wanting in the somewhat -effeminate and almost too frail appearance of the great poet. His eyes, -generally serious, spoke at that moment of simple and unalloyed -happiness, and Emilie's admiration was justified by an innate grace that -revealed itself in spite of the levelling effect of a dress-coat. In her -tender solicitude the loving sister had even thought of gold studs and -links for his shirt-front and cuffs, and had bought them out of her -savings at a jeweller's in the Rue de la Paix, after a secret conference -with Claude. She had fastened his white tie with her own fingers, and -had bestowed as much care upon him that evening as when, fourteen years -ago, she had superintended the toilet of this idolised brother for his -first communion. -</p> - -<p> -'Poor Emilie,' said René, with a smile that disclosed two splendid rows -of teeth; 'you must excuse her, Claude; I am her only weakness.' -</p> - -<p> -'Well! So you are dragging René into dissipation too, eh?' cried -Fresneau, as he shook hands with Larcher. The professor was a tall, -broad-shouldered man, with a great head of hair just beginning to turn -grey, and an unkempt beard. Spread out before him, and covered with -pencil notes, were some large sheets of paper—the exercises he -brought home to correct. He gathered them up, saying, 'Lucky man! You've -got rid of this terrible job! Will you take a thimbleful just to warm -you?' he asked, holding up a decanter half filled with brandy, which was -always left on the table after coffee had been served—the family -sitting here in preference to moving into the <i>salon</i>, a room in -the front of the house used only on grand occasions. 'Or a cigarette?' -he added, offering Claude a bowl filled with tobacco. -</p> - -<p> -Claude thanked him with a deprecatory smile and turned to bow to the -three lady visitors, not one of whom offered him her hand. The mother, -who scratched her head every now and then with one of her -knitting-needles, was busily at work upon a blue woollen stocking, and -her two daughters were engaged upon some embroidery. Madame Offarel's -hair was quite white, and her face deeply wrinkled; through the round -glasses that she managed to balance somehow or other on her short nose -there flashed a glance of deep hatred upon Claude. Angélique, the elder -of the two girls, repressed a smile as she heard the writer make a -slight slip in his pronunciation; with her black eyes, that shot swift -sideward glances, with her blushes that came as readily as her smiles, -she belonged to the numerous family of shy but mocking females. Rosalie, -the younger of the two sisters, had returned Claude's salute without -raising her eyes, black as her sister's, but filled with a sweet, timid -expression. A few minutes later she stole a glance from beneath her long -lashes at René, and her fingers trembled as her needle followed the -tracing for the embroidery. She bent her head still lower until her -chestnut hair shone in the lamp-light. -</p> - -<p> -Not a whit of this by-play had been lost upon Claude. He was well -acquainted with the habits and disposition of <i>ces dames Offarel</i>, as -Fresneau called them in his provincial way. They had probably arrived at -about seven o'clock, soon after dinner. Old Offarel, after having -accompanied them here from the Rue Bagneux, had gone on to the Café -Tabourey, at the corner of the Odéon, where he conscientiously waded -through all the daily papers. Claude had long guessed that Madame -Offarel cherished the idea of a marriage between Rosalie and René; he -suspected his young friend of having encouraged these hopes by an innate -taste for the romantic, and it was only too evident that Rosalie had -been captivated by the mental qualities and physical attractions of the -poet. He, Claude Larcher, knew well enough, too, that he himself was -both liked and feared by the girl. She liked him because he was devoted -to René, and feared him because he was dragging the latter into a fresh -current of events. To this innocent child, as well as to all the members -of this small circle, the <i>soirée</i> at Madame Komof's seemed like a -fairy expedition to distant and unexplored lands. In each of them it -conjured up chimerical hopes or foolish fears. Emilie Fresneau had -always cherished the most ambitious dreams for her brother, and she now -pictured him leaning against a mantelpiece reciting verses in the midst -of a crowd of duchesses, and beloved by a 'Russian princess.' These two -words expressed the highest form of social superiority that her mind was -capable of imagining. Rosalie was the victim of the keenest -perspicacity—that of the woman who loves. Although she reproached -herself for her folly, René's eyes frightened her with the joy they -expressed, and that joy was at going into a world which she, almost his -betrothed, could not enter. A bond, stronger than Claude had imagined, -already united them, for secret vows had been exchanged by the pair one -spring evening in the preceding year. René was then still unknown. She -had him to herself. When by her side he thought all things charming; -without her, all was insipid. To-day, her confidence disturbed by -unconscious jealousy, she began to see what dangerous comparisons -threatened her love. With her home-made dresses that spoilt the beauty -of her figure, with her ready-made boots in which her dainty feet were -lost, with her modest white collars and cuffs, she felt herself grow -small by the side of the grand ladies whom René would meet. That was -why her fingers trembled and why a vague terror shot through her heart, -causing it to beat quicker, whilst the professor pressed Claude to drink -a glass of <i>liqueur</i> and to make himself a cigarette. -</p> - -<p> -'I assure you it's excellent <i>eau-de-vie</i>, sent me from Normandy by -one of my pupils. Really not? You used to be so fond of it once. Do you -remember when we gave lessons at Vanaboste's? Four hours a day, -Thursdays included, corrections to be done at home, for a hundred and -fifty francs a month! And yet how happy we were in those days! We had a -quarter of an hour's interval between the classes, and I remember the -little <i>café</i> we used to go to in the Rue Saint-Jacques to get a glass -of this <i>eau-de-vie</i> to keep us going. You used to call it hardening -the arteries, under the pretence that a man is only as old as his arteries, -and that alcohol diminishes their elasticity.' -</p> - -<p> -'I was twelve years younger then,' said Claude, as he laughed at the -other's reminiscences, 'and had no rheumatism.' -</p> - -<p> -'It can't be very good for one's health,' interposed Madame Offarel with -some asperity, 'to go out nearly every night; and these big dinners, -with their fine wines and highly-seasoned dishes, impoverish the blood -terribly!' -</p> - -<p> -'Don't be absurd,' said Emilie, interposing; 'we have had the honour of -Monsieur Larcher's company to dinner, and you would be surprised to see -what a modest meal he makes. And people can afford to go to bed a little -late when they are free to sleep long in the morning. René tells us -that it is so delightfully quiet in your house,' she added, addressing -the writer. -</p> - -<p> -'Yes, so it is. I happened to come across some rooms in an old house in -the Rue de Varenne, and I find that at present I am the only tenant in -the place. When the blinds are drawn I can fancy it is the middle of the -night. I can hear nothing but the ringing of the bells in a convent -close by and the roar of the city far, far away.' -</p> - -<p> -'I have always heard it said that one hour's sleep before midnight is -worth more than two afterwards,' broke in the old lady, exasperated by -Claude's imperturbability. She was incensed against him without knowing -exactly why—this feeling being inspired less by the influence he -exercised upon René than by deep natural antipathy. She felt that she -was being studied by this individual with the inquisitorial eyes, -perfect manners, and unfathomable smiles. His presence produced in her a -feeling of uneasiness that found vent in sharp words. She therefore -added, 'Besides, Monsieur René cannot have such rest here. At what time -will this Countess's <i>soirée</i> be over?' -</p> - -<p> -'I don't know,' replied Claude, amused by the ill-concealed rancour of -his adversary; 'the "Sigisbée" will be performed about half-past ten, -and I suppose we shall sit down to supper about half-past twelve or -one.' -</p> - -<p> -'Monsieur René will be in bed about two o'clock, then,' rejoined Madame -Offarel, with the visible satisfaction of an aggressive person bringing -forward an irrefutable argument; 'and as Monsieur Fresneau goes out -about seven, and Françoise begins to potter about at six——' -</p> - -<p> -'Come, come, once in a way!' exclaimed Emilie with some impatience, -cutting short the other's words. She feared the old lady's indiscreet -tongue, and changed the topic by flattering her pet mania. 'You have not -told us whether Cendrillon came back for good?' -</p> - -<p> -Cendrillon was a grey cat presented by Madame Offarel to a young man -named Jacques Passart, a teacher of drawing, between whom and the -<i>sous-chef de bureau</i> a friendship had sprung up, born of their -mutual taste for <i>aquarelles.</i> These were the two family -vices—a love for painting in the husband, who daubed his canvases -even in his office; and a love of cats in the wife, who had had as many -as five such boarders in her flat—a ground floor like that of the -Fresneaus, also with its bit of garden. Jacques Passart, who nursed an -unrequited affection for Rosalie, had so often gone into rhapsodies over -the pretty ways of Cendrette or Cendrinette, as Madame Offarel called -her, that he had been presented with the animal. After a stay of three -months in the room occupied by Passart on a fifth floor in the Rue du -Cherche-Midi, Cendrillon had become a mother. Out of her three kittens -two had been killed, and, doubtlessly thinking the third in danger, she -had run away with it. Passart had been afraid to speak of his loss, but -two days later Madame Offarel heard a scratching at the garden door. -</p> - -<p> -'That's strange,' she said, verifying the number of her cats—one of -which was lying at full length on the counterpane of her bed, another on -the only sofa, and a third on the marble chimney-piece. 'They are all -here, and yet I hear a scratching.' She opened the door, and Cendrillon -walked in, purring, arching her back, and rubbing her head against her -old mistress with a thousand pretty little ways that charmed the good -lady. The next morning Cendrillon had once more vanished. This visit, -rendered more mysterious by the avowal Passart had been obliged to make -of his negligence, had on the previous day been the sole theme of Madame -Offarel's conversation, and the fact that she had not even alluded to -the circumstance that evening revealed more than her epigrams the -importance attached by Rosalie's mother to René's entry into society. -</p> - -<p> -'Ah! Cendrillon,' she replied, her ill-humour tinged with the enthusiasm -evoked by the mention of the dear creature. 'I don't suppose Monsieur -René remembers anything about it?' Upon a sign of reassurance from the -young man that he had not forgotten the interesting event, she -continued: 'Well, she came back this morning, carrying her little one in -her mouth, and laid it at my feet like an offering, with such a look in -her eyes! The day before she had come to see whether I still cared for -her, and now she came to ask me to take her kitten too. It's better to -bestow one's affections upon animals than upon human beings,' she added, -by way of conclusion; 'they are much more faithful.' -</p> - -<p> -'What a wonderful trait of instinct!' cried Fresneau, beginning once -more to disfigure his exercises with cabalistic signs. 'I will make a -note of it for my class.' The poor man, a real Jack-of-all-trades in his -profession, taught philosophy in a preparatory school for B.A.'s, Latin -in another, history in another, and even English, which he could -scarcely pronounce. In this way he had contracted the habit, peculiar to -old schoolmen, of holding forth at length at every possible opportunity. -This marvellous return of Cendrillon to her native hearth was a text to -be elaborated <i>ad infinitum.</i> He went on telling anecdote after -anecdote, and forgetting his exercises—to all appearances. The -excellent man, so weak that he had never been able to keep a class of -ten boys in order, was a marvel of observation where his wife was -concerned. Whilst his pencil was running over the margins of the sheets -of foolscap he had distinctly perceived Madame Offarel's hostility. From -Emilie's tone of voice, too, it was clear to him that she was somewhat -uneasy as to the turn that such a conversation might take. So the -professor prolonged his monologue in order to give the nerves of the -sour-tempered <i>bourgeoise</i> time to steady themselves. He was not -called upon to play his part long, for there came another ring at the -bell. -</p> - -<p> -'That's papa!' exclaimed Rosalie; 'it must be a quarter to ten.' She, -too, had suffered from her mother's show of temper towards Claude and -René, and the arrival of her father, which was the signal for -departure, seemed like a deliverance—to her, too, for whom parting -from the Fresneaus was generally an ordeal. But she knew her mother, and -felt, by instinct rather than by reasoning, how mean and distasteful the -bitterness of her remarks must seem to René. There were only too many -reasons why he should no longer care for their company. She therefore -rose as her father entered the room. M. Offarel was a tall, -withered-looking man, with one of those pinched faces that irresistibly -remind one of the immortal type of Don Quixote; an aquiline nose, hollow -temples, a harshly drawn mouth, and, to crown all, one of those receding -brows the wrinkles and bumps of which represent so many chimerical -fancies and false ideas within. To his innocent mania for -<i>aquarelles</i> he added the ridiculous weakness of incessantly -talking about his imaginary complaints. -</p> - -<p> -'It's very cold to-night,' were his first words, and, addressing his -wife, he added, 'Adelaide, have you any tincture of iodine in the house? -I am sure I shall have my attack of rheumatism in the morning.' -</p> - -<p> -'Is your cab warmed?' asked Emilie, turning to Claude. -</p> - -<p> -'Oh, yes,' replied the writer, pulling out his watch; 'and I see that -it's time to get into it, if we don't want to be late.' Whilst he was -taking leave of the little circle René disappeared through the door -that led from the dining-room to his bedroom without bidding anyone good -night. -</p> - -<p> -'He has probably only gone to get his coat,' thought Rosalie; 'he cannot -possibly have gone without saying good-bye, especially as he has not -looked at me at all to-night.' She went on with her work whilst Fresneau -received the <i>sous-chef de bureau</i> with the same questions he had put -to his friend: 'Just a thimbleful to keep the cold out?' -</p> - -<p> -'Only a suspicion,' answered Offarel. -</p> - -<p> -'That's right,' rejoined the professor, 'you are not like Larcher, who -despised my <i>eau-de-vie!</i>' -</p> - -<p> -'Monsieur Larcher!' observed the other. 'Don't you know his usual drink? -Why'—he added, in a lower key, and prudently looking towards the -passage—'I read an article in the paper only this evening that shows -him up well.' -</p> - -<p> -'Tell us all about it, <i>petit père</i>,' exclaimed Madame Offarel, -dropping her work for the first time that evening, and artlessly -allowing her rancorous feelings to betray themselves as openly as her -simple affection for her cat. -</p> - -<p> -'It appears,' said the old man, emphasising his words, 'that wherever -Monsieur Larcher appears, they offer him blood to drink instead of tea -or other things.' -</p> - -<p> -'Blood!' exclaimed Fresneau, taken aback by this astounding statement. -'What for?' -</p> - -<p> -'To sustain him, of course,' said Madame Offarel quickly; 'didn't you -notice his face? What a life he must lead!' -</p> - -<p> -'It also appears,' continued Offarel, anxious to gratify that low taste -for senseless gossip peculiar to a <i>bourgeois</i> as soon as he gets hold -of one of the innumerable calumnies to which well-known men are -exposed—'it appears that he lives surrounded by a court of women who -adore him, and that he has discovered an infallible method of making -whatever he writes a success. He has a dozen copies of his proofs struck -off at once, and takes one to each of the ladies he knows. They spread -them out on their knees, and "<i>Mon petit</i> Larcher here, and <i>mon -petit</i> Larcher there—you must alter this and you must cut out -that." So he alters this and he cuts out that, and the ladies imagine that -they have written his work for him.' -</p> - -<p> -'I am not at all surprised,' said Madame Offarel; 'he looks like a bold -deceiver.' -</p> - -<p> -'I must confess,' replied Fresneau, 'that I don't like his writings much; -but as for being a deceiver—that's another matter. My dear Madame -Offarel, I assure you he's a perfect child. How it amuses me when the -newspapers say that he knows women's hearts! I've always found him in -love with the worst creatures on earth, whom he conscientiously believed -to be angels, and who deceive him and fool him as much as they please. -René told us the other day that he spends his time in dallying with -little Colette Rigaud, who plays in the "Sigisbée"—a false hussy -who'll worm his last shilling out of him.' -</p> - -<p> -'Hush!' exclaimed Emilie, entering just in time to hear the end of this -little speech, and placing her hand on her husband's lips. 'Monsieur -Claude is a friend of ours, and I won't have him discussed. My brother -desires to be excused for not saying "good night" to you all,' she -added; 'they hadn't noticed that it was so late, and left in a hurry. -And when am I to have that drawing of the last scene in the -"Sigisbée?"' she asked, turning to the <i>sous-chef de bureau.</i> -</p> - -<p> -'It's a bad time of year for water-colours,' replied the latter; 'it -gets dark so soon, and we are overwhelmed with work—but you shall -have it. Why, what's the matter, Rosalie? You are quite white.' -</p> - -<p> -The poor girl was indeed suffering tortures on finding that René had -left her without so much as a look or a word. A great lump rose in her -throat, and her eyes filled with tears. She had strength enough, -however, to repress her sobs and to reply that she was overcome by the -heat of the stove. Her mother darted a look at Emilie containing such a -direct reproach that Madame Fresneau turned away her eyes involuntarily. -She, too, was deeply grieved; for, although she had always been opposed -to this marriage, which was quite out of keeping with the ambitious -plans she vaguely cherished for her brother, she loved Rosalie. When the -mother and her two daughters had put on their bonnets and were at last -ready to go, Emilie's feelings led her to embrace Rosalie more -affectionately than was her wont. She was quite ready to pity the girl's -sufferings, but that pity was not entirely devoid of a sad kind of -satisfaction at seeing René's manifest indifference, and as the door -closed behind her visitors she turned to Françoise with unalloyed joy -in her honest brown eyes. -</p> - -<p> -'You will take care not to make any noise in the morning, won't you?' -</p> - -<p> -'No more than a mouse,' replied the girl. -</p> - -<p> -'And you too, my big beauty,' she said to her husband, on entering the -dining-room, where the professor was once more at his exercises. 'I have -told Constant to get up and dress quietly,' adding, with a proud smile, -'what a triumph for René to-night, provided that these grand folks -don't turn up their noses at his verse! But I'm sure they'll not do -that; his poetry is too good—almost as good as he is himself!' -</p> - -<p> -'It is to be hoped that all these fine ladies will not spoil him as you -do,' exclaimed Fresneau, 'for it would end by his losing his head. No, -no,' he went on, in order to flatter his wife's feelings, 'it is a -pleasure to see how modest he is, even in success.' -</p> - -<p> -And Emilie kissed her husband tenderly for those words. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap03"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER III -<br /><br /> -A LOVER AND A SNOB</h4> - -<p> -The two young men got into the cab and were soon being rapidly driven -along the Rue du Cherche-Midi in order to reach the Boulevard du -Montparnasse, and so follow, by way of the Invalides, the long line of -avenues that crosses the Seine by the Pont de l'Alma and leads almost -direct to the Arc de Triomphe. At first both remained perfectly silent, -René amusing himself by watching for the well-known landmarks of a -neighbourhood in which all the reminiscences of his childhood and youth -were centred. The pane of glass through which he gazed was clouded with -a thin vapour, a fitting symbol of the cloud that separated the world he -had just left from that which lay before him. There was not an angle in -the Rue du Cherche-Midi that was not as familiar to him as the walls of -his own room—from the tall dark building of the military prison to -the corner of the quiet Rue de Bagneux, where Rosalie dwelt. The -remembrance of the charming girl whom he had so unceremoniously quitted -that evening passed through his mind, but caused him no pain. The -sensation he felt was like dreaming with open eyes, so little did the -individual who had trodden these streets in his dreary and obscure youth -resemble the rich and celebrated writer now seated next to Claude -Larcher. Celebrated—for all Paris had flocked to see his piece; -rich—for 'Le Sigisbée,' first performed in September, had already -brought him in twenty-five thousand francs by February. Nor was this -source of revenue likely to be soon exhausted. 'Le Sigisbée' had been -put into the same bill with 'Le Jumeau,' a three-act comedy by a -well-known author that would have a long run. The play, too, was selling -well in book form, and the rights of translation and of representation -in the provinces were being turned to good account. But all this was -only a beginning, for René had several other works in reserve—a -volume of philosophical poems entitled 'On the Heights,' a drama in -verse dealing with the Renaissance, to be called 'Savonarola,' and a -half-finished story of deep passion for which the writer had as yet -found no title. -</p> - -<p> -As the cab rolled along, the intoxication produced by thoughts of past -success, as well as by ambitious plans for the future, was intensified -by the excitement of his entering into Society. The feelings of this -grown-up child were similar to those of a girl going to her first ball. -He was a prey to a fit of nerves that almost made him feel beside -himself. This power of amplifying even to fanciful dimensions -impressions of utter mediocrity in themselves is both the misfortune and -happiness of poets. To that power is due those transitions, almost -startling in their suddenness, from the heights of optimism to the -depths of pessimism, from exultation to despair; these lend to the -imagination, and consequently to the disposition and feelings, a -continual pendulum-like motion—an instability of terrible portent to -the women who become attached to these vacillating souls. Amongst such -souls, however, there are some in whom this dangerous quality does not -exclude true affection. This was the case with René. The involuntary -comparison between the present and the past so suddenly provoked by the -familiar aspect of the streets brought his thoughts round to the more -experienced friend who had witnessed his rapid change of fortune. In -obedience to one of those simple impulses which form such a charming -trait in the young—affording as they do a beautiful but rare example -of the invincible bond between the inner and the outer man—he grasped -the hand of his silent companion, saying: 'How kind you have been to -me!'. . . And seeing Claude's eyes turned upon him in some astonishment, -he continued: 'If you had not been so encouraging when I made my first -attempts I should never have brought you "Le Sigisbée," and if you had -not recommended it to Mademoiselle Rigaud it would now be mouldering on -some manager's shelf. If you had not spoken to the Comtesse Komof my -piece would not be performed at her house, and I should not be going -there this evening. I am happy, very happy, and I owe it all to you! Ah! -<i>mon ami</i>, you may think me as silly as a schoolboy, but you cannot -imagine how often I have dreamt of that world into which you are now -taking me, where the mere dresses of the women are poems, and where joy -and grief are set in exquisite frames!' -</p> - -<p> -'Would that these women had souls of the same stuff as their dresses!' -exclaimed Claude with a smile. 'But you surprise me,' he went on; 'do -you think that you will be in Society because you are received by Madame -Komof, a foreign countess who keeps open house, or by any of the -lion-hunters whom you will meet there, and who will tell you that they -are at home every afternoon? You will go out a good deal, if you like -that kind of thing, but you will be no more in Society than I or any -other artist or even genius, simply because you were not born in it, and -because your family is not in it. You will be received and made much of. -But try to marry into one of these families and you will see what they -will tell you. And a good thing for you, too. Good heavens! if you only -knew these women whom you picture to yourself as being so refined, so -elegant, so aristocratic! Mere bundles of vanity, dressed by Worth or -Laferrière . . . Why, there are not ten in the whole of Paris capable -of true feeling. The most honest are those who take a lover because they -like him. Were you to dissect them, you would find in place of a heart a -dressmaker's bill, half-a-dozen prejudices which serve as principles, -and a mad desire to eclipse some other woman. What fools we are to be -here in this vehicle—two fairly sensible men with work to do at -home—you all of a tremble at the idea of mixing with so-called -<i>grandes dames</i>, and I . . .!' -</p> - -<p> -'What has Colette been doing to-day?' asked René quietly, a little put -out by the asperity of his friend's words, though not laying much weight -upon arguments applied with such evident rancour. These furious -outbursts were nearly always caused, as he knew, by some coquetry on the -part of the actress with whom Claude was madly in love, and who -delighted in fooling him, though loving him in her way. It was one of -those attachments, based on hatred and sensuality, which both torture -and degrade the heart, and which transform their victim into a wild -beast, one of the features peculiar to this sort of passion being the -frequency with which it is liable to suffer crises as sharp and violent -as the physical ideas on which it feeds. -</p> - -<p> -The image of his mistress had probably flashed across Claude's brain, -and the happy frame of mind called forth by his last visit had -immediately yielded to sudden rage—rage which he would have -satisfied at that moment by no matter what outrageous paradox. He fell -headlong into the trap laid for him by his friend, and, grasping the arm -of the latter tightly, he said with a sickly laugh: 'What has she been -doing to-day? . . . Are you anxious to know the depth of this keen -analyst of women's hearts, this subtle psychologist as the papers call -me, this unmitigated ass as I call myself? Alas! my wits have never -served for aught else than to convince me of my folly! . . . Have I told -you,' he added, dropping his voice, 'that I have grown to be jealous of -Salvaney? . . . I forgot, you don't know Salvaney—an up-to-date -gallant who goes about his love affairs cheque-book in hand! . . . With -a nose like a beetroot, a bald pate, eyes starting from their sockets, -and a colour like a drover! . . . But there you are—he is an -<i>anglomane, anglomane</i> to such an extent that the Prince of Wales -is a Frenchman by the side of him. . . . Last year he spent three months -in Florence, and I myself heard him boast that in those three months he -had never worn a shirt that had not been washed in London. You must take -my word for it that in Society, which has such a fascination for you, -one fact like that gives a man more prestige than if he had written the -"Nabab" or "L'Assommoir." Well! this individual pleases Colette. He is -to be found in her dressing-room as often as I am, and gazes at her with -his whisky-drinker's eyes. It was he who introduced the custom of going -to a bar filled with jockeys and bookmakers, in order to sip most -abominable spirits after the Opera; I will take you there some evening, -and you will see the beauty for yourself. . . . Colette lets him take -her even there, and goes about everywhere with him in a brougham. . . . -"Get out!" she says, "you are not going to be jealous of a man like -that, are you? He smells of gin, to begin with." . . . Such women will -tell you these things without any ado, and pull to pieces in the most -shameless manner their lovers of yesterday. . . . To cut a long story -short, I was at her house this morning. Yes, yes—I knew all about -these things, but I didn't believe them. A fellow like Salvaney! If you -were to see him you would understand how incredible it seems, and as for -her—well, you know her with that soft look in her eyes, with her -mouth <i>à la Botticelli</i> and her exquisite grace. What a pity it -seems! Well, I was with her when the servant, a fresh importation, who -didn't know her business, brought a letter in, saying, "It's from -Monsieur Salvaney—his man is waiting for an answer." In one of her -fits of affection Colette had just sworn to me that nothing, absolutely -nothing, not even the shadow of a shade of a flirtation had ever passed -between them. As she held the letter in her hand I was foolish enough to -think, "She is going to show me the letter, and I shall have written -proofs that she has not told me a lie—and proof positive, for -Salvaney could not have known that I should see this letter." She held -the letter in her hand, and, looking at me, said to the girl, "Very -well, I'll answer it at once. You will excuse me, won't you?" she added, -passing into the other room—with her letter! I suppose you think I -took my hat and stick and left the house for good with an oath on my -lips? No, I stayed, <i>mon cher ami</i>. She came back, rang the bell, -gave the servant a note, and then, coming towards me, said, "Are you -angry?" Silence on my part. "Did you want to read that letter?" I was -still silent. "No, you sha'n't read it," she continued, with a pretty -little frown; "I have burnt it. He only asked for the pattern of some -stuff for a fancy dress; but I want you to believe me on my bare word." -All this was said as coolly as possible; I have never seen her act -better. Don't ask me what I said in reply. I treated her as the vilest -thing on earth. I flung into her teeth all the disgust, hatred, and -contempt I felt for her; and then, as she sat there sobbing, I took her -in my arms, and on the very spot where she had lied to me, and I had -treated her like the common thing she was, we kissed and made it up. Do -you think I have fallen low enough?' -</p> - -<p> -'But were your suspicions correct?' asked René. -</p> - -<p> -'Were they correct?' re-echoed Claude, with that accent of cruel triumph -affected by jealous lovers when their mad desire to know all has ended -in proving their worst suspicions up to the hilt. 'Do you know what -Salvaney's note contained? An appointment—and Colette's reply -confirmed the appointment. I know this, for I had her followed. Yes, I -stooped even to that. He met her coming from rehearsal, and they were -together until eight o'clock.' -</p> - -<p> -'And haven't you broken with her?' asked Vincy. -</p> - -<p> -'It's all over,' replied Claude, 'and for good, I promise you. But I -must tell her what I think of her, just for the last time. The wretch! -You'll see how I'll treat her to-night.' -</p> - -<p> -In telling his sad tale Claude had betrayed such intense grief that -René's former feelings of joy were quite disturbed. Pity for the man to -whom he was deeply attached by bonds of gratitude was mingled with -disgust for Colette's shameless duplicity. For a moment he felt, too, -some deep-lying remorse as he conjured up by way of contrast the pure -soul that shone in Rosalie's honest eyes. But it was only a passing -fancy, quickly dispelled by the sudden change in his companion. This -demon of a man, who was one bundle of nerves, possessed the gift of -changing his ideas and feelings with a rapidity that was perfectly -inexplicable. He had just been speaking in despairing accents and in a -voice broken with emotion, which his friend knew to be sincere. Snapping -his fingers as if to get rid of his trouble, he muttered, 'Come, come,' -and immediately brought the conversation round to literary topics, so -that the two writers were discussing the last novel when the sudden -stoppage of the vehicle as it fell in behind a long line of others told -them that they had arrived. -</p> - -<p> -René's heart began to beat afresh with short, convulsive throbs. The -cab stopped before a doorway protected by an awning, and again the -dreamlike feeling came over the young man on finding himself in the -ante-room which he had already once passed through. There were several -liveried footmen in the room, which was filled with flowers and heated -by invisible pipes. The coats and cloaks arranged on long tables and the -hum of conversation that came from the <i>salons</i> made it evident that -most of the guests had arrived. In the ante-room there was only one -lady, whom an attendant was just helping off with her fur-lined cloak, -from which she emerged in an elegantly fitting low-necked dress of red -material. She had a very distinguished face, a nose slightly tipped, and -lips that denoted spirituality. A few diamonds sparkled amidst the -tresses of her fair silken hair. René saw Claude bow to her, and he -felt himself grow pale as her eyes rested indifferently upon him—eyes -of light blue set off by that complexion, found in blondes, which, in -spite of the hackneyed metaphor, can only be described as that of a -blush rose, possessing as it does all the freshness and delicacy of the -latter. -</p> - -<p> -'That's Madame Moraines,' said Claude, 'the daughter of Victor -Bois-Dauffin, a Minister during the Empire.' -</p> - -<p> -These words, spoken as if in reply to a mute question, were to come back -to René more than once. More than once was he to ask himself what -strange fate had brought him face to face, almost on the threshold of -this house, with the one woman who, of all those assembled in these -<i>salons</i>, was to exercise most influence upon him. But at the moment -itself he felt none of those presentiments which sometimes seize us on -meeting a creature who is to bring us either good or evil. The vision of -this beautiful woman of thirty, who had already disappeared whilst -Claude and he were waiting for the numbers of their coats, became lost -in the confused impression created by the novelty of everything around -him. Though it was impossible for him to analyse his feelings, the -richness of the carpets, the splendidly decorated vestibule, the lofty -halls, the livery of the footmen, the reflection of the lights, all went -a long way towards making this impression a strange medley of painful -timidity and delightful sensuality. -</p> - -<p> -On the occasion of his first visit he had already felt himself enveloped -by those thousand indescribable atoms that float in the atmosphere of -luxury. Persons born in opulence no more perceive these infinitely small -but subtle trifles than we perceive the weight of the air that surrounds -us. We cannot feel what we have always felt. Nor do <i>parvenus</i> ever -tell us their impressions. Their instinct teaches them to swallow such -feelings and to keep them hidden in their hearts. Apart from all this, -René had no time to reflect upon the snobbishness of the feeling that -filled him. The doors were swung back, and he entered the first -<i>salon</i>, furnished in that sumptuous but stereotyped style peculiar -to all the big modern houses in Paris. Whoever has seen one has seen -them all. A novice like René, however, would discover signs of the -purest aristocracy in the smallest details of this furniture, in the -antique materials with which the arm-chairs were upholstered, and in the -tapestry that hung over the chimney-piece and represented a Triumph of -Bacchus. The first <i>salon</i>, of middling dimensions, communicated by -folding doors with another much larger, in which all the guests were -evidently assembled, judging by the hum of conversation. René's -perceptive faculties being in that state of intense excitement -frequently caused by extreme shyness, he was able to take in the whole -scene at a glance; he saw Madame Moraines in her red dress disappear -through the open folding doors, and the Comtesse Komof talking, with -violent and extravagant gesticulation, to a group of people before the -chimney-piece of the smaller <i>salon.</i> The Comtesse was a tall woman -of almost tragic appearance; she had shoulders too narrow for the rest -of her body, white hair, rather harsh features, and grey eyes of -piercing brilliancy. The sombre hue of her dress enhanced the -magnificence of the jewels with which she was covered, and her hands, as -she waved them about, displayed a wealth of enormous sapphires, -emeralds, and diamonds. Acknowledging with a smile the bow that Claude -and René made her, she continued her account of a <i>séance</i> of -spiritualism—a favourite hobby of hers. -</p> - -<p> -'The table went up, up, up,' she said, 'until our hands could scarcely -follow it. The candles were blown out by invisible lips, and in the -darkness I saw a hand pass up and down—an immense hand—it was -that of Peter the Great!' -</p> - -<p> -The muscles of her face grew rigid as she spoke, and her eyes became -fixed as if on a terrible apparition. Traces of that brutish and almost -half-witted creature of instinct that lurks even in the most refined -Russian appeared for a few seconds upon the surface. Then the Society -woman suddenly remembered that she had to perform the honours of her -house, and the smile came back to her lips and the gleam in her eyes -grew softer. Was it that intuition peculiar to elderly women which gives -them such a soothing influence over men of irritable nerves that -revealed to her how solitary René felt in the midst of these crowded -<i>salons</i>, where he knew not a soul? As soon as her story was ended she -was good enough to turn to him with a smile and say: 'Do you believe in -spirits, Monsieur Vincy? Of course you do—you are a poet. But we'll -talk of that some other day. You must come with me now, in spite of the -fact that I'm neither young nor pretty, and be presented to some of my -friends, who are already passionate admirers of yours.' -</p> - -<p> -She had taken the young man's arm, and, although he was above the middle -height, she was taller than he by half a head. Her tragic expression was -not deceptive. She had really lived through what the strange look in her -eyes and the determined set of her features led one to imagine. Her -husband had been murdered almost at her feet, and she herself had killed -the assassin. René had heard the story from Claude, and he could see the -scene before him—the Comte Komof, a distinguished diplomat, stabbed -to the heart by a Nihilist in his study; the Comtesse entering at the -moment and bringing down the murderer by a well-directed shot. While the -young man reflected that those tapering fingers, resplendent with rings -as they lay on his coat sleeve, had clutched the pistol, his partner had -already commenced some fresh story with that savage energy of expression -that in people of Slavonic race is not incompatible with the most -refined and elegant manners. -</p> - -<p> -'It was on my arrival in Paris about eight years ago, just after the -war. I had not been here since the first Exhibition, in 1855. Ah! my -dear sir, the Paris of those days was really charming . . . and your -Emperor . . . <i>idéal!</i> She had a way of dwelling on her last -syllables when she wished to express her enthusiasm. 'My daughter, the -Princess Roudine, was with me—I don't think you know her; she -lives in Florence all the year round. She was taken ill, but Doctor -Louvet—you know, the little man who looks like a miniature edition -of Henri III.—got her over it. I always call him Louvetsky, -because he only attends Russians. I could not think of taking her away -from Paris, so this house being for sale, ready furnished, I bought it. -But I've turned everything upside down. Look here, this used to be the -garden,' she added, showing René the larger <i>salon</i>, which they -had just entered. -</p> - -<p> -This <i>salon</i> was a vast apartment, whose walls were hung with -canvases of all sizes and schools, picked up by the Comtesse in the -course of her European rambles. Though René had been strongly impressed -from the first by the general air of material well-being everywhere -apparent, this feeling was intensified by the spiritual luxury, if one -may use such a term, which such cosmopolitanism represents. The way in -which the Comtesse had mentioned Florence, as if it were a suburb of -Paris, the resources indicated by the improvements effected in the -mansion, the fluency with which this grand Russian lady spoke -French—how could a young man accustomed to the limited horizon of -a struggling family of modest <i>bourgeois</i> fail to be struck with -childlike wonder at the sight of a world such as these details -suggested? His eyes opened wide to take in the whole of the charming -scene before him. At the end of the <i>salon</i> heavy, dark red -curtains hung across the usual entrance to the dining-room, which -apartment, approached by three broad stairs, had been turned for the -nonce into a stage. In the centre of the hall stood a marble column -surmounted by a bust in bronze of the famous Nicolas Komof, the friend -of Peter the Great—this ancestral kind of monument being -surrounded by a group of gigantic palms in huge pots of Indian brass -ware, whilst lines of chairs were drawn up between the column and the -stage. -</p> - -<p> -By this time nearly all the ladies were seated, and the lights shone -down upon a living sea of snowy arms and shoulders, some too robust, -others too lean, others again most exquisitely moulded; jewels sparkled -in tresses fair and dark, the flutter of fans tempered the glances that -shot from eloquent eyes, whilst words and laughter became blended in one -loud, harmonious murmur. In the ladies' dresses, too, lay a wonderful -play of colour, and one side of the <i>salon</i> presented a striking -contrast to the other, where the men, in their swallow-tails, formed a -solid mass of black. A few women, however, had found their way amongst -the sterner sex, while here and there a dark patch amidst the seated -fair ones betrayed the presence of a male interloper. The whole of the -company, although somewhat mixed, was composed of people accustomed to -meet daily, and for years, in places that serve as common ground for -different sets of Society. There were blue-blooded duchesses from the -Faubourg Saint-Germain, whose sporting tastes and charity errands took -them to all kinds of places. There were also the wives of big financiers -and politicians, representing every degree of cosmopolitan elegance, and -there were even the wives of plain artists, following up their husbands' -successes through a string of fashionable dinners and receptions. -</p> - -<p> -But to a new-comer like René Vincy the social distinctions that broke -up the <i>salon</i> into a series of very dissimilar groups were utterly -imperceptible. The spectacle upon which he gazed surpassed, in outward -magnificence, his wildest dreams. Amidst a hum of voices he allowed -himself to be presented to some of the men as they passed, and to a few -of the women seated on the back row of chairs, bowing and stammering out -a few words in reply to the compliments with which the more amiable ones -favoured him. Madame Komof, perceiving his timidity, was kind enough not -to leave him, especially since Claude, a prey to some fresh fit of his -amorous passion, had disappeared. He had probably gone behind the -scenes, and when the signal for raising the curtain was given the poet -found himself seated beside the Comtesse in the shadow of the palms that -surrounded the ancestral bust, happy that he was in a place where he -could escape notice. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap04"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER IV -<br /><br /> -THE 'SIGISBÉE'</h4> - -<p> -Two footmen in livery drew back the curtains from before the miniature -stage. The scene being laid 'In a garden, in Venice,' nothing had been -required in the way of scenery beyond a piece of cloth stretched across -the back of the stage and a bank formed of plants selected from the -hostess's famous conservatory. With the somewhat crude appearance of -their foliage under the glare of the light these exotic shrubs made a -setting very different to that which M. Perrin had arranged with so much -taste at the Comédie Française. That model of a manager, if ever there -was one, had hit upon the happy idea of placing before his audience one -of the terraces on the lagoon that lead by a flight of marble steps down -to the lapping waters, with the variegated façades of the palaces -standing out against the blue sky and the black gondolas flitting round -the corners of the tortuous canals. The change from the usual scenery, -the diminutive stage, the limited and eminently select audience, all -contributed to increase René's feeling of uneasiness, and he again felt -his heart beating as wildly as on the night of the first performance at -the theatre. -</p> - -<p> -The appearance of Colette Rigaud, dressed <i>à la Watteau</i>, was the -signal for a burst of applause, which the actress smilingly -acknowledged. Even in her gay attire, copied from one of the great -painter's <i>fêtes galantes</i>, and in spite of her powdered hair, her -patch, and her pale cheeks bedaubed with paint, there was a tone of -sadness about her—something in the dreamy look of the eyes and the -melancholy expression on the sensual lips that reminded one of -Botticelli's madonnas and angels. How many times had not René heard -Claude sigh: 'When she has been telling me lies, and then looks at me in -her own peculiar way, I begin to pity her instead of getting angry.' -</p> - -<p> -Colette had already attacked the first lines of her part and René's -anguish was at its highest pitch, while all around he heard the loud -remarks which even well-bred people will make when an artiste appears on -a drawing-room stage. 'She's very pretty. Do you think it's the same -dress she wears at the theatre? She's a little too thin for my taste. -What a sympathetic voice! No, she imitates Sarah Bernhardt too much. I'm -in love with the piece, aren't you? To tell you the truth, poetry always -sends me to sleep.' The poet's sharp ears caught all these exclamations -and many more. They were, however, soon silenced by a loud 'hush!' that -came from a knot of young men standing near René, conspicuous among -them being a bald-headed individual with rather a prominent nose and a -very red face. -</p> - -<p> -The Comtesse thanked him with a wave of her hand, and, turning to her -partner, said: 'That's M. Salvaney; he is madly in love with Colette.' -Silence was reestablished, a silence broken only by the rustle of -dresses and the unfurling of fans. -</p> - -<p> -René now listened in delightful intoxication to the music of his own -verses, for by the silence as well as by the murmurs of approval that -were occasionally heard he felt, he knew, that his work was as surely -captivating this select audience as it had captivated the 'house' on its -first night at the Théâtre Français, then filled with tired critics, -worn-out reporters, scoffing <i>boulevardiers</i>, and smart women. -Gradually his thoughts took him back, in spite of himself, to the period -when he had first thought out and then written the little play which was -that night procuring him such a new and delightful thrill of -gratification, after having so completely changed the tenor of his life. -He saw himself once more in the Luxembourg garden at the close of a -bright spring day; the charm of the deepening twilight, the smell of the -flowers, the dark blue sky seen through the spare foliage, and the -marble statues of the queens—all these things had deeply impressed -him as he walked with Rosalie, silent, by his side. She had such a -simple way of looking up at him with her great black eyes, in which he -could read unconscious though tender passion. -</p> - -<p> -It was on that evening that he had first spoken to her of love, there, -amidst the scent of the early lilac, whilst the voices of Madame Offarel -and Emilie could be heard, indistinctly, in the distance. He had -returned to the Rue Coëtlogon a prey to that fever of hope which brings -tears to one's eyes and moves one's nature to its inmost depths. Finding -it impossible to sleep, he had sat there alone in his room and drawn a -comparison between Rosalie and the object of an earlier but less -innocent attachment—a girl named Elise, living in the Quartier -Latin. He had met her in a <i>brasserie</i>, where he had been taken by -the only two comrades he possessed. Faded as she was, Elise could still -boast of good looks, in spite of the black under her eyes, the powder -all over her face, and the carmine on her lips. She had taken a fancy to -him, and although she shocked him dreadfully by her gestures and her -mode of thought, by her voice and her expressions, he had continued the -acquaintanceship for about six months—six months that had left him -nothing but a bitter memory. Being one of those in whom passion leads to -affection, he had become attached to the girl in spite of himself, and -he had suffered cruelly from her coquetry, the coarseness of her -feelings, and the stock of moral infamy that formed the groundwork of -the poor creature's nature. -</p> - -<p> -Seated at his writing-table that night, and dreaming ecstatically of -Rosalie's purity, he had conceived the idea of a poem in which he should -draw a contrast between a coquette and a true, tender-hearted girl. -Then, being an ardent admirer of Shakespeare and de Musset, his vulgar -love affair with Elise underwent a strange metamorphosis and became an -Italian romance. There and then he made a rough sketch of the -'Sigisbée,' and composed fifty lines. It was the simple story of a -young Venetian noble, named Lorenzo, who had fallen in love with -Princess Cœlia, a cold and cruel coquette. The unhappy swain, after -wasting much time and many tears in wooing this unrelenting beauty, was -advised by a young Marquis de Sénecé, a French <i>roué</i> on a visit to -Venice, to affect an interest in the sweet and pretty Countess Beatrice -in order to awaken Cœlia's jealousy. He then discovered that the -Countess had long loved him, and when Cœlia, caught in the trap, tried -to lead him back, Lorenzo, profiting by experience, said the perfidious -lady nay, and gave himself up entirely to the charms of her who loved -him without guile. -</p> - -<p> -Colette, as Cœlia, was speaking while Lorenzo sat lamenting. The -<i>roué</i> was cynical and Beatrice lost in dreams. These characters, -coming straight from the world of Benedict and Perdican, of Rosalind and -Fortunio, strutted on and off, enveloped in a ray of poetry as sweet and -light as a moonbeam. As René heard the frequent exclamations of -'Charming!' or 'Exquisite!' that escaped from the crowd of women before -him he recalled the nights of wakefulness that this or that passage had -cost him. There were these pathetic lines, for instance, written by -Lorenzo to Cœlia, and afterwards shown by the latter to Beatrice. How -sweet Colette's voice became, in spite of its mocking note, as she read -them out. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">If kisses for kisses the roses could pay</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When our lips o'er their petals in ecstasy stray;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">If the lilacs and tall slender lilies could guess</span><br /> -<span class="i2">How their sweet perfume fills us with sorrowfulness;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">If the motionless sky and the sea never still</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Could know how with joy at their beauties we thrill;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">If all that we love in this strange world below</span><br /> -<span class="i2">A soul in exchange on our souls could bestow:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">But the sea set around us, the sky set above,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Lilacs, roses, and you, sweet, know nothing of love.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -And as he listened the past returned to René more vividly than ever; he -was back in his peaceful room again, and felt once more the secret -pleasure of rising each morning to resume his unfinished task. By -Claude's advice, and from a childish desire to imitate the ways of -genius—a foolish but pretty trait in most young writers—he had -adopted the method formerly practised by Balzac. In bed by eight o'clock at -night, he would get up before four in the morning, and, lighting the -fire and the lamp, would make himself some coffee over a little -spirit-stove, all prepared for him by his sister in the evening. As the -fire burned up brightly and the aroma of the inspiring Mocha filled the -little room, he would sit down at the table with Rosalie's portrait -before him and begin work. Gradually the noises of Paris grew more -distinct as the great city awakened once more to life. Then he would put -down his pen and gaze at the engravings that adorned the wall or turn -over the leaves of a book. About six o'clock Emilie would make her -appearance. In spite of her household cares, this loving sister found -time to copy day by day the lines that her brother had written. For -nothing in the world would she have allowed one of René's manuscripts -to pass into the hands of the printers. Poor Emilie! How happy it would -have made her to hear the applause that drowned Colette's voice, and -what unalloyed pleasure René's would have been had not the change in -his feelings with respect to Rosalie sent a pang of sadness through his -heart at the very moment when the play was finishing amidst the -enthusiasm of the whole audience. -</p> - -<p> -'It is a glorious success,' said the Comtesse to the young author. 'You -will see how these people will fight for you.' And as if to corroborate -what might only have been the flattery of a gracious hostess, René -could hear, during the hubbub that succeeded the close of the piece, -broken sentences that came to him amid the <i>frou-frou</i> of the dresses, -the noise of falling chairs, and the commonplaces of conversation. -</p> - -<p> -'That's the author! Where? That young man. So young! Do you know him? -He's a good-looking fellow. Why does he wear his hair so long? I rather -like to see it—it looks artistic. Well, a man may be clever, and -still have his hair cut. But his play is charming. Charming! Charming! Who -introduced him to the Comtesse? Claude Larcher. Poor Larcher! Look at -him hanging round Colette. He and Salvaney will come to blows one of -these days. So much the better; it will cool their blood. Are you going -to stay to supper?' -</p> - -<p> -These were a few of the snatches of conversation that reached the -author's sensitive ears as he bowed and blushed under the weight of the -compliments showered upon him by a woman who had carried him away from -Madame Komof almost by force. She was a long, lean creature of about -fifty, the widow of a M. de Sermoises, who, since his death, had been -promoted to 'my poor Sermoises,' after having been, while alive, the -laughing-stock of the clubs on account of his fair partner's behaviour. -The lady, as she grew older, had transferred her attention from men to -literature, but to literature of a serious and even devotional kind. She -had heard from the Comtesse in a vague sort of way that the author of -the 'Sigisbée' was the nephew of a priest, and the air of romance that -pervaded the little play gave her reason to think that the young writer -had nothing in common with the literature of the day, the tendencies of -which she held in virtuous execration. Turning to René with the -exaggerated tone of pomposity adopted by her in giving utterance to her -poor, prudish ideas—a judge passing sentence of death could scarcely -be more severe—she said: 'Ah, monsieur! what poetry! What divine -grace! It is Watteau on paper. And what sentiment! This piece is -epoch-making, sir—yes, epoch-making. We women are avenged by you -upon those self-styled analysts who seem to write their books with a -scalpel in a house of ill-fame.' -</p> - -<p> -'Madame,' stammered the young man, taken off his feet by this -astonishing phraseology. -</p> - -<p> -'You will come and see me, won't you?' she continued. 'I am at home on -Wednesdays from five to seven. I think you will prefer the people I -receive in my house to those you have met here to-night; the dear -Comtesse is a foreigner, you know. Some of the members of the -<i>Institut</i> do me the honour of consulting me about their works. I -have written a few poems myself. Oh! quite unpretentious -things—lines to the memory of poor Monsieur de Sermoises—a -small collection that I have called "Lilies from the Grave." You must -give me your candid opinion upon them. Madame Hurault—Monsieur -Vincy,' she added, presenting the writer to a woman of about forty, -whose face and figure were still elegant in outline. 'Charming, wasn't -it? Watteau on paper!' -</p> - -<p> -'You must be very fond of Alfred de Musset, sir, remarked this lady. She -was the wife of a Society man who, under the pseudonym of Florac, had -written several plays that had fallen flat in spite of the untiring -energy of Madame Hurault, who, for the past sixteen years, had not given -a single dinner at which some critic, some manager, or some person -connected with some critic or manager had not been present. -</p> - -<p> -'Who is not fond of him at my age?' replied the young man. -</p> - -<p> -'That is what I said to myself as I listened to your pretty verse,' -continued Madame Hurault; 'it produced the same effect as music already -heard.' Then, having launched her epigram, she remembered that in many a -young poet there lurks a future critic, and tried to smooth down by an -invitation the phrase that betrayed the cruel envy of a rival's wife. 'I -hope you will come and see us; my husband is not here, but he will be -glad to make your acquaintance. I am always at home on Thursdays from -five till seven.' -</p> - -<p> -'Madame Ethorel—Monsieur Vincy,' said Madame de Sermoises, again -introducing René, but this time to a very young and very pretty -woman—a pale brunette, with large dreamy eyes and a delicacy of -complexion that contrasted with her full, rich voice. -</p> - -<p> -'Ah! monsieur,' she began, 'how you appeal to the heart! I love that -sonnet which Lorenzo recites—let me see, how does it go?— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">The spectre of a year long dead.'</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -'"The phantom of a day long dead,"' said René, involuntarily correcting -the line which the pretty lips had misquoted; and with unconscious -pedantry he repressed a smile, for the passage in question, two verses -of five lines each, presented not the slightest resemblance to a sonnet. -</p> - -<p> -'That's it,' rejoined Madame Ethorel; 'divine, sir, divine! I am at home -on Saturdays from five till seven. A very small set, I assure you, if -you will do me the honour of calling.' -</p> - -<p> -René had no time to thank her, for Madame de Sermoises, a prey to that -strange form of vanity that delights in reflected glory, and which -inspires both men and women with an irresistible desire to constitute -themselves the showman of any interesting personage, was already -dragging him away to fresh introductions. In this way he had to bow -first to Madame Abel Mosé, the celebrated Israelitish beauty, all in -white; then to Madame de Suave all in pink, and to Madame Bernard all in -blue. Then Madame de Komof once more took possession of him in order to -present him to the Comtesse de Candale, the haughty descendant of the -terrible marshal of the fifteenth century, and to her sister the -Duchesse d'Arcole, these high-sounding French names being succeeded by -others impossible to catch, and belonging to some of the hostess's -relatives. René was also called upon to shake hands with the men who -were in attendance on these ladies, and thus made the acquaintance of -the Marquis de Hère, the most careful man in town, who with an income -of twenty thousand francs lived as though he had fifty; of the Vicomte -de Brèves, doing his best to ruin himself for the third time; of -Crucé, the collector; of San Giobbe, the famous Italian shot, and of -three or four Russians. -</p> - -<p> -The names of most of these Society women and clubmen were familiar to -the poet from his having read them, with childish avidity, in the -fashionable intelligence published by the newspapers for the edification -of young <i>bourgeois</i> dreaming of high life. He had formed such -grand and entirely false notions of the 'upper ten' of Paris—a -little world of wealthy cosmopolitans rather than French -aristocrats—that a feeling of both rapture and disenchantment came -over him at the realisation of one of his earliest dreams. The splendour -of his surroundings charmed him, and his success soothed his -professional vanity. There were smiles for him on such tempting lips and -kind looks in such glorious eyes. But though all this was very -flattering, it overwhelmed him with a sense of shyness, and, whilst the -crowd of strange faces struck a kind of terror into his soul, the -commonplace praise destroyed his illusions. What makes Society—of -whatever class it be—utterly insupportable to many artists is the -fact that they appear in it on rare occasions only, in order to be -lionised, and that they expect something extraordinary, whilst those who -really belong to Society move in the atmosphere of a drawing-room with -the natural ease that accompanies a daily habit. The indescribable -feeling of disenchantment, the daze of excitement produced by endless -introductions, the intoxication of flattery and the anguish of timidity -all made René eager to find his friend. Claude had disappeared, but the -poet's eyes fell upon Colette, who, having come down from the stage in -her bright-coloured dress of the last century and her powdered hair, -formed a striking contrast in colour to the black coats of the men by -whom she was surrounded. She, too, was evidently embarrassed—a -feeling betrayed by her somewhat nervous smile, by the look of defiance -in her eyes, and the rapid opening and shutting of her fan. With her it -was the embarrassment of an actress suddenly transported beyond her -sphere, proud of, and yet distressed by, the attentions she commands. -</p> - -<p> -She met René with a smile that showed real pleasure in finding one of -her own set, and breaking off her conversation with the owner of a -terra-cotta complexion, who could be no other than Claude's rival, -Salvaney, she cried, 'Ah! here is my author!—Well,' she added, -shaking hands with the poet, 'I suppose you are quite satisfied? How well -everything has gone off! Come, Salvaney, compliment Monsieur Vincy, even -if you don't understand anything about it. And your friend Larcher,' she -went on, 'has he disappeared? Tell him for me that he nearly made me die -of laughing on the stage. He was wearing a love-lock and his -weeping-willow air. For whom was he acting his Antony?' -</p> - -<p> -A cruel look came into her greenish eyes, and in the curl of her lips -there was an expression of hatred called forth by the fact that the -unhappy Claude had gone without bidding her good night. Though she -deceived and tortured him, she loved him in her way, and loved above all -to bring him to her feet. She experienced a keen delight in making a -fool of him before Salvaney, and in thinking that the simple René would -repeat all her words to his friend. -</p> - -<p> -'Why do you say such things?' replied the young man in an undertone -while Colette's partner was shaking hands with a friend; 'you know very -well that he loves you.' -</p> - -<p> -'I know all about that,' said the actress with a harsh laugh. 'You -swallow all he tells you—I know the story. I am his evil genius, his -fatal woman, his Delilah. I have quite a heap of letters in which he -treats me to a lot of that kind of thing. That does not prevent him from -getting as drunk as a lord, under pretence of escaping from me. I -suppose it's my fault, too, that he gambles and drinks and uses morphia? -Get out!' And, shrugging her pretty shoulders, she added more gaily: -'The Comtesse is making signs for us to go down to supper. . . . -Salvaney, your arm!' -</p> - -<p> -The numerous introductions had taken up some time, and René, suddenly -called back to his surroundings by Colette's last words, saw that there -were but very few people left in the <i>salons.</i> The Comtesse had not -invited more than about thirty to stay, and gave the signal for -adjourning to the supper-room by taking the arm of the most illustrious -of her guests, an ambassador then much run after in fashionable circles. -The other couples marched off behind her, mounting a narrow staircase -adorned with some marvellous wood-carving brought from Italy. This led -to an apartment which, though furnished as a boudoir, was really a -<i>salon</i> in size. In the centre was a long table, laden with flowers, -and fruit, and sparkling with crystal and silver. Near each plate stood a -small pink glow-lamp encircled with moss—an English novelty that -called forth the admiration of the guests as they sat down wherever they -chose. -</p> - -<p> -René, having in his bashful way gone up alone among the last, chose an -empty seat between the Vicomte de Brèves and the fair woman in red whom -Larcher and he had met in the ante-room, and whom Claude had spoken of -as Madame Moraines, the daughter of the famous Bois-Dauffin, one of the -most unpopular ministers of Napoleon III. Feeling quite unobserved where -he was, for Madame Moraines was carrying on a conversation with her -neighbour on the left whilst the Vicomte de Brèves was busily engaged -with his partner on the right, René was at length able to collect his -thoughts and to take a look at the guests, behind whom the servants were -continually passing to and fro as they attended to their wants. His -glance wandered from Colette, who was laughing and flirting with -Salvaney, to Madame Komof, no doubt telling some fresh tale of her -spirit experiences, for her eyes had resumed their piercing brilliancy, -her looks were agitated, and her long bejewelled hands trembled as she -sat oblivious of all around her table—she generally so attentive and -so eager to please her guests! René's feeling of solitude had now become -almost painful in its intensity, either because the varied sensations -undergone that evening had tried his nerves or because the sudden -transition from flattery to neglect appeared to him a symbol of the -worthlessness of the world's applause. Some of the women who had -overwhelmed him with praise were gone; the others had naturally chosen -seats near their own friends. At the other end of the table he could see -himself reflected in the actor who had taken the part of Lorenzo, the -only one of the players besides Colette who had stayed to supper, and -who, looking very stiff and awkward in his gorgeous attire, was doing -justice to the viands without exchanging a word with anyone. -</p> - -<p> -In this frame of mind René began to look at his fair neighbour, whose -charms had made such an impression upon him during their momentary -encounter in the hall. He had not been mistaken in judging her at the -first glance as a creature of thoroughly aristocratic appearance. -Everything about her, from her delicately-cut features to her slim waist -and slender wrists, had an air of distinction and of almost excessive -grace. Her hands seemed fragile, so dainty were her fingers and so -transparent. The fault of such kind of beauty lies in the very qualities -that constitute its charm. Its exceeding daintiness is frequently too -pronounced, and what might really be graceful becomes peculiar. Closer -study of Madame Moraines showed that this ethereal beauty encased a -being of strength, and that beneath all this exquisite grace was hidden -a woman who lived well, and whose sound health was revealed in many -ways. Her shapely head was gracefully poised on a full neck, while her -well-rounded shoulders were not disfigured by a single angle. When she -smiled she showed a set of sharp white teeth, and the way in which she -did honour to the supper testified that her digestion had withstood the -innumerable dangers with which fashionable women are beset—from the -pressure of corsets to late suppers, to say nothing of the daily habit -of dining out. Her eyes, of a soft, pale blue, would remind a dreamer of -Ophelia and Desdemona, but possessed that perfect, humid setting in -which the physiognomists of yore saw signs of a full enjoyment of life, -the freshness of her eyelids telling of happy slumbers that recruit the -whole constitution, whilst her lovely complexion showed her rich blood -to be free of any taint of anæmia. -</p> - -<p> -To a philosophising physician, the contrast between the almost ideal -charm of this physiognomy and the evident materialism of this physiology -would have furnished food for reflections not altogether reassuring. But -the young man who was stealing glances at this beauty whilst toying with -the morsel of <i>chaufroid</i> set before him was a poet—that is to -say, quite the opposite of a physician and a philosopher. Instead of -analysing, he was beginning to take a delight in this proximity. He had -that evening unwittingly succumbed to a spell of sensuality which was -personified, so to speak, in this captivating woman, around whom there -floated such a subtle and penetrating aroma. A faithful disciple of the -masters of Parnassus, he had in his youth possessed a childish mania for -perfumes, and he now inhaled with delight the rare and intoxicating -odour he recognised as white heliotrope, remembering how he had once, -when a prey to the nostalgia of refined passions, written a rhymed -conceit in which the following lines occurred: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Opoponax then sang, 'neath shades so sweet,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">The story of those lips that never meet.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Once more, but more strongly than ever, there sprang up within him, the -simple wish he had expressed to Claude Larcher in the carriage that -evening—to be loved by a woman like the one whose sweet laughter was -that instant ringing in his ear. Dreams—idle dreams! That hour would -pass without his having even exchanged a word with this dreamlike -creature, as far from him here as if a thousand miles had lain between -them. Did she even know that he existed? But just as he was sadly asking -himself this question he felt his heart begin to beat more quickly. -Madame Komof, having by this time recovered from her excitement, had no -doubt perceived the distress depicted on the young man's face, and from -her place at the end of the table said to the Vicomte de Brèves: 'Will -you be good enough to introduce Monsieur Vincy to his neighbour?' -</p> - -<p> -René saw the glorious blue eyes turn towards him, the fair head bend -slightly forward, and a sympathetic smile come to those lips which he -had just mentally compared to a flower, so fresh, pure, and red were -they. He expected to hear from Madame Moraines one of the commonplace -compliments that had exasperated him all the evening, and he was -surprised to find that, instead of at once speaking of his play, she -simply continued the topic upon which she had been conversing with her -neighbour. -</p> - -<p> -'Monsieur Crucé and I were talking about the talent displayed by -Monsieur Perrin in putting plays on the stage. Do you remember the -scenery of the "Sphinx"?' -</p> - -<p> -She spoke in a low, sweet voice that matched her style of beauty, and -gave her that additional and indefinable attraction which helps to -render a woman's charms irresistible to those who come under their -spell. René felt that this voice was as intoxicating as the scent, -which now grew stronger as she turned towards him. He had to make an -effort to reply, so keen was the sensation that overpowered him. Did -Madame Moraines perceive his agitation? Was she flattered by it, as -every woman is flattered by receiving the homage of unconquerable -timidity? However that might be, she was such an adept in the art of -opening a conversation—no easy matter between a Society belle and a -timid admirer—that, before ten minutes were over, René was talking to -her almost confidentially, and expressing his own ideas on stage matters -with a certain amount of natural eloquence, growing quite enthusiastic -in his praise of the performances at Bayreuth, as described to him by -his friends. Madame Moraines sat and listened, putting on that peculiar -air worn by these thoroughbred hypocrites when they are looking at the -man they have determined to ensnare. Had anyone told René that this -ideal woman cared as much about Wagner or music as about her first -frock, and that she really enjoyed only light operettas, he would have -looked as blank as if the boisterous mirth going on around him had -suddenly changed into cries of terror. -</p> - -<p> -Colette, who had evidently had just a little more champagne than was -good for her, was laughing somewhat immoderately, and the guests were -already addressing each other by familiar appellations; amidst all this -noise René heard his neighbour say: 'How delightful it is to meet a -poet who is really what one expects a poet to be! I thought that the -species had died out. Do you know,' she added, with a smile that -reversed their parts, and turned her, the grand Society dame, into a -person intimidated by the indisputable superiority of another; 'do you -know that I was going to ask for an introduction to you just now in the -<i>salon?</i> I had enjoyed the "Sigisbée" so much! But I said to -myself—what is the use? And now chance has brought us together. For a -man who has just had a triumph,' she continued, with a malicious little -smile, 'you were not looking very happy.' -</p> - -<p> -'Ah! madame,' he replied; 'if you only knew—'and in obedience to the -irresistible power this woman already exercised over him, he added: 'You -will think me very ungrateful. I cannot explain to you why, but their -compliments seemed to freeze me.' -</p> - -<p> -'Therefore I didn't pay you any,' she said, adding in a negligent tone, -'You don't go out much, I suppose?' 'You must not make fun of me,' he -replied with that natural grace that constituted his chief charm; 'this -is my first appearance in Society. Before this evening,' he went on, -seeing a look of curiosity come into the woman's eyes, 'I had only read -of it in novels. I am a real savage, you see.' -</p> - -<p> -'But,' she asked, 'how do you spend your evenings?' -</p> - -<p> -'I have worked very hard until lately,' he replied; 'I live with my -sister, and I know almost no one.' -</p> - -<p> -'Who introduced you to the Comtesse?' inquired Madame Moraines. -</p> - -<p> -'One of my friends, whom I dare say you know—Claude Larcher.' -</p> - -<p> -'A charming man,' she said, 'with only one fault—that of thinking -very badly of women. You must not believe all he says,' she added, again -assuming her timid smile; 'he would deprave you. The poor fellow has -always had the misfortune to fall in love with flirts and coquettes, and -is foolish enough to think that all women are like them.' -</p> - -<p> -As she uttered these words an expression of intense sadness came into -her eyes. Her handsome face betrayed all kinds of emotions, from the -pride of a woman who feels outraged by the cruel sayings of a misogynist -writer to pity for Claude, and even a kind of modest fear that René -might be led into similar errors—a fear that implied a mute esteem of -his character. A silence ensued, during which the young man was -surprised to find himself rejoicing in the absence of his friend. It -would have been painful to him to listen on his way home to the brutal -paradoxes with which Colette's jealous lover had regaled him during -their drive from the Rue Coëtlogon to the Rue du Bel-Respiro. He had -been right after all in silently protesting against Claude's withering -tirades, even before he had known a single one of these superior -creatures, towards whom he felt attracted by an irrepressible hope of -finding, amongst them, the woman he should love for life! And he sat -there listening to Madame Moraines as she spoke of secret troubles often -hidden by a life of pleasure, of virtues concealed under the mask of -frivolity, and of works of charity such as were undertaken by one or -other of the friends whom she named. She said all this so simply and so -sweetly that not a single intonation betrayed aught but a sincere love -of the good and the beautiful, and as the company rose from the table -she observed, with a kind of divine modesty at having thus laid bare her -inmost feelings: -</p> - -<p> -'This is a very strange conversation for a supper; you must have heard -of so many "fives to sevens" that I hardly dare to ask you to come and -see me. But in case you should be passing that way, pray remember that I -am always at home before dinner on Opera days. I should like you to see -my husband, who is not here this evening—he wasn't very well. He made -me come, because the Comtesse had asked us so often—which proves,' -she added, as she shook hands with René, 'that one is sometimes rewarded -for doing one's duty, even though it be a social one.' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap05"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER V -<br /><br /> -THE DAWN OF LOVE</h4> - -<p> -The shock of the novel and varied sensations experienced by René Vincy -on that eventful evening had been so great that it was impossible for -him to analyse them as he made his way on foot from the Rue du -Bel-Respiro to the Rue Coëtlogon. Had Claude not left the house so -suddenly, tortured by the pangs of jealousy, the two friends would have -returned together. Whilst walking along the deserted streets with the -silent stars shining above, they would have indulged in one of those -confidential talks in which, when young, we give full utterance to the -feelings inspired by the events of the past few hours. By the mere -mention of the name of Madame Moraines, René might then have discovered -what a hold on his thoughts had suddenly been secured by this rare -specimen of beauty, the living embodiment of all his ideas of -aristocracy. Perhaps from Claude, too, he might have gathered a few -correct notions concerning the lady, and the difference that existed -between a mere fashionable woman like Madame Moraines and a real <i>grande -dame</i>, he would then have been spared the dangerous fever of imagination -which, all along his route, conjured up to his delight visions of -Suzanne. He had heard the Comtesse call her by that pretty name as she -gave her a farewell kiss, and he could see her again in her long, -fur-lined cloak, her shapely head looking quite lost encircled by the -deep ermine collar. He could again see the slight inclination of that -dainty head in his direction before she got into the carriage. He could -see her still, as she sat at supper, with that look in her glorious -eyes, so full of intelligence, and that way she had of moving her lips -to utter words, very simple in themselves, but each of which proved that -this woman's soul matched her beauty, just as her beauty was worthy of -her surroundings. -</p> - -<p> -He was scarcely aware of the length of his journey, covering nearly a -third of Paris. He gazed up at the sky above, and down into the Seine -waters as they rolled darkly along, while the long lines of gas-lamps -before him seemed even to lengthen the dim, far-reaching perspective of -the streets. The night gave him an idea of immensity—a symbol, it -seemed to him then, of his own life. The mental formation peculiar to -poets who are poets only predisposes them to attacks of what, for want -of a more definite name, might be called the lyric state; this is -something like the intoxication produced by hope or despair, according -as the power of exaggerating present sensations to the highest degree is -applied to joy or sorrow. What, after all, was this entry into Society, -which for the moment seemed to this simple boy an entry upon a new life? -Scarcely a glance stolen through a half-open door, and which, to be of -any use at all, would have to be followed up by a course of petty -strategy that only an ambitious man would have dreamt of. A man eager to -make his way would have asked himself what impression he had created, -what kind of people he had met, which of the women who had invited him -were worth a single visit, and which of them deserved more assiduous -attentions. Instead of all that, the poet felt himself surrounded by an -atmosphere of happiness. The sweetness of the latter portion of the -evening spread itself over the whole, and he entirely forgot the -feelings of distress that had once or twice overwhelmed him. -</p> - -<p> -It was in this frame of mind that he reached home. As he pushed the -heavy house door open, and crept on tip-toe to his room, it pleased him -to compare the world he had left behind with the world to which he -returned. Was it not this very contrast that lent his pleasure a tinge -of romance? Being, however, at that age when the nervous system recruits -itself with perfect regularity in spite of the most disordered state of -the mind and feelings, his head had no sooner touched his pillow than he -was fast asleep. If he dreamt of the splendour he had seen, of the -applause that had filled the vast <i>salon</i>, of the sweet face of Madame -Moraines set in a wealth of fair tresses, he was oblivious of it all -when he awoke about ten o'clock next morning. -</p> - -<p> -A ray of sunlight came streaming through a narrow slit in the blinds. -All was quiet in the little street, and there was no noise in the -house—nothing to betray the necessary but exasperating performance of -matutinal household duties. This silence surprised the young man. He -looked at his watch to see how long he had slept, and once more he -experienced that feeling, of which he never tired—that of being -beloved by his sister with an idolatrous intensity extending to even the -smallest details of life. At the same time recollections of the -preceding evening came back to his mind. A score of faces rose up before -him, all gradually melting away into the delicate features, mobile lips, -and blue eyes of Madame Moraines. He saw her even more distinctly than -he had done a moment after leaving her, but neither the clearness of the -vision nor the infinite delight it afforded him to dwell upon it led him -to suspect the feelings that were awakening within him. It was an -artistic impression, nothing more—an embodiment, as it were, of all -the most beautiful ideals he had ever read into the lines of romancists and -poets. Idly reclining on his pillow, he enjoyed thinking of her in the -same way as he enjoyed looking round his old, familiar room, with its -air of peace and quiet. His gaze dwelt lovingly upon all the objects -visible in the subdued light—upon his table, put in order by Emilie's -hands, upon his engravings set off by the dark tone of the red cloth, -upon the bindings of his favourite books, upon the marble chimney-piece -with its row of photographs in leather frames. His mother's portrait was -among them—the poor mother who had died before seeing the realisation -of her most ardent hopes, she once so proud of the few scattered -fragments she had occasionally come across in tidying her son's room! -His father's likeness was there too, with its emaciated, drink-sodden -features. Often did René think that the want of will power, of which he -was dimly conscious, had been transmitted to him by his unhappy parent. -But that morning he was not in the humour to reflect upon the dark side -of life, and it was with childish glee that he gave two or three smart -raps on the bedside. This was his manner of summoning Françoise in the -morning to pull up the blinds and open the shutters. Instead of the -servant it was Emilie that entered, and as soon as the sunlight was let -into the room it was on his sister's face with its loving smile that the -young man gazed—a face now beaming with hopeful curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -'A triumph!' he cried, in reply to Emilie's mute interrogation. -</p> - -<p> -The kind-hearted creature clapped her hands for joy, and sitting down on -a low chair at the foot of the bedstead, said, in the tone that we use -to a spoilt child: 'You mustn't get up yet . . . Françoise will bring -you your coffee. I thought that you would wake up about ten, and I had -just ground it when you knocked. You shall have it quite fresh.' The -maid entering at that moment, holding in her big red hands the tray with -its little load of china, Emilie continued: 'I will serve you myself. -Fresneau has gone to take Constant to school—so we have plenty of -time—tell me all about it.' And René was obliged to give her a full -account of the <i>soirée</i>, without omitting any details. -</p> - -<p> -'What did Larcher say?' asked his sister. 'What was the courtyard like? -And the hall? What did the Comtesse wear?' She was highly amused by the -fantastic metaphors of Madame de Sermoises, and cried: 'What a wretch!' -when she heard the epigram of the unsuccessful playwriter's wife; she -laughed at the ignorance of pretty Madame Ethorel, and was indignant at -Colette's cruelty. But when the poet attempted to describe the dainty -features of Madame Moraines, and to give her an idea of their talk at -supper, she felt as though she would have liked to thank the exquisite -lady who had thus at the first glance discovered what René really was. -The habits she had contracted long years since of seeing everything -through her brother's eyes and senses made her the most dangerous of -confidantes for the poet. She possessed the same imaginative nature as -he himself—an artistic imagination yearning after the -beautiful—and, since it was all for another's sake, she gave -herself up to it unreservedly. There is a kind of impersonal feminine -immorality peculiar to mothers, sisters, and all women in love which -ignores the laws of conscience where the happiness of one particular man -is at stake. Emilie, who was all self-denial and modesty in what -concerned herself, indulged only in dreams of splendour and ambition for -her brother, often giving expression to thoughts which René dared -hardly formulate. -</p> - -<p> -'Ah! I knew you would succeed,' she cried. 'It's all very well for the -Offarels to talk, but your place is not in our modest set. What you -writers want is all this grandeur and magnificence. Heavens! how I wish -you were rich! But you will be some day. One of these fine ladies will -fall in love with you and marry you, and even in a palace you will not -cease to be my loving brother, I know. Is it possible for you to go on -living like this for ever? Can you fancy yourself in a couple of rooms -on the fourth floor with a lot of crying children and a wife with a pair -of servant's hands like mine'—holding them out for his -inspection—'and being obliged to work by the hour, like a -cab-driver, to earn your living? Here, it is true, you have not lived in -luxury, but you have had your time to yourself. -</p> - -<p> -'Dear, good sister!' exclaimed René, moved to tears by the depths of -affection revealed in these words, and still more by the moral support -they lent to his secret desires. Although Rosalie's name had never been -mentioned between them in any particular way, and Emilie had never been -taken into her brother's confidence, René was well aware that his -sister had long guessed his innocent secret. He knew that, holding such -ambitious views, she would never have approved of such a marriage. But -would she have spoken as she did if she had known all the details? Would -she have advised him to commit an act of treachery—for that it was, -and of a kind, too, most repugnant to a heart born for noble -deeds—the treachery of a man who transfers his love, and foresees, -nay, already feels, the pain which his irresistible perfidy will -necessarily inflict upon himself? -</p> - -<p> -As soon as Emilie had gone René, his mind busied with the thoughts his -sister's last words had suggested, rose and dressed himself, and for the -first time found courage to look the situation well in the face. He -remembered the little garden in the Rue de Bagneux, and the evening when -he had first impressed a kiss upon the girl's blushing cheek. It is -true, he had never been her avowed lover; but what of those kisses and -their secret betrothal? One truth appeared to him indisputable—that a -man has no right to steal a maiden's love unless he feels strong enough -to cherish it for ever. But he also felt that his sister had given voice -to the thought that had filled him ever since the success of his play -had opened up such a horizon of hope. 'This grandeur and magnificence!' -Emilie had said, and again the vision of all the splendour he had -witnessed rose up before him—again, set in this rich frame, he saw -the face of Madame Moraines with that sweet smile of hers. In his loyalty -the young poet tried to banish this seductive apparition from his mind. -</p> - -<p> -'Poor Rosalie, how sweet she is, and how she loves me!' he said, finding -some sad satisfaction in the contemplation of the deep love he had -inspired, and carrying these feelings with him to the breakfast table. -How simply that table was laid, and how little resemblance it bore to -the splendid display of the previous night. The table-cover was of -oil-cloth, adorned with coloured flowers; on this stood a very modest -service of white china, the heavy glasses that accompanied it being -rendered necessary by the combined clumsiness of Fresneau, Constant, and -Françoise, which would have made the use of crystal too costly for the -family budget. Fresneau, with his long beard and his look of -distraction, ate quickly, leaning his elbows on the table and carrying -his knife to his mouth; he was as common in manners as he was kind of -heart, and, as if to emphasise more strongly by contrast the impression -which the idle cosmopolitanism of high life had made upon René, he -laughingly gave on account of his morning. -</p> - -<p> -At seven he had given a lesson at Ecole Saint-André. From eight to ten -he had taken a class of boys in the same school who were still too young -to follow the ordinary curriculum. Then he had just had time to jump -into a Pantheon omnibus which took him to a third lesson in the Rue -d'Astorg. 'I bought a paper on the way,' added the good man, 'to read -the account of last night's affair. Dear me,' he exclaimed, undoing the -strap that held his small parcel of books, 'I must have lost it.' -</p> - -<p> -'You are so careless,' said Emilie almost angrily. -</p> - -<p> -'Oh! it doesn't matter!' cried René gaily; 'Offarel will tell us all -about it. You know that he is my walking guide-book. By to-night he will -have read all the Paris and provincial newspapers.' -</p> - -<p> -Knowing that the smallest details of last night's performance would be -collected by Rosalie's father and commented upon by her mother, René -was the more anxious to give the girl a full account of it himself. -There is an instinct in man—is it hypocrisy or pity?—which -impels him to treat with the utmost regard the woman who no longer holds -his affections. Directly lunch was over he bent his steps towards the -Rue de Bagneux. It had formerly been his custom to call upon the -Fresneaus pretty frequently about that time. While covering the short -distance he had often extemporised a few verses, after the manner of -Heine, which he poured into Rosalie's ear when they were alone. The -power of walking in a day-dream had, however, long since left him, and -rarely had the vulgarity of this corner of Paris struck him to such a -degree. All in it was eloquent of the sordid lives of the <i>petit -bourgeois</i>—from the number of the little shops to the display -of their cheap and varied wares that covered half the pavement. In the -windows of the restaurants were bills of fare offering meals of various -courses at extraordinarily low prices. Even the cooking utensils on sale -in the bazaars seemed to have an air of poverty about them. -</p> - -<p> -These and a score of other details reminded the young man of the limited -resources of small incomes, of an existence reduced to that shabby -gentility which has not the horrible and attractive picturesqueness of -absolute want. When we begin to love we find in all the surroundings of -our beloved so many reasons for increased affection, and when we cease -to love these same details furnish the heart with as many reasons for -further hardening. Why did the impression made upon René by the -wretchedness of the neighbourhood cause him to feel annoyed with -Rosalie? Why did the appearance of the Rue de Bagneux make him as angry -with the girl as any personal wrong done to himself? This street, with -its line of old houses and a blank wall at the bottom, had a most -deserted and poverty-stricken air. At the moment when René entered it -one end was almost blocked up by a cart heavily laden with straw, the -three horses yoked to it, in country fashion, by stout ropes, standing -with their heads half hidden in their nosebags whilst the driver was -finishing his dinner in a small, greasy-looking cookshop. A Sister of -Mercy was walking along the pavement on the left carrying a large -umbrella under her arm; the wind flapped the wings of her immense white -cap up and down, and the cross of her rosary beat against her blue serge -dress. Why, after having heaped upon Rosalie all the displeasure caused -by the sight of her miserable surroundings, did René involuntarily -connect Madame Moraines with the religious ideas the good Sister's dress -evoked? The manner in which that beautiful creature had spoken only the -night before of the pious works performed by many so-called frivolous -women came back to him. Three times that day had Suzanne's image come -before him, and each time more distinctly. Great heavens! What joy were -his if his good genius brought him face to face with her in some retired -street like this as she was going to visit her poor! But that was out of -the question, so René turned down a passage at the end of which were -the ground floor apartments occupied by the Offarels. Profiting by the -example of the Fresneaus, they, too, had realised the ambition of every -family of the <i>petite bourgeoisie</i> of Paris, and had found in this -deserted quarter of the capital a suite of rooms with a bit of garden as -large as a pocket-handkerchief. -</p> - -<p> -'Ah! Monsieur René!' exclaimed Rosalie, coming to the door in answer to -the young man's ring at the bell. The Offarels only employed the -services of a charwoman who left at twelve o'clock, and concerning whom -the old lady always had an inexhaustible stock of anecdotes. At the -sight of her lover, poor Rosalie, generally somewhat pale, coloured with -joy, and she could not repress the cry of pleasure that rose to her -lips. -</p> - -<p> -'How good of you to come and tell us so soon how your play got on!' she -said, taking the visitor into the dining-room, a dismal apartment with a -north light, and in which there was no fire. Madame Offarel was so -stingy that in winter, when the weather was not too cold, she would save -the expense of fuel, and make her daughters wear mittens and capes -instead! 'We are just going through the linen,' remarked the good lady, -motioning René to a chair. -</p> - -<p> -On the table lay the whole of the fortnightly washing, from the old -man's shirts to the girls' underclothes, the bluish whiteness of the -calicots and cottons being enhanced by the darkness of the room. It was -the poor linen of a family in straitened circumstances; there were -stockings evidently darned times out of number, serviettes full of -holes, cuffs and collars frayed at the edges—in fact, a whole heap of -things that Rosalie felt were not for a poet's eyes. She therefore gave -him no time to sit down, but said, 'Monsieur René had much better come -into the drawing-room—it's so dark here.' -</p> - -<p> -Before her mother had had time to say anything further she had pushed -the visitor into the apartment honoured by that pompous name, and which, -in reality, more often served as a workroom for Angélique. The latter -added a little to the income of the family by occasionally translating -an English novel, and was at that moment seated at a small table near -the window, writing. A dictionary was lying at her feet, those -extremities being encased in a pair of slippers the backs of which she -had trodden down for ease. No sooner had she caught sight of Vincy than -she gathered up her books and papers and fled. -</p> - -<p> -'Excuse me, Monsieur René,' she exclaimed, brushing back with one hand -the hair that hung about her head and casting an apologetic look at her -dress—a loose morning wrapper wanting some half-dozen buttons down -the front. 'I am a perfect fright—don't look at me, please.' -</p> - -<p> -The young man sat down and let his eyes wander round the well-known -room, whose chief ornament consisted in a row of aquarelles executed by -M. Offarel in Government time. There were about a dozen, some -representing bits of landscape that he had discovered in his Sunday -walks, others being copies of pictures he admired, and which René's -more modern taste therefore detested. A faded felt carpet, six -cloth-covered chairs and a sofa completed the furniture of this room, -which René had once looked upon as a symbol of almost idyllic -simplicity, but which now appeared doubly hateful to him in his present -state of mind, aggravated by the acidity of Madame Offarel's accents. -</p> - -<p> -'Well, did you enjoy yourself amongst all your grand folks last night? I -suppose your friend only visits people now who keep a carriage, eh? -Whenever he opens his mouth you hear of nothing but countesses and -princesses. Dear me! He needn't think himself as grand as all that—he -was giving lessons only ten years ago.' -</p> - -<p> -'Mamma!' exclaimed Rosalie in beseeching tones. -</p> - -<p> -'Well, what does he want to be so stuck up about?' continued the old -lady. 'He looks at us as much as to say "Poor devils!"' -</p> - -<p> -'How mistaken you are in him!' replied René. 'He is rather fond of -going into smart society, it is true, but that is only natural in an -artist. Why, it's the same with me,' he went on, with a smile. 'I was -delighted to go to this affair last night and see that magnificent house -filled with flowers and fine dresses. Do you think that prevents me -appreciating my modest home and my old friends? All writers have that -mad longing for splendour—even Balzac and Musset had it. It is a -childish fancy of no importance.' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst the young man was speaking Rosalie darted a look at her mother -that told of more happiness than her poor eyes had expressed for months -past. In thus confessing to and ridiculing his own inmost feelings, -René was obeying impulses too complicated for the simple girl to -understand. When Madame Offarel had spoken of 'your grand folks' the -young man had seen by the look of anguish in her daughter's eyes that -his love for the false glamour of elegance had not escaped Rosalie's -perspicacity. He was ashamed of being found guilty of such a plebeian -failing, and therefore laid bare his impressions as though he were not -their dupe—partly in order to reassure the girl and spare her -unnecessary pain, partly in order to indulge in a little weakness -without having to reproach himself unduly. -</p> - -<p> -Certain natures—and, owing to the habit of introspection, these -are frequently found amongst writers—find pardon for their sins in -mere confession. In defending Claude Larcher, René, with an irony that -would have escaped sharper critics than a trusting girl, managed to -administer a sharp rebuke to his own follies. Whilst openly ridiculing -what he himself called his snobbishness, he continued to make those -mean-spirited mental comparisons that would force themselves upon him -all that day. He could not help measuring the gulf that separated the -creatures he had seen at Madame Komof's—living blooms reared in -the hothouse of European aristocracy—from the pale-faced and -simple-looking creature before him, her hands spoilt by work, her hair -tied back in a knot, and dressed so plainly as to look almost uncouth. -The comparison, when dwelt upon, became quite painful, and caused the -young man one of those inexplicable fits of ill-humour that always -nonplussed Rosalie. -</p> - -<p> -Knowing him as she did, she could always see when he had them, but she -never guessed their cause. She knew by instinct that there were two -Renés existing side by side—the one kind, tender, and good, easily -moved and unable to withstand grief—in a word, the René she loved; -the other cold, indifferent, and easily irritated. The bond that united -these two beings she was, however, unable to find. All she knew was that -before the triumphant success of the 'Sigisbée' she had seen only the -first of these two Renés, and since then only the second. She was -afraid to say 'the unfortunate success;' she had been so proud of it, -and yet she would have given so much to go back to the time when her -darling was poor and unknown, but all her own. How quickly he could make -his voice hard, so hard that even the words addressed to another seemed -by their intonation alone to be intended to wound her. At that moment, -for instance, he was talking to her mother, and the mere accent that he -gave to words empty in themselves touched Rosalie to the quick. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly Madame Offarel, who had been listening intently for a few -seconds, started up. 'I can hear Cendrette scratching at the door,' she -said; 'the dear creature wants to go out.' -</p> - -<p> -With these words she returned to the dining-room in order to open the -yard door for her favourite cat. She was probably delighted to have an -excuse for leaving the two young people together; for, Cendrette having -gone off, she stood for some time stroking Raton, another of her feline -boarders. 'How clever you are, my Raton! How I love you, my little -demon!' These were some of the pet names that she had devised for her -cats, and as she repeated them and a dozen others in rather loud tones -she was saying to herself: 'If he has come at once, that proves he is -still faithful to her—but when will he propose? Poor girl! He'll not -find a jewel like her in any of his gilded saloons. She's pretty, -gentle, good, and true!' Then aloud: 'Isn't that so, my Raton? You -understand, don't you, my son?' And as the cat arched her back, rubbed -her head against her mistress's skirt, and purred voluptuously, the -mother's internal monologue went on: 'And he is a good match, too. We -didn't despise him before; so we have a right to set our caps at him -now. She won't have to drudge, as I do for Offarel. It's a pity that she -should have to spoil her pretty fingers botching up this old linen.' -With the mechanical activity of an old housewife, she made a small pile -of the handkerchiefs already gone through, and continued her thoughts: -'Her little dowry, too! What a surprise it will be!' By exercising the -most stringent economy, she had managed to save, out of her husband's -modest salary, some fifteen thousand francs, which she had invested -unknown to M. Offarel. She smiled to herself and listened with some -anxiety. 'I wonder what they are talking about!' -</p> - -<p> -She knew that her daughter was fond of René, but she was still ignorant -of the secret bonds that united the young people. What would have been -her astonishment had she known that Rosalie had already frequently but -timidly exchanged stolen kisses with her lover, and that immediately her -mother's back was turned she had taken René's hand in hers and murmured -in a voice of gentle reproach, 'How could you go off last night without -saying good-bye?' -</p> - -<p> -'Claude dragged me out,' said René, reddening, and pressing his -sweetheart's fingers. She was, however, not taken in either by the -excuse or the feigned caress, and, drawing back her hand, shook her head -sadly, while her words came out with an evident effort. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' she observed; 'you are not so nice to me as you used to be. How -long is it since you last wrote me a line of poetry?' -</p> - -<p> -'You're not so silly as to think people can sit down and write poetry -when they like?' replied the young man, almost harshly. He was seized by -that irritability which is a sure sign of the decline of love. The -obligation to make a show of sentiment—a most cruel duty—was -felt by him in one of its thousand forms. -</p> - -<p> -By an instinct which leads them to sound the depths of their present -misfortune whilst desperately clinging to their past happiness, the -women who feel love slipping from them formulate these small, -unpretending demands that have the same effect upon a man as a clumsy -tug at the curb has upon a restive horse. The lover who has come with -the firm intention of being gentle and affectionate immediately rears. -Rosalie had made a mistake; she felt that as plainly as she had felt -René's indifference a few minutes ago, and a feeling of despair, such -as she had never known before, crept over her. Since her lover's -departure on the previous evening she had been jealous—she had no -reason to be, and she would scarcely admit to herself that she -was—but she was jealous all the same. 'Whom will he meet there? To -whom is he talking?' she had asked herself again and again instead of -going to sleep. And now she thought, 'Ah! he is already unfaithful, or -he would not have spoken to me in this manner.' -</p> - -<p> -The silence that followed the harsh reply was so painful that she -timidly asked, 'Did the actors play their parts well last night?' -</p> - -<p> -Why was she hurt to see how eager René was to answer her question, and -to turn the conversation from a more serious subject? Because the heart -of a woman who is really in love—and that Rosalie was—is -susceptible to the lightest trifles, and in despair she heard René -reply: 'They acted divinely,' after which he immediately plunged into a -dissertation on the difference between acting on a stage some distance -from the audience and acting in the limited space of a drawing-room. -</p> - -<p> -'Poor child!' thought Madame Offarel as she returned to the <i>salon</i>, -'she is so simple; she has not got him to talk of anything but that -wretched play!' Then, in order to be revenged on some one for René's -procrastination in proposing, she added aloud, 'Tell me—isn't your -friend Larcher rather jealous of your success?' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap06"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER VI -<br /><br /> -AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC</h4> - -<p> -René had entered the house in the Rue de Bagneux a prey to painful -impressions, and when he left it his impressions were more painful -still. Then he had been discontented with his surroundings—now he was -discontented with himself. He had called on Rosalie with the idea of -giving her a little pleasure, and sparing her the trifling pain of -hearing all about his success from the mouth of another; instead of -which his visit had only caused the girl fresh grief. Although the poet -had never harboured aught else than an imaginary love for this child -with the beautiful black eyes, that love had gone deep enough to implant -in his breast what is last to die in the break-up of any passion—an -extraordinary power of following the least movements of that virgin -heart, and a pity, as unavailing as it was distressing, for all the pain -he had caused it. -</p> - -<p> -Once more he asked himself this question: 'Is it not my duty to tell her -I no longer love her?' An insoluble question, for it admits of only two -replies—both impossible ones—the first, cruel and brutal in its -egoism, if our feelings are plain; the second a frightful mixture of -pity and treachery, if they are complicated. The young man shook his -head as if to chase away the obtrusive thought, and muttering the -eternal 'We shall see—later on,' by which so many agonies have been -prolonged, forced himself to look about him. He had mechanically turned -his steps towards that portion of the Faubourg Saint-Germain where, in -younger days, he had loved to walk, and, inspired by Balzac, that -dangerous Iliad of poor plebeians, imagine that he saw the face of a -Duchesse de Langeais or de Maufrigneuse looking out from every window. -</p> - -<p> -He was now in that wide but desolate thoroughfare called Rue -Barbet-de-Jouy, which, by reason of the total absence of shops, the -grandeur of its buildings, and the countrified look of its enclosed -gardens, seems a fitting frame for some fine lady of artificial -aristocracy. An inevitable association of ideas brought René's mind -back to the Komof mansion, and the thought of that lordly dwelling -conjured up, for the fourth time that day, but more clearly than ever, -the image of Madame Moraines. This time, however, worn-out by the -fretful emotions through which he had passed, he became entirely -absorbed in the contemplation of that image instead of trying to dispel -it. To think of Madame Moraines was to forget Rosalie, and experience, -moreover, a peculiarly sweet sensation. -</p> - -<p> -After a few minutes of this mental contemplation the natural roamings of -his fancy led the young man to ask himself, 'When shall I see her -again?' He recalled the tone of her voice and her smile as she had said, -'On Opera days, before dinner.' Opera days? This novice of Society did -not even know them. He felt a childish pleasure, out of all proportion -to its ostensible cause—like that of a man who is realising his -wildest dreams—in gaining the Boulevard des Invalides as quickly -as possible and in finding one of the posts that display theatrical -advertisements. It was Friday, and the bills announced a performance of -the <i>Huguenots</i>. René's heart began to beat faster. He had -forgotten Rosalie, his remorse of a little while ago, and the question -that he had put to himself. That inner voice which whispers in our -soul's ear such advice as would, upon reflection, astonish us, had just -said to him: 'Madame Moraines will be at home to-day. What if you went?' -</p> - -<p> -'What if I went?' he repeated aloud, and the bare idea of this visit -parched his throat and set him trembling. It is the facility with which -extreme emotions are brought into play upon the slightest provocation -that makes the inner life of young men full of such strange and rapid -transitions from the heights of joy to the depths of misery. René had -no sooner put the temptation that beset him into words than he shrugged -his shoulders and said, 'It's madness.' Having arrived at that decision, -he commenced to plead the cause of his own desire under pretence of -summing up the objections. 'How would she receive me?' The remembrance -of her beautiful eyes and of her sweet smile made him reply, 'But she -was so gentle and so indulgent.' Then he resumed his questioning. 'What -could I say to justify a visit less than twenty-four hours after having -left her?' 'Pooh!' replied the tempting voice, 'the occasion brings its -own inspiration.' 'But I am not even dressed.' Well, he had only to go -to the Rue Coëtlogon. 'But I don't even know her address.' 'Claude -knows it—I have only to ask him.' -</p> - -<p> -The idea of calling on Larcher having once presented itself to his mind, -he felt that it would be impossible not to put at least that part of his -plan into execution. To call on Claude was the first step towards -reaching Madame Moraines; but, instead of confessing that, René was -hypocrite enough to pretend other reasons. Ought he not really to go and -obtain news of his friend? He had left him so unhappy, so truly -miserable, on the previous evening. Perhaps he was now fretting like a -child? Perhaps he was preparing to pick a quarrel with Salvaney? In this -way the poet excused himself for the haste with which he was now making -for the Rue de Varenne. It was not only Suzanne's address that he hoped -to obtain, but information about her too—and all the while he was -trying to persuade himself that he was simply fulfilling a duty of -friendship. -</p> - -<p> -In a very short time he had reached the corner of the Rue de -Bellechasse, and a few moments later he found himself before the great -doors of the strange house in which Larcher had taken up his abode. -Pushing these open, he entered an immense courtyard in which everything -spoke of desolation, from the grass that grew between the stones to the -cobwebs that covered the windows of the deserted stables on the left. At -the bottom of the courtyard stood a noble mansion, built in the reign of -Louis XIV., and bearing the proud motto of the Saint-Euvertes, whose -town house this had been, <i>Fortiter.</i> The stones of this building, -already bearing traces of the ravages of time, its long shuttered -windows and its silence were all in harmony with the solitude of the -courtyard. The old Faubourg Saint-Germain contains many such houses, -strange as the destiny of their owners, and which will always prove -peculiarly attractive to minds in search of the psychologically -picturesque—if we may unite these two words to define an almost -indefinable shade of meaning. -</p> - -<p> -René had heard the history of this mansion from his friend; how the old -Marquis de Saint-Euverte, reduced to despair by the almost simultaneous -loss of his wife, his three daughters, and their husbands, had, six -years ago, gone to live with his grandsons on his estates in Poitou. An -epidemic of typhoid fever suddenly breaking out in a small -watering-place where all the family were staying together had made this -happy old man the lonely guardian of a tribe of orphans. Even during the -lifetime of the Marquise—an excellent business woman—two small -wings in the house had been let to quiet tenants. These wings had also a -history of their own, the grandfather of the present Marquis having -placed them at the disposal of two cousins—Knights of Saint-Louis and -at one time political refugees—who, after a wretched, wandering -existence, had ended their days here. M. de Saint-Euverte had left -everything as his wife had arranged it. Claude therefore one day found -himself the only tenant in the whole of this silent, gloomy building, -for the occupant of the other wing had been scared away by the -loneliness of the place, and no one else had yet seemed anxious to bury -himself in this tomb, standing between a desolate courtyard and a still -more desolate garden. -</p> - -<p> -But all these points, that were so displeasing to others, were a source -of delight to Larcher. The oddness of the place appealed particularly to -this dreamer and maker of paradoxes. It pleased him to set his irregular -existence as an artist and a swell clubman in this framework of imposing -solitude; and here, too, he could shut himself up with his secret -agonies. The love of analytical introspection with which he knew he was -infected, and which, like a doctor cultivating his own disease for the -sake of a fine 'case,' he carefully nurtured, could not have found a -better home. Then, again, here Larcher enjoyed absolute freedom. The -<i>concierge</i>, won over by a few theatre tickets and fascinated by the -reputation of his tenant, would have allowed him to hold a saturnalian -feast in every hall of the Saint-Euverte mansion had Claude felt any -desire to found another <i>Club de Haschischins</i> or to reproduce some -scene of literary orgies out of love for the romanticism of 1830. The -<i>concierge</i> was absent from his post when René arrived, so that the -poet walked straight across the courtyard to the house. Entering the -main hall, where the magnificent lamps bore testimony to the grandeur of -the receptions once held here, he mounted the stone staircase, whose -wrought-iron balustrade formed a splendid ornament to the huge well of -the house. On the second floor he turned down a corridor, at the end of -which heavy curtains of Oriental texture proclaimed a modern -installation hidden in the depths of a mansion that seemed to be peopled -only with the bewigged ghosts of <i>grands seigneurs.</i> -</p> - -<p> -The man-servant who answered his ring possessed that type of face -peculiar to nearly all custodians of old buildings; it is met with both -in the guides of ruined castles and in the vergers of cathedrals, and -shows how vast must be the influence which places have on human beings. -It is a face with a greenish tint and with a hawk-like expression -about the eyes and mouth; from its appearance one would suppose -that it smelt damp. Ferdinand—that was the name of this -individual—differed from his kind only in dress, which, consisting -as it did of Claude's cast off clothes, was fashionable and smart. He -had been valet to the late Comte de Saint-Euverte, and, in addition to -his duties as Larcher's servant, he was a kind of housekeeper for the -whole mansion, from which he seldom emerged more than once a month. The -<i>concierge</i> went on all the writer's errands, and his wife did the -cooking. This little world lived entirely under the spell of Claude, -who, through his knowledge of character and his infantile goodness of -heart, possessed in a rare degree the gift of winning the attachment of -his inferiors. When Ferdinand saw who the caller was he could not help -showing great uneasiness. -</p> - -<p> -'They shouldn't have let you come up, sir!' he said. 'I shall get into -trouble.' -</p> - -<p> -'Is Monsieur Larcher at work?' asked René, smiling at the man's terror. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' replied Ferdinand in an undertone, and quite at a loss what to do -with a visitor whom his master had evidently not expected. 'But Madame -Colette is here.' -</p> - -<p> -'Ask him whether he can see me for a minute,' said the poet, curious to -know how the two lovers stood after the scene of the preceding evening; -and, in order to conquer the valet's hesitation, he added: 'I'll take -all the responsibility.' -</p> - -<p> -'You may come up, sir,' was the answer with which he returned, and, -preceding René through the ante-room, he took him up the small inner -staircase that led to the three apartments usually inhabited by Claude, -and which the writer either called his 'laboratory' or his -'torture-chamber,' according to the mood he was in. -</p> - -<p> -The staircase and the first two of the three rooms were remarkable for -the richness of their carpets and hangings. The faint light that -filtered through the stained-glass windows on this dull February -afternoon scarcely cast a shadow, either in the smoking-room with its -morocco-covered furniture or in the large <i>salon</i> lined with books. -Claude's favourite nook was a den at the end, the walls of which were -hung with some dark material and adorned with a few canvases and -<i>aquarelles</i> of the most modern painters of the day—these -being what the writer's extravagant fancy preferred. There were two -opera boxes by Forain, a dancing girl by Degas, a rural scene by -Raffaelli, a sea-piece by Monet, four etchings by Félicien Rops, and on -a draped pedestal a bust of Larcher himself by Rodin. The bust was a -splendid piece of work, in which the great sculptor had reproduced with -marvellous skill all that might be read in his model's face—qualms -of morality mingled with libertinism, bold reflection allied to a weak -will, innate idealism hand in hand with an almost systematically -acquired corruption. A low bookcase, a desk in one corner, three -fauteuils in Venetian style with negroes supporting the arms, and a wide -green leather couch completed the furniture of this retreat, clouded at -that moment with the smoke of Colette's Russian cigarette. -</p> - -<p> -The young lady was lying at full length on the couch, her fair hair -tumbling about her ears, and attired in somewhat masculine style, with a -stand-up collar and an open jacket. Her short plain cloth skirt revealed -a pair of neat ankles and long narrow feet encased in black silk -stockings and patent leather shoes. Her sunken cheeks were pale—that -pallor produced in most theatrical women by the constant use of paint, -by late hours, and by the fatigues of an arduous profession. -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Ah! mon petit Vincy</i>,' she cried, holding out her hand to the -visitor, 'you have come just in time to save me from a beating. I only -wish you knew how badly this boy treats me! Come, Claudie,' she added, -shaking her finger at her lover, who was seated at her feet, 'say it's -not true if you dare.' And with a graceful movement of her lithe and -supple body—she herself would confess that she scarcely ever wore -a corset—the charming creature rose to a sitting posture, laid her -fair head on Claude's shoulder, and placed between his lips the -cigarette she had just been smoking. The wretched man looked at his -young friend with shame and supplication written on his face; then, -turning to Colette, his eyes filled with tears. At this the actress's -behaviour became more wanton still, and leaning forward upon her lover's -shoulder, she gazed into his eyes until she saw in them the look of -passion that she knew so well how to turn to her own advantage. -</p> - -<p> -A dead silence ensued. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and a -solitary sunbeam, making its way through the coloured glass, fell in a -long red streak upon the girl's face. René had been present at scenes -of this kind too often to feel surprised at the want of modesty of -either his friend or Colette. He was well acquainted with the strange -cynicism of their nature; but he also remembered Claude's terrible -language the night before, and the cruel words his mistress had uttered -after his disappearance. He was astounded to see to what depths of -degradation the writer's weakness dragged him down, and to witness such -proofs of this wretched woman's inconsistency. In the close atmosphere -of this room, impregnated with the perfume that Colette used, and before -the almost immodest attitude of the pair before him, there came over him -a feeling of sensuality with which he was already too familiar. The -sight of this depraved creature—though her depravity was generally -clothed in graceful forms—had often awakened in him ideas of a -physical passion very different from any he had hitherto known. She had -frequently received him in her dressing-room at the theatre, and as she -stood in careless dishabille before her glass putting the finishing -touches to her face, or completing, with unblushing indifference, the -more hidden details of her toilet, she had appeared to him like some -temptress personifying the highest forms of voluptuousness, and at such -times he would envy Claude as much as he sometimes pitied him. But these -feelings would soon be dispelled by the disgust with which the moral -degradation of the actress inspired him and by the burning scruples of -friendship that animate and restrain the young. René would have been -horrified to find himself, even for a moment, coveting what he -considered his friend's property, and perhaps the knowledge of this -delicacy of feeling went for something in Colette's behaviour. Out of -sheer wantonness she amused herself by displaying her beauty before him, -just as we hold up a flower to be smelt when we know the hands will not -be put out to seize it. Wantonness it was, too, that led the misguided -girl to dally with Claude and to lavish such caresses upon him before -René. -</p> - -<p> -All this, however, produced in the poet a vague physical longing that he -could not repress; it grew upon him unconsciously, and, by an -association of desires, more difficult to interrupt in its secret -workings than an association of ideas, the vision of Madame Moraines was -once more before him, surrounded by the halo of seduction that had so -completely dazzled him on the previous evening. Two things were now -obvious to René: one was, that he must go and call on that woman -to-day; the other, that he would never be able to utter her name and ask -for her address before the lascivious creature who was torturing Claude -with her kisses. -</p> - -<p> -'Get away,' said the writer, pushing her from him; 'I love you, and you -know it. Why, then, do you make me suffer so? Ask René what a state I -was in last night. Tell her, Vincy, and tell her she should not trifle -with me. After all,' he cried, burying his face in his hands, 'what does -it matter? If you became the most degraded wretch on earth, I should -still idolise you.' -</p> - -<p> -'These are some of the pretty things I have to hear all day long,' cried -Colette, rolling back on the cushions with a laugh. 'Well, René, tell -him about me too. Tell him how angry I was last night because he went -home without saying a word. And then he didn't write, so I came here. -Yes, I came to <i>him</i>, if you please. You savage!' she cried, taking -Larcher by the hair, 'do you think I should trouble to run after you if -I didn't love you?' -</p> - -<p> -Every feature of her face expressed the real nature of the feeling she -entertained for Claude—cruel sensuality, that sensuality which impels -a woman to make a martyr of the man from whose power she cannot free -herself. History tells of queens who loved in this fashion, and who -handed over to the headsman the men whom they hated and yet desired to -possess. René quietly observed: -</p> - -<p> -'I was uneasy about him last night, it is true, and you were very -cruel.' -</p> - -<p> -'That will do!' cried Colette, with a contemptuous laugh. 'I've already -told you that you swallow anything he says. I've given that up myself -long ago. One day he threatened to commit suicide, and when I came here -in my stage clothes, without even waiting to wash my paint off, I found -him—correcting proofs!' -</p> - -<p> -'But that I'm obliged to do,' replied Claude; 'you often have to smile -on the stage yourself when you're really in trouble.' -</p> - -<p> -'What does that prove?' she retorted sharply; 'that we are merely -acting. Only I take you for what you are, and you don't.' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst she rattled on, rating Claude with that savage rancour that a -woman takes no pains to conceal from the man with whom she is on -intimate terms, René's glance, as it wandered round the room, fell upon -a directory containing the addresses of the 'upper ten' and the -hangers-on of Society. -</p> - -<p> -Taking it up he turned over the leaves, and to offer some excuse for his -action, mendaciously remarked, 'Why, your name isn't here, Claude!' -</p> - -<p> -'I should think not,' said Colette; 'I won't let him send it. He sees -quite enough of the swells as it is.' -</p> - -<p> -'I thought you liked the society of that kind of man,' observed Claude. -</p> - -<p> -'What a clever thing to say!' she replied, with a graceful shrug of her -shoulders. 'They're smart, it's true—it's their business to be. They -know how to dress, to play tennis, to ride, and to talk of horses, -whilst you, with all your brains, will never be anything but a cad. How -I wish you were now what you were eight years ago when I first met you -in that restaurant at the corner of the Rue des Saints-Pères! I had -just come from the Conservatoire with my mother and Farguet, my -professor, and we were having some lunch. You looked so good, sitting in -the corner—as though you had come from a monastery, and were having -your first peep at the world. It was that, I think, that made me like -you. Are you coming to the theatre to-night?' she asked René, as he -closed the book and rose to go. He had found what he wanted; Madame -Moraines lived in the Rue Murillo, near the Parc Monceau. 'No? Well, -to-morrow then, and mind you don't get gadding about like this boy! Such -fine ladies as they are, too, your Society women—I know something of -them! Oh, look at his face—won't he storm as soon as you're gone! -You're surely not going to be jealous of women?' she said, lighting a -fresh cigarette. 'Good-bye, René.' -</p> - -<p> -'She is like that before you,' observed Claude, as he let his friend -out; 'but you wouldn't believe how gentle and affectionate she can be -when we are alone!' -</p> - -<p> -'And how about Salvaney?' asked René unthinkingly. -</p> - -<p> -Claude turned pale. 'She says that she merely went to his rooms to look -at some drawings for her next <i>rôle</i>: she swears that there was -nothing wrong in it With women, everything is possible—even what -is good,' he added, giving René a hand that was not very steady. 'I -can't help it—I must believe her when she looks at me in her -peculiar way.' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap07"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER VII -<br /><br /> -THE FACE OF A MADONNA</h4> - -<p> -'Can a man of sense, and a good fellow into the bargain, fall as low as -that?' René asked himself on leaving his unhappy friend. Then, thinking -of Colette's handsome face, he muttered, 'She is very pretty. Heavens! -if one could only get Rosalie's beauty of soul united to this creature's -incomparable grace and elegance!' -</p> - -<p> -But was not such union to be found? The inner or moral beauty, without -which a woman is more bitter than death to the heart of a right-thinking -man, and the outer or physical glamour that enables her to attract and -captivate his grosser nature—was not such complete and supreme -harmony to be found in those creatures whom the accidents of birth and -fortune have surrounded by the attributes of real aristocracy, and whose -personal charms are in keeping with their surroundings? Was not Madame -Moraines an example of this? In any case, that was the poet's first -impression of her, and he took a delight in strengthening this -impression by argument. Yes, he was sure that this woman, whose soothing -image floated through his brain, did indeed possess that double -charm—not only beauty and grace superior to Colette's, but a soul -as unsullied as Rosalie's. The refinement of her manners, the sweetness -of her voice, and the ideality of her conversation gave abundant proofs -of it. -</p> - -<p> -René walked on, his mind occupied with these thoughts, and his eyes -fixed upon a sort of mirage that made him insensible to all around him. -He awoke from this fit of somnambulism on reaching the end of the Pont -des Invalides, and found himself in the middle of the Avenue d'Antin. -His footsteps had mechanically turned towards the quarter where dwelt -the woman to whom his thoughts were so constantly recurring that day. He -smiled as he remembered how often he had made a pilgrimage to this Rue -Murillo when Gustave Flaubert still lived there. René was such an -ardent admirer of the author of the 'Tentation' that it had always been -a great treat to him to gaze up at the house of the eminent and powerful -writer. How long ago those times seemed now, and how rapturous they -would have been had he then known that the woman who was to realise his -fondest ideal would live in that very street! Should he go and see her -to-day? The question became more pressing as time advanced. One sweep -more of the large hand round the dial, and it would be five -o'clock—he could see her. He could see her! The idea of this being -a real possibility took such a hold upon his mind that all the -objections his timidity could devise arose at once. 'No,' he muttered, -'I shall not go; she would be surprised to see me so soon. She only -asked me to come because she knew all the others had invited me. She did -not want to seem less polite.' -</p> - -<p> -What had seemed in others an empty compliment became a delicate -attention in the case of the woman he was beginning to -love—unknown to himself. The discovery of an additional motive for -distinguishing her from all the women he had met on the previous evening -made him feel less able to resist the desire to be near her. He hailed a -cab almost mechanically, and on reaching home commenced to dress. His -sister was out, and Françoise was busy in the kitchen. Though he had -still not the courage to say to himself outright, 'I am going to the Rue -Murillo,' he paid as much attention to the minute details of his toilet -as amorous youths—at such times a deal more coquettish than -women—are wont to do. It was now no longer upon his timidity that -he relied for help to battle against the ever-increasing desire within -him. Every object in the room recalled memories of Rosalie. With the -innate honesty of the young, he for a long time tried to impress upon -himself the duty he owed the poor girl. 'What would I think of her if I -heard that she was accepting the attentions of a man whom she liked as -much as I like Madame Moraines? But then,' rejoined the tempting voice, -'you are an artist, and require fresh sensations and experience of the -world. And who says that you are going to call on Madame Moraines only -to make love to her?' -</p> - -<p> -He was just in the act of applying his handkerchief to a bottle of -'white rose' that stood on his dressing-table. The penetrating perfume -sent the warm blood coursing through his veins in that irresistible tide -of voluptuous desire that marks the nascent passions of ardent but -continent natures such as his. Since his secret engagement to Rosalie -his delicate scruples had led him to return to a life of absolute -purity. But the barriers of reserve gave way before this subtle perfume, -which awakened memories of all that was least ideal in her rival—the -golden ringlets in her neck, her ruby lips and pearly teeth, her snowy -rounded shoulders and the long bare arms with their tapering wrists. And -this, too, just as he was attempting to attribute his admiration for her -to intellectual motives. Of what avail were ideas of loyalty towards -Rosalie in the face of such visions? It was five o'clock. René left the -house, jumped into another cab, and told the man to drive to the Rue -Murillo. He kept his eyes closed the whole of the way, so intensely -painful was the sensation of suspense. Mingled with this was shame for -his own weakness, apprehension of what was in store for him, deep joy at -the thought that he was about to see that glorious face once more, and, -permeating all, a spice of that mad hope, intoxicating on account of its -very vagueness, that urges the young along fresh paths simply for the -sake of their novelty. The feeling of permanence, so indispensable to a -man of experience, who knows how short life really is, is hateful to the -very young. At twenty-five they are by nature changeable, and -consequently fickle. René, who was even better than a good many others, -had already irreparably betrayed in thoughts the girl who loved him when -his cab set him down at the door of the woman he had seen for one hour -on the previous night. He would rather have stepped upon Rosalie's heart -than not enter that door now. If a last thought of his betrothed did -trouble him at that moment, he no doubt dismissed it with the usual -phrase—'She won't know,' and passed on. -</p> - -<p> -The house in which Madame Moraines lived was one of those buildings to -be found in the fashionable quarters of Paris which, although parcelled -out into flats, have been made by the modern architect to look almost -like private mansions. The house was of noble elevation and stood back -some little distance from the street, the privacy of the courtyard being -insured by some railings that shut it off from the outside world. In the -centre of these railings was the porter's lodge, a sort of Gothic -pavilion, and as René inquired whether Madame Moraines was at home he -could see that the interior of this lodge was better furnished and -looked smarter and brighter than the drawing-room of the Offarels on -reception nights. The strain upon the young man's nerves had now become -so painful that if the veteran soldier who was ending his days in this -haven of rest had answered him in the negative he would almost have -thanked him. But what he heard was, 'Second floor up the steps at the -bottom of the courtyard.' -</p> - -<p> -He crossed the marble threshold and then mounted a wooden staircase -covered with a soft-toned carpet. The air that he breathed on the stairs -was warm, like that of a room. Here and there stood exotic plants, the -gaslight glinting on their green foliage. Chairs were placed at every -turn of the staircase, and twice did René sink down into one. His knees -trembled under him. If until then he had had any doubts respecting the -nature of the feelings he entertained for Madame Moraines, his present -state of excitement should have warned him that those feelings amounted -to something more than simple curiosity. But he went on as if he were in -a dream. He was in that state when he pressed the button at the side of -the door, when he heard the servant coming to open it, and when he gave -him his name; then, before he had recovered his wits, the man had shown -him into a small <i>salon</i>, where he found the dangerous creature whose -charms had so enslaved him, though he knew nothing of her except that -she was beautiful. Alas! that this beauty should so often be only a -mask, and a dangerous mask, too, when we give it credit for being more -than it really pretends to be. -</p> - -<p> -Had René in fancy painted any setting for this rare and majestic -beauty, he could have imagined no other than that in which he saw Madame -Moraines for the second time. She was seated at her writing-desk, on -which stood a lighted lamp covered with a lace shade, whilst an ivy -plant trained to creep along a gilded trellis formed a novel and -pleasing screen to the table. The small room was filled with a profusion -of ornaments and trifles indispensable to every modern interior. The -inevitable reclining-chair, with its heap of cushions, the whatnot -crowded with Japanese <i>netsukés</i>, the photographs in their frames of -filigree, the three or four <i>genre</i> pictures, the lacquered boxes -standing on the little table covered with its strip of Oriental silk, -the flowers distributed here and there—who in Paris is unacquainted -with this refinement of comfort now so stereotyped as to be quite -commonplace? But all that René knew of Society life he had learnt -either from Balzac and other novelists of fifty years ago or from more -modern authors who had never seen the inside of a drawing-room; the -<i>ensemble</i> of this apartment, beautifully harmonised by the soft tints -of the shaded lamp, was therefore to him like the revelation of a hidden -trait peculiar to the woman who had presided over its arrangement. The -charm of the moment was the more irresistible since the Madonna who -dwelt in this shrine, with its subdued light and its warm air heavy with -the scent of flowers, received him with a smile and a look in her eyes -that at once dispelled all his childish fears. -</p> - -<p> -The men whom Nature has endowed with that inexplicable power of pleasing -women, apart from whatever other qualities they may possess, either -mental or physical, are provided with a kind of antennæ of the soul to -warn them of the impressions they produce. The poet, in spite of his -complete ignorance both of Suzanne's disposition and of the customs of -the world she lived in, felt that he had done right in coming. This -knowledge served to soothe his overstrung nerves, and he gave himself up -entirely to the sweetness that emanated from this creature, the first of -her kind whom he had been permitted to approach. By merely looking at -her he saw that she was not the same woman as on the previous evening. -She had evidently but just come in; some pressing duty—a note, -perhaps, to be written—had only given her time to take off her hat -and to substitute a dainty pair of slippers for her outdoor boots, so -that she was still wearing a walking-dress of some dark material with a -high collar like Colette's. Her hair, René noticed, was of the same -colour as the actress's, and was twisted into a plain coil upon her -head. Like that, she seemed to René more approachable, less superhuman, -less surrounded by that impenetrable atmosphere in which the pomp of -dress and the ceremony of grand receptions envelop a woman of fashion. -The few traits that she possessed in common with the actress only added -to her charms. They enabled René to measure the distance that separated -the two beings, and whilst doing this he heard Suzanne say in that voice -which on the previous evening had proved so irresistibly seductive: 'How -good of you to come, Monsieur Vincy!' -</p> - -<p> -It was nothing—a mere figure of speech. Madame de Sermoises, and -Madame Ethorel, and even the spiteful Madame Hurault would have used the -same words. But, in the mouth of Madame Moraines, and for him to whom -they were addressed, they were expressive of deep and true sympathy, of -unbounded kindness, and of divine indulgence. The phrase had been -accompanied by a gesture of indescribable grace, by a slight look of -surprise in the pale blue eyes, and by a smile more seductive than ever. -Had René not come to the Rue Murillo fully prepared to seize upon the -slightest motives for admiring Suzanne still more, the tribute which she -paid to his vanity by this form of reception would alone have conquered -him. Do not the most celebrated authors and those most weary of -drawing-room sycophancy allow themselves to be captivated by attentions -of this kind? The author of the 'Sigisbée' was not inclined to look at -these things so critically, either. He had come in fear and trembling, -and his reception had shown him he was welcome. Since the morning he had -felt a passionate desire to see Suzanne again; he stood before her, and -she was glad to see him. -</p> - -<p> -There was a merry look in her eyes as her pretty lips now framed the -second sentence she had yet spoken: 'If you accepted all the invitations -which were showered upon you yesterday you must have had a hard day's -work?' -</p> - -<p> -'But you are the only one I have called upon, madame,' he replied -naïvely. He had scarcely uttered the words when a deep blush overspread -his face. The significance of his reply was so apparent, the sentiments -it expressed so sincere, that he felt quite abashed, like a child whose -simple nature has led it to tell what it wished to keep secret. Had he -not been guilty of familiarity that would shock this exquisite creature, -this woman whose delicate perception no shade of meaning could escape, -and upon whose sensitive nature the slightest want of tact would -certainly jar? The pale pink of her cheeks and the silken gloss of her -hair, the blue of her eyes, and the grace of all her person made her -appear to him for the few seconds that followed his exclamation like -some Titania, by the side of whom he was but an obscure and loutish -Bottom. Before her he felt as clumsy in mind as he would have been in -body had he tried to imitate any of her graceful movements—the way, -for instance, in which she closed her handsomely worked blotting-book and -with her fair hands put in order the knick-knacks that covered her -table. An imperceptible smile hovered about her lips as the young man -uttered his simple words. But how could he have seen that smile when his -eyes were modestly cast down at the moment? How could he have guessed -that his reply would be acceptable, although it was precisely the one -that had been expected and even provoked? René was only certain of one -thing—that Madame Moraines was as gentle and as kind as she was -beautiful; instead of appearing offended or drawing back she tried to -conquer the fresh fit of timidity that was beginning to seize him by -replying to his foolish remark. -</p> - -<p> -'Well, sir, I certainly deserve that preference, which would create a -deal of jealousy if it were known, for no one admires your talent as -much as I do. Your poetry contains such true and delicate sentiment. We -women, you know, never judge by reason; our hearts criticise for us, and -it is so seldom that a modern author manages to touch only the right -chords. How can it be otherwise? We are faithful to the old -ideals—ah! yes, I know that is not at all the fashion -to-day—it makes one look almost ridiculous. But we defy -ridicule—and then, besides, I have inherited these ideas from my -poor father. It was always his fondest wish to do something towards -raising the literary tone in our unhappy country. I thought of him as I -listened to your verses; how he would have enjoyed them!' -</p> - -<p> -She stopped, as if to banish these too melancholy recollections. On -hearing the way in which she pronounced her father's name one must needs -have been a monster of distrust not to believe that the incurable wound -caused by the death of that celebrated minister bled afresh every time -she thought of him. René was, nevertheless, a little surprised at the -tenor of her words. He remembered that one of the last things -Sainte-Beuve had written was a philippic against a copyright bill -proposed by Bois-Dauffin, and he had always looked upon the statesman as -one of the sworn enemies of literature, of whom there are thousands in -the political world. He, moreover, had a profound horror of the -conventional idealism to which Madame Moraines had alluded. In poetry, -his favourite author was Théophile Gautier, both on account of his -construction and the precision of his metaphors—in prose, the severe -Flaubert, on account of his wonderfully clear style, and his lack of all -mannerisms. -</p> - -<p> -It pleased him, however, that Suzanne should see in her father a liberal -protector of literature, for it proved the depth of her filial piety. He -was also pleased to find that she cherished an ideal of his art almost -childish in its simplicity. Such a comprehension of beauty, if sincere, -showed real inner purity. If sincere! René would have disdained to -entertain such a doubt in the presence of this ethereal angel with her -dreamy eyes. He stammered out some phrase as vague as that in which -Madame Moraines had expressed her idea, and spoke only of woman's fine -judgment in literature—he, the worshipper not only of Gautier, but of -Baudelaire! Was she quick enough to hear by his tone of voice that she -was on a wrong tack? Or did the profound ignorance in which, like so -many Society women, she was content to dwell—never reading anything -beyond a paper and a few third-rate novels when travelling—make it -impossible for her to keep up a conversation of this order and quote -names in support of her ideas? In any case, she soon dropped this -dangerous subject, and quickly passed from the ideal in art to another -more feminine problem, the ideal in love. In merely uttering the word -'love,' which, in itself, contains so much that is contradictory, she -managed to assume such an air of modesty that René felt as if he had -been taken into her confidence. It was evidently a subject upon which -this woman, so far above all ideas of gallantry, did not care to enter -unless she was in full sympathy with her hearer. -</p> - -<p> -'What pleases me, too, so much in the "Sigisbée,"' she observed, in her -sweet, musical voice, 'is the faith in love portrayed there—the -horror of coquetry, of lies, of all that dishonours the most divine -sentiment of which the human soul is capable. Believe me,' she added, -resting her head upon her hand as if in deep reflection, and regarding -René with a look of such seriousness that it seemed to concentrate all -her thoughts; 'believe me, the day that you doubt the reality of love -you will cease to be a poet. But there is a God who watches over -genius,' she went on, with a kind of suppressed emotion. 'That God will -not permit the splendid gifts with which he has endowed you to be -sterilised by scepticism—for you are a believer, I am sure, and a -good Catholic?' -</p> - -<p> -'I was,' he replied. -</p> - -<p> -'And now?' she asked, with a look almost of pain on her face. -</p> - -<p> -'I have my days of doubt,' he answered in simple fashion. She was -silent, whilst he sat gazing in speechless admiration at this woman who, -in the vortex of Society life, could still ascend to a world -of higher and nobler ideas. He did not stop to think that there -was something degrading—something like an attempt to gain cheap -applause—in parading before a stranger—and what else was he -to her?—the most sacred feelings of the heart. Although he had in -his uncle, the Abbé Taconet, a perfect example of a true Christian -soul, he was not surprised to hear Madame Moraines combine in one -sentence two things so completely foreign to each other as a belief in -God and the gift of writing plays in verse. He knew nothing except that -to hear her voice once more, to see in her blue eyes that expression of -true faith, to gaze upon the curl of her dainty lips, to feel her -presence near him now, always, and for ever, he would have braved the -direst perils. Amid this silence the singing of the tea urn in a corner -of the little <i>salon</i> became more perceptible. Suzanne passed her -hand with its well-polished nails over her eyes; then, with a smile of -apology for having dared, ignorant as she was, to broach such serious -problems to a great mind like his, she suddenly changed her theme as -lightly as some women will offer you a sandwich after having discussed -the immortality of the soul. -</p> - -<p> -'But you have not come here to be preached at,' she cried, 'and I am -forgetting that I am only a worldly woman after all. Will you have a cup -of tea? Then come and help me make it.' -</p> - -<p> -She rose; her step was so lithe and she walked with such an easy grace -that to René, who was already completely bewitched, it seemed as if her -very movements continued in some way the charm of her conversation. He -too had risen, and was now made to take a seat near the little table on -which the tea-kettle was singing merrily. He looked at her as her dainty -hands, so carefully tended, deftly moved amongst the fragile china with -which the tray was laden. She was talking, too, but now her talk ran -upon a score of details of every day life. As she poured the strong -liquor into the cups she told him where she got her tea; then, as she -added the boiling water, she questioned him upon the manner in which he -made his coffee when he wanted to work. She finished by taking a seat -beside him, after having spread a small cloth for the cups, the plates -of toast and cake, the pot of cream, and all the rest. She had set it -out as though it were for a young lady's tea party, and bestowed upon -her visitor those little attentions in which women excel. They know that -the most savage men often love to be petted and made much of, and that -they are so easily won by this false coinage of pretended affection. -Suzanne was now beginning to question the poet, and made him give her an -account of his feelings on the first night of the 'Sigisbée,' thus -completing her work of seduction by compelling him to talk about -himself. All René's timidity had disappeared, and he felt as if he had -known this woman for years, so rapidly had she succeeded in gaining an -ascendency over him in this first visit. It was therefore a cruel -sensation, like awaking from a heavenly dream, when the door opened to -admit a new-comer. -</p> - -<p> -'Oh! what a bother!' exclaimed Suzanne in an undertone. How sweet this -exclamation sounded in the poet's ears, and how he appreciated her -pretty look of annoyance, and the graceful shrug of her shoulders that -accompanied it! He rose to take his leave, but not before Madame -Moraines had introduced him to the unwelcome visitor. -</p> - -<p> -'Monsieur le Baron Desforges—Monsieur Vincy.' -</p> - -<p> -The poet caught a glance of a man of middle height attired in a -smart-fitting frock-coat. The man might have been fifty-five or -forty-five—in reality he was fifty-six—so difficult was it -to read his age from his impenetrable features. His moustache was still -fair, and though the Baron had managed to escape baldness, that plague -common to all Parisians, the colour of his hair, a decided grey, showed -that he made no attempt to hide his years. His face was a little too -full-blooded to be strictly in keeping with the rest of his appearance. -His searching gaze rested upon René with that air of profound -indifference which diplomatists by profession are so prone to affect, -and which seems to say to the man so regarded, 'If I chose to know you, -I should know you—but I do not choose to.' Was this really the -meaning of the look that rested on him, or was René merely put out by -the interruption to his charming <i>tête-à-tête?</i> Be that as it -might, the poet felt an immediate and profound antipathy towards the -Baron, who, on hearing his name, had bowed without uttering a word to -show whether he knew him or not. But what did that matter to René, -since Madame Moraines had still managed to say with a smile as she gave -him her hand: 'Thanks for your kind visit. I am so glad that you found -me at home.' -</p> - -<p> -Glad! And what word should he use—he who, in an almost maudlin state -of intoxication, felt, as he left the house in which this delightful -creature lived, that before that day and that hour he had never really -loved! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap08"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER VIII -<br /><br /> -THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE</h4> - -<p> -'It's Madame Komof's little poet,' said Suzanne, as soon as the door had -closed upon René. The tone in which she replied to the Baron's mute -interrogation indicated the familiar footing upon which Desforges stood -in this house. Then with that girlish smile she could so well -assume—one of those smiles in which the most distrustful men will -always believe, because they have seen their sisters smile like -that—she went on, 'Oh! I forgot—you wouldn't go last night. -I looked so nice—you would have been proud of me. I had my hair -done just as you like it. I expected to see you come in later on. This -young man, who is the author of the play, was introduced to me, and the -poor fellow just called to leave his card. He didn't know my hours, and -came straight up. You have done him a great service in giving him an -opportunity to escape. He had stayed so long that he was afraid to go.' -</p> - -<p> -'You see that I was right in setting my face against last night's -affair,' remarked the Baron. 'Here we have another man of letters -brought out. He has been here, and will call on others. He'll call -again, no doubt, and then he'll be invited here and there. People will -talk before him as they do before you and me, without thinking that on -leaving your house he will, out of sheer vanity, go and retail the -stories he has heard here in some <i>café</i> or newspaper office. And then -the Society dames will be astonished to find themselves figuring in the -columns of some scurrilous sheet or in an up-to-date novel. To invite -writers into the drawing-room is one of the latest and maddest freaks of -so-called Society. We wrong them by robbing them of their time, and they -return the injury by libelling us. I was told the other day that the -daughter of one of this gentleman's colleagues, who helps her papa in -his books, was heard to say: "We never go anywhere without bringing home -at least two pages of useful notes." I myself cannot understand this -mania for talking into phonographs—and such silly, lying phonographs, -too, as they are!' -</p> - -<p> -'Ah!' exclaimed Suzanne, taking the Baron's hand in hers, and looking up -at him with an admiration that was too marked not to be sincere, 'how -fortunate I am in having you to guide me through life! What correct and -clear judgment you have!' -</p> - -<p> -'Oh! merely a little gumption, that's all,' replied Desforges, with a -shake of the head; 'that will prevent one from committing nine-tenths of -the bad actions that are really only follies. All my wisdom of life is -to try and get what I can out of what is left me—and what is left me -is precious little. Do you know that I shall be fifty-six this week, -Suzanne?' -</p> - -<p> -She shook her pretty head, and came closer to him as he stopped in his -march up and down the room. With a look of ingenuousness that might have -been worn either by an accomplished wanton or a big girl asking her -father for a kiss she brought first her cheek with its pretty dimple, -and then the corner of her sweet mouth, under the Baron's lips. -</p> - -<p> -'Come,' she said, 'don't you want any tea? It's a bad sign when you -begin to talk about your age; you must have upset yourself either in the -<i>Chambre</i> or at some Board meeting.' -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke she moved towards the little table, and her eyes fell upon -the cups and plates she and René had used. Did she remember the -Madonna-like <i>rôle</i> she had played in this very spot only a quarter of -an hour ago, and the handsome young man for whose benefit she had -assumed her most bewitching attitudes? And if such a thought really -entered that pretty head, set in its coils of pale gold, did she feel -any shame, any regret, that the poet had gone, or only a kind of secret -joy, such as these bold actresses feel in their moments of greatest -hypocrisy? She made the tea with as much care as she had bestowed on the -process a few minutes before. Desforges had naturally slipped into the -arm-chair just vacated by René, and Suzanne occupied her former seat as -she sat listening to the Baron's talk. This estimable man had an -unfortunate habit of dogmatising at times. He knew the world—that was -his great boast, and he was justified in making it. Only, he attached a -little too much importance to this knowledge. -</p> - -<p> -'It was rather trying in the Chambre to-day, it is true,' he said. 'I -went to hear de Suave hurl his thunderbolts at the Government. He still -believes in Parliamentary speeches and in oratorical triumphs. As for -me, I have, of course, become a sceptic, a grumbler, and a pessimist -since the day when I refused office. They are glad to have me in the -House because my grandfather was a Prefect under one emperor and I a -Councillor of State under another. The name looks well at the bottom of -a poster; but as for hearing me, that's another matter. And they have -such respect for me, too! When I drop in at the club in the afternoon I -find half-a-dozen of my friends, both young and old, engaged in -restoring the monarchy whilst watching the girls pass, if it is summer, -or between two deals at bézique in winter. When I come in you should -see how quickly they change their faces and their conversation, as if I -were discretion itself. I should like to have told them a few -home-truths to-day, just to relieve my feelings, but I went to the Rue -de la Paix instead to get your earrings.' -</p> - -<p> -With these words he took from his pocket a small leather case; it was -quite plain, without the jewellers address, and as he held it out the -fire flashed from the two splendid diamonds it contained, making -Suzanne's eyes sparkle with delight. The case passed from the Baron's -hands into hers, and after gazing at its contents for a moment, she -closed the little box and placed it among some other things on a small -shelf beside her. The manner in which she accepted it would alone have -sufficed to prove how accustomed she was to receiving similar presents. -Then, turning to Desforges, her sweet face all aglow with pleasure, she -exclaimed, 'How good you are to me!' -</p> - -<p> -'Don't thank me. It's pure selfishness,' said the Baron, though -evidently pleased by the impression the earrings had made. 'It is I who -ought to thank you for being good enough to wear these poor stones—I -do so love to see you look nice. Ah!' he added, 'I had forgotten to tell -you—the famous port has arrived; I shall send you half the -consignment, and, by a stroke of good luck, I have managed to get the -Watteau you admired so much for a mere song.' -</p> - -<p> -'I shall have a chance of thanking you to-morrow, I hope, in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor,' she replied, darting a look at him; 'at four o'clock, -isn't it?' she added, dropping her eyes with a blush. If, endowed with -the power of second sight, poor René, who had just returned home in a -fit of idolatry, could have perceived her at that moment without hearing -the conversation he would certainly have seen in her noble face an -expression of most divine modesty. But those downcast lids and the look -she had given him had probably brought other thoughts to the Baron's -mind, for his eyes grew bright, and the blood rushed to his -cheeks—those cheeks which bore such evident traces of good living, a -dangerous vice whose consequences Desforges was always trying to elude. -'I hold the balance,' he used to say, 'between gout and apoplexy.' -</p> - -<p> -Giving his moustache a twirl, he changed the subject, and in a thick -voice, by which his mistress could once more gauge the hold she had upon -the senses of this hoary sinner, asked, 'Who will be in your box -to-night?' -</p> - -<p> -'Only Madame Ethorel.' -</p> - -<p> -'What men?' -</p> - -<p> -'Ethorel cannot come. There will be my husband—and, of course, -Crucé.' -</p> - -<p> -'He must make a pretty little thing out of her, only in commission!' -exclaimed Desforges. 'He has just put her on to a picture for which she -has paid twenty thousand francs—I'll wager he got ten thousand out of -it!' -</p> - -<p> -'What a wretch!' cried Suzanne. -</p> - -<p> -'She is such a fool,' remarked the Baron, 'and Crucé is known to be a -<i>connaisseur.</i> Besides, if poor Ethorel didn't have him to consult, -his money would go just the same in absolute rubbish. All is for the best -in this best of possible worlds. Well, go on.' -</p> - -<p> -'Little de Brèves and you. Hark!' she exclaimed, stopping to listen. -'Some one is coming up—I have such an ear.' And then, looking at the -Baron in precisely the same way she had looked, at René, she added, -with a pretty look of annoyance, '<i>Mon Dieu!</i> What a bother! Oh! it's -no one,' breaking into a silvery laugh as the servant opened the door; -'it's only my husband. Good afternoon, Paul.' -</p> - -<p> -'That sounds very complimentary,' said the man who had just entered, a -tall, well-built fellow with frank, fearless eyes, and one of those pale -but healthy complexions that reveal great energy. His features had that -stamp of regularity which is only to be met with in Paris in very young -men, for a face of that kind in a man of more than thirty-five indicates -a perfectly clear conscience. The depth of his love was easily measured -by the way in which Moraines looked at his wife, and his sincerity by -the manner in which he shook hands with the Baron. -</p> - -<p> -After a hearty laugh at Suzanne's exclamation, he added, with mock -gravity, 'Am I intruding, madame?' -</p> - -<p> -'Do you want any tea?' asked Suzanne, quietly; 'I must tell you that -it's cold. "Yes, please," or "No, thank you?"' -</p> - -<p> -'No, thank you,' replied Moraines, dropping into an arm-chair, and -preparing his words as if to produce an effect, like some visitor. 'Some -husbands are real idiots, and I blush for the community. Have you heard -about Hacqueville? The story was told me at the club just now. Haven't -heard it, eh? Well, this morning he happens to open a letter addressed -to his wife which leaves no doubt as to the lady's virtue.' -</p> - -<p> -'Poor Mainterne,' cried Suzanne, 'he was so fond of Lucie!' -</p> - -<p> -'That's the beauty of it,' shouted Moraines, in the triumphal accents of -one who is about to astonish his hearers; 'the letter didn't come from -Mainterne, but Laverdin! Lucie had more than two strings to her bow. And -guess to whom Hacqueville takes the letter and looks for advice?' -</p> - -<p> -'To Mainterne,' replied the Baron. -</p> - -<p> -'You've heard the story?' -</p> - -<p> -'No,' rejoined Desforges, 'but it seems so simple. And what did -Mainterne say?' -</p> - -<p> -'You may guess how indignant he was. Lucie has gone to her mother's, and -a duel is announced between Hacqueville and Laverdin, in which the -former insists upon Mainterne being his second. Well, of all the fools -I've seen, I think he is about the biggest. And he hasn't a single -friend to open his eyes.' -</p> - -<p> -'He'll find one,' said the Baron, rising to go. 'The moral of your story -is, never write.' -</p> - -<p> -'Won't you stay and dine with us, Frédéric?' asked Moraines. -</p> - -<p> -'I have an engagement,' replied Desforges, 'but will meet you later at -the Opera. Madame Moraines has been good enough to save me a seat.' -</p> - -<p> -'In your box,' rejoined Paul, with more truth than he thought. The -Baron, who had been a widower for the past ten years, had kept his box -at the Opera, and sublet it for alternate weeks to his excellent friends -the Moraines. The rent, however, was never paid. The husband was as -little aware of his wife's accommodating ways as he was of the -impossibility of living as they did on their income of fifty thousand -francs. The remnant of the wretched fortune left by the late Minister, -Madame Moraines' father, who in fifteen years of office had saved almost -nothing, formed the half of this annual budget. The other half was the -salary which Moraines got as secretary to an insurance company, a place -procured for him by Desforges. In spite of Suzanne's protests, Paul had -not lost the deplorable habit of expatiating upon his wife's clever -husbanding of their united income, which was very small for the world in -which the Moraines lived. Thanks to his simple-minded confidence, he was -the kind of man who, when his friends complained of the increasing -severity of the struggle for life, would say, 'You ought to have a wife -like mine—<i>she</i> knows where to get bargains. She has a maid who -is a perfect treasure, and who can turn out a dress as well as the best -tailor!' 'You make me look ridiculous!' Suzanne would often say; but he -loved her too well to give up praising her, and now, just after -Desforges had left, his first act was to take her hands in his and say, -'How nice it is to have you all to myself for a moment! Kiss me, -Suzanne.' -</p> - -<p> -She gave him her cheek and the corner of her mouth, just as she had done -to Desforges. -</p> - -<p> -'When I am told such terrible stories as that,' he continued, 'it gives -me quite a shock; but I soon recover when I think that I have been lucky -enough to get a little woman like yourself. Ah! Suzanne, how I love -you!' -</p> - -<p> -'And yet I am sure you will scold me,' she replied, escaping from his -embrace. 'The woman you think so clever, and of whom you are so proud, -has been very foolish. Those diamonds,' she went on, holding up the box -brought by Desforges, 'that I told you about—well, I couldn't resist -them, and so I bought them.' -</p> - -<p> -'But it's out of your own savings,' remarked Paul. 'What fine stones! Do -you want me not to scold you? Then let me put them in.' -</p> - -<p> -'You'll never be able to manage it,' she replied, holding up one of her -dainty ears adorned with a plain pink pearl, which Paul slipped out -deftly. Then came the turn of the other ear and the other pearl. He -showed the same dexterity in putting in the diamonds, touching his -beloved as gently with his strong man's hands as any girl could have -done. To look at herself, Suzanne took up a small mirror set in a frame -of antique silver, another present of the Baron's, and smiled. She -looked so pretty at that moment that Paul drew her towards him, and, -holding her in his arms, tried to obtain a kiss from her lips. As a -rule, she never refused him this. Possibly, from some complication in -her nature, she had managed to preserve, in spite of all, a kind of -physical liking for this honest, manly fellow, whom she deceived in such -a cruel fashion. What, then, had suddenly come over her, and made the -usual kiss unbearable? She pushed her husband away almost roughly, -saying, 'Oh! let me alone'—then, as if to mitigate the harshness of -her tone, she added, 'It's ridiculous in an old married couple. Good-bye, I -have hardly time to dress.' -</p> - -<p> -With these words she passed into her bedroom, and so into her -dressing-room. Of all the apartments in her home, this was the one in -which the profound materialism that formed the basis of this woman's -nature was most revealed. Her maid, Céline, a tall, dark girl with -impenetrable eyes, commenced to undress her in this shrine of beauty, as -gorgeously upholstered as that of any royal courtesan, and anyone who -had seen Suzanne at that moment would have understood that she was ready -to do anything for the luxury of living in this atmosphere of supreme -refinement. -</p> - -<p> -This woman, so delicately fashioned that she seemed almost fragile, was -one of those creatures who combine full hips with a slender waist, neat -ankles with a well-turned leg, dainty wrists with rounded arms, small -features with a full figure, and whose dresses, by hiding all such -material charms, clothe them, as it were, with spirituality. She cast a -glance at the long mirror set in the centre of her wardrobe, where, -packed away in sweet-smelling sachets, lay piles of embroidered linen; -seeing how well she looked she smiled as there once more flashed across -her brain the same idea that but a few moments ago had dragged her from -her husband's arms. This idea was evidently not one of those which it -pleased her to entertain, for she shook her head, and a few minutes -later, having thrown over her bare neck and shoulders a dressing-jacket -of pale blue <i>foulard</i> silk and put her naked feet into a pair of soft -swans-down slippers, she gave herself up to the hands of her maid, who -began to dress the long, shining hair. The cool water in which she had -bathed her face had completely restored her self-possession, and in the -mirror before her she saw all the details of this apartment that she had -turned into the chapel of her one religion—her beauty. -</p> - -<p> -All was reflected there—the soft-toned carpet, the bath of English -porcelain, the wide marble washhand-stand with its silver fittings and -its host of small toilet necessaries. Did the sight of all these things -remind her of the divers conditions that secured her this happy -existence? In any case, it was of her husband she was thinking when she -exclaimed, 'The dear, good fellow!' The sparkling diamonds that she had -kept in her ears recalled thoughts of Desforges, and following close -upon the other came the mental exclamation, 'Dear, kind friend!' These -two contradictory impressions became as easily reconciled in the head -adorned with those long silken tresses as the two facts were reconciled -in life. Women excel in these moral mosaics, which appear less monstrous -when the process of their construction has been carefully watched. This -fair Parisian of thirty was certainly as thoroughly corrupted as it is -possible to be; but, to do her justice, it must be said at once that she -was unaware of it, so passive had she been with regard to the -circumstances that had gradually reduced her to this state of -unconscious immorality. -</p> - -<p> -When Suzanne had allowed herself to be married to Paul Moraines two -years before the war of 1870 she had felt neither repugnance nor -enthusiasm. The matter had been arranged by the two families; old -Moraines, a senator ever since the establishment of the Second Empire, -belonged to the same set as old Bois-Dauffin, and Paul, who was then an -officer of the Council of State, a good dancer and a charming ladies' -man, seemed made for her, as she did for him. For the first two years -they formed what is called in women's parlance 'a sweet couple;' it was -one round of balls, suppers, and theatre parties, with rural festivities -in summer and hunting parties in autumn, all of which both of them -enjoyed to the full. Paul himself well defined the kind of relations -that bound him to his wife amidst these continual pleasures. 'You are as -bewitching as a mistress,' he would say to her as he kissed her in the -brougham that took them home at one in the morning. -</p> - -<p> -The revolution of the Fourth of September put an end to this fairy-like -existence. The families on both sides had lived on large salaries that -were suddenly stopped, but this stoppage had no immediate effect upon -the gratification of their expensive tastes. Until his death, which -occurred in 1873, Bois-Dauffin was convinced of the speedy restoration -of a <i>régime</i> that had been so strong, so well supported, and so -popular. The ex-senator, who survived his friend only a few months, -shared his sanguine dreams. Paul had, of course, lost his place at the -Council of State. He possessed, to an even greater extent than his -father and his father-in-law, that blind faith in the success of the -cause which will always remain an original trait of the Imperialist -party. Suzanne, who had no faith of any kind, commenced to be troubled -in 1873 by a very clear vision of the ruin towards which she and her -husband were steering by living, as they did, on their capital. This was -precisely the moment when Frédéric Desforges commenced to pay her -court. -</p> - -<p> -This man, who was then not yet fifty, had remained the most brilliant -representative of the generation that had come in with the Second -Empire, and which had for its chief the clear-sighted and seductive Duc -de Morny. In Suzanne's eyes the Baron's highest recommendation lay in -the romantic tales of gallantry that were told of him in the -drawing-room, and soon this prestige was supplemented by his -indisputable superiority in the knowledge and management of Parisian -Society. Having been left a childless widower after a brief union, with -almost nothing to do, for his parliamentary duties did not trouble him -much, and with an income of four hundred thousand francs a year, -exclusive of his mansion in the Cours-la-Reine, his estate in Anjou and -his <i>chalet</i> at Deauville, the former favourite of the famous Duke had -the rare courage to allow himself to grow old—just as his leader had -had the courage to die. He wished to form one last attachment that would -bear cultivating until his sixtieth year, and procure him not only an -agreeable and accommodating mistress, but a pleasant circle in which to -spend his evenings. He had taken in the position of Madame Moraines at a -glance, and decided that this was exactly the kind of woman he -wanted—extremely pretty and graceful, guaranteed against all -probability of maternity by six years of childless married life, and -possessing a presentable husband, who would never become a blackmailer. -The crafty Baron summed up all these advantages, and by gradually -worming his way into Suzanne's confidence, by proving his devotion in -getting Moraines his secretaryship, by making her accept presents upon -presents, and by showing that exquisite tact of a man who only asks to -be tolerated, he at last got her to consent to his wishes. All this, -too, was done so slowly and so imperceptibly, and the <i>liaison</i>, when -once established, became so simple and so closely bound up with her -daily life, that the criminality of her relations with Desforges -scarcely ever seemed to strike Suzanne. -</p> - -<p> -What wrong was she doing Moraines, after all? Was she not his wife, and -really attached to him? As for the Baron, it is true that he provided a -very fair share of the luxuries in which she indulged. But what of that? -May not a woman receive presents? If he paid a bill here, and a bill -there, did that hurt anyone? She was his mistress, but their -relationship was clothed in an air of respectability that made it seem -almost like a legitimate union. She had become so accustomed to this -compromise with her conscience that she considered herself, if not quite -an honest woman, at least vastly superior in virtue to a number of her -friends with whose various intrigues she was acquainted. If her -conscience reproached her at all, it was for having deceived Desforges, -two years after the beginning of their intimacy, with a swell clubman, -whom she had carried off from one of her friends during the racing -season at Deauville. This individual had, however, almost compromised -her so fatally, and she had been so quick to detect in him the -self-conceit of a mere flirt, that she had been only too glad to sever -the connection at once. Thereupon she had sworn to restrict herself to -the peaceful delights of her three-cornered arrangement—to Paul's -gentlemanly ways and the Baron's Epicurean gallantry. And so carefully -had she kept her resolve, and with such attention to outward appearance, -that her good name was as safe as it could be in the enviable position -to which her beauty raised her. She had rivals who were too well -accustomed to drawing up accounts not to know that the Moraines were -living at the rate of eighty thousand francs a year; 'and we knew them -when they were almost beggars,' added these kind people. 'Scandal!' -cried all the Baron's friends in chorus, and he had a way of making -friends everywhere. 'Scandal!' cried the simple-minded people who are -shocked by the tales of infamy that go the round of the drawing-rooms -every night. 'Scandal!' added the wiseacres, who know that the best -thing to do in Paris is to pretend to believe nothing, and to take -people at their own value. -</p> - -<p> -Recollections of the innumerable services that Desforges had rendered -her were no doubt running through Suzanne's mind as, seated before her -toilet table, she exclaimed, 'The dear, kind friend!' Why, then, did the -Baron's face, intelligent but worn, suddenly make way for another and a -younger face, adorned with an ideal beard and lit up by a pair of dark -blue eyes that reflected all the ardour of a virgin and enthusiastic -soul? Why, whilst Céline's nimble fingers were busy with laces and -hooks, would an inner voice continually murmur the sweet music of these -four syllables—René Vincy? What secret temptation was she resisting -when she whispered again and again the word, 'Impossible!' -</p> - -<p> -She had seen the poet twice. That she, the mistress, almost the pupil, -of the elegant Desforges; she, the very pattern of the Society belle, -who had sold herself for all this fine perfumed linen in which she -wrapped her beauty—for these soft, silken skirts which her maid was -now fastening about her waist and for the countless luxuries that a -licentious woman of fashion delights in, that she could so forget -herself as to be captivated by the eyes and words of a chance poetaster, -seen to-day and forgotten to-morrow, was well nigh impossible. She had -said 'Impossible!' and yet here she was thinking of him again. How -strange it was that ever since meeting René she had been unable to rid -herself of the alluring hope of winning him! If anyone had used that -old-fashioned phrase, 'Love at first sight,' in her hearing, she would -have shrugged those pretty shoulders whose graceful contours were now -revealed by her low-necked Opera gown and whose whiteness was enhanced -by the single string of pearls she wore; and yet, what other words could -describe the sudden and ardent feelings that her meeting with the poet -had inspired—feelings that were hourly growing more intense? -</p> - -<p> -The fact of the matter was that for some months past Suzanne -had been somewhat bored between her husband—'the dear, good -fellow'—and her 'dear, kind friend,' the Baron. The life of -pleasure and of luxury for which she had made so many sacrifices seemed -to her empty and dull. This she called 'being too happy.' 'I ought to -have a little trouble,' she would say, with a laugh. Incessant -indulgence had destroyed her appetite for enjoyment and made her a prey -to the moral and physical weariness that frequently causes -<i>demi-mondaines</i> to suddenly throw up a position which it has cost -them much labour to attain. They require fresh sensations, and, above -all, that of love. They will commit any folly when once they have met -the man who is able to make them feel something beyond their former -empty delights—one whom their less elegant sisters would -expressively term 'their sort.' -</p> - -<p> -For Madame Moraines, who had just attained her thirtieth year, and who, -satiated as she was with every kind of luxury, with no ambition to -realise, and without the least respect for the men she met in her set, -the apparition of a new being like René, so entirely different to the -usual drawing-room 'swell,' might and did become an event in its way. It -was curiosity that led her to take a seat next to him at Madame Komof's -supper-table, and her feminine tact had at once told her in what -<i>rôle</i> she would be most seductive in his eyes. His conversation -had delighted her, but on her return home she had gone to sleep after -uttering the 'Impossible!' which is used as a charm against all -complaints of this kind by Society belles, a class more bound down in -their narrow paths of pleasure than any busy housewife by her daily -duties. Then René had called, and the impression he had already made on -her was intensified a hundred-fold. She was pleased with all she saw or -imagined in the young man—his good looks, his true-heartedness, -his awkwardness, and his timidity. It was in vain that she kept -repeating 'Impossible!' as she put the finishing touch to her dress by -fastening one or two diamond pins in her bodice—in spite of that -word she was already capitulating. She turned the idea over again and -again, and all kinds of plans for bringing the adventure to a successful -issue passed through her practical mind. 'Desforges is very sharp,' she -reflected, adding, as she remembered the Baron's tirade against literary -men, 'and he has already smelt a rat.' This tirade had at first afforded -her amusement, but now it annoyed her, and made her feel a desire to act -in a manner entirely opposed to her excellent friend's wishes. She was -so completely absorbed in thought that it attracted her maid's -attention, and caused that young person to say to the footman, 'There's -something wrong with Madame. Can Monsieur have found out anything?' -</p> - -<p> -This unreasonable and irresistible abstraction lasted all through -dinner, then on the way to the theatre, and even during the performance, -until Madame Ethorel suddenly remarked, 'Isn't that Monsieur Vincy -looking at us over there—in the stalls near the door on the right?' -</p> - -<p> -'Madame Komof's poet?' asked Suzanne indifferently. During René's visit -she had mentioned that she was going to the Opera that night. She -remembered it now as she put up her own glasses, mounted in chased -silver—another present from the Baron. She saw René, and as he -timidly turned away his glance a sudden thrill ran through her. Had -Desforges, from his place at the back of the box, overheard Madame -Ethorel's remark? No, she thought not; he was in deep conversation with -Crucé. -</p> - -<p> -'He is talking shop,' she said to herself as she listened, 'and has -heard nothing. What is going on in me?' -</p> - -<p> -It was the first time for many a day that the music touched some chord -of feeling within her. She spent the evening between the happiness that -René's presence caused her and the mortal dread that he might visit her -in her box. The shame of having been remarked no doubt paralysed the -poet, for he dared not even look towards the place where Suzanne sat, -and when she went down to her carriage his face was not to be seen in -the double row of men who lined the staircase. There was therefore -nothing to prevent her from giving herself up to the idea that had -obtained such a hold upon her, and as she laid her fair head upon the -lace-covered pillow she had got so far as to say: 'Provided he doesn't -ask his friend Larcher for information about me!' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap09"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER IX -<br /><br /> -AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE</h4> - -<p> -Every morning a little before nine Paul Moraines entered his wife's -room. By that time she had had her bath and was employed in attending to -little trifles. Her small white feet, showing their blue veins, played -in and out of her slippers, her dressing gown of soft clinging material -was gathered round her slim waist by a silken cord, and her hair hung -down in a thick golden plait. The bedroom, in which the big bedstead -took up a good deal of space, was aired and perfumed, and to Paul the -three-quarters of an hour he spent in taking his morning cup of tea with -Suzanne at a little table near the window was the happiest part of the -day. He had to be at his office by ten, and was too busy to come home -for lunch. He was the kind of man who sits down in a first-class -restaurant about half-past twelve, orders the <i>plat du jour</i>, a small -bottle of wine, and a cup of coffee, and goes away after having spent -the smallest sum possible. It pleased him to rival his wife's economy in -this fashion. But his morning cup of tea was the reward he looked -forward to during the six or seven hours he devoted to the Company's -work. -</p> - -<p> -'There are some days,' he would say in his simple way, 'when I should -see nothing of you if it were not for this thrice blessed cup of tea!' -It was he who served her; he buttered her toast with infinite care and -watched her dainty teeth attack the crisp morsels. He was uneasy when, -as on the morning after she had seen René at the Opera, her eyes were -not quite so bright as usual and a look of fatigue showed that she had -not had sufficient sleep. All night had she been tormented by thoughts -of the young poet, and by the stir he had made amongst the small bundle -of remnants she called her feelings. Her mind being before all else -clear and precise—the mind of a business man at the service of a -pretty woman's whims—she had reviewed the means at her disposal -for gratifying her passionate caprice. The first condition was that she -should see René again, and see him often; now, that was impossible at -her own house, as was proved by her husband's words that very morning. -After a few tender inquiries concerning her health, he asked, Did you -have many visitors yesterday?' -</p> - -<p> -'None at all,' she replied; and it being her custom never to tell an -unnecessary fib, she added, 'only Desforges and that young fellow who -wrote the play performed at Madame Komof's the other night.' -</p> - -<p> -'René Vincy,' remarked Moraines. 'I'm sorry I missed him—I like his -work very much. What is he like? Is he presentable?' -</p> - -<p> -'He's nothing much,' answered Suzanne; 'quite insignificant.' -</p> - -<p> -'Did Desforges see him?' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes—why?' -</p> - -<p> -'I'll ask the Baron about him. I dare say he took his measure at the -first glance. He has a rare knowledge of men.' -</p> - -<p> -'That's just like him,' said Suzanne, when Moraines was gone, after -having devoured her with kisses; 'he tells the Baron everything.' She -foresaw that the first person to tell Desforges of René's frequent -visits to the Rue Murillo, if she got the poet to come, would be Paul -himself. 'He is really too silly,' she went on, getting out of patience -with him for his absolute confidence in the Baron, which she had herself -been most instrumental in inspiring. But now she was beginning to fret -under the first feelings of restraint. -</p> - -<p> -Thoughts of René ran through her head all the morning, which was spent -in looking over accounts and in receiving the visit of Madame Leroux, -her manicure, a person of ripe age, extremely devout, with a -sanctimonious and discreet air, who waited on the most aristocratic -hands and feet in Paris. As a rule Suzanne, who, with perfect justice, -looked upon inferiors as the principal source of all Society scandal, -had a long talk with Madame Leroux, partly to procure her good-will, -partly to hear a good many details concerning those whom the artiste -deigned to honour with her services. Madame Leroux was therefore never -tired of singing the praises of that charming Madame Moraines, 'so -unaffected and so good. She absolutely worships her husband.' But that -day none of the manicure's flattery could draw a single word from her -fair client. The desire that had seized hold of the latter grew stronger -and stronger, whilst the obstacles that stood in the way of its -gratification assumed a clearer and more uncompromising shape. To gain a -man's love requires time and opportunities of meeting. René did not go -into Society, and if he had done so it would have been worse still, for -other women would have taken him from her. Here, in her home in the Rue -Murillo, she could have wormed her way into his virgin heart so -easily—and only the Baron's watchfulness prevented her. -</p> - -<p> -It was the first time for some years that she felt herself fettered, and -a fit of anger against the man to whom she owed all she had came over -her. Filled with such thoughts as these she lunched as usual alone, and -in very frugal fashion. Even with the generous assistance of her -benefactor she could only make both ends meet by practising economy in -things that would not be noticed, such as the table. In her solitude she -felt so miserable and at the same time so utterly powerless that, as she -rose, the cry almost escaped her, 'What is the use of it, after all?' -</p> - -<p> -What was the use of it all, indeed? She was a slave. Not only could she -not see René as she wished in her own house, but that very afternoon, -in spite of the new sentiments that were springing up within her, she -had to keep an appointment with Desforges. -</p> - -<p> -'What is the use of it?' she repeated, as she got herself ready to go -out, putting on a pair of tiny shoes instead of boots, a plain dress -that fastened in front, a black bonnet, and in her pocket a thick veil. -She had ordered her carriage for two o'clock—a brougham and pair that -she hired by the month for the afternoon and evening. On getting into it -she was so crushed by the weight of her slavery that she could have -cried. What, then, were her feelings when, on turning the corner of the -street, she saw René standing there, evidently waiting to see her pass? -</p> - -<p> -Their eyes met. He took his hat off with a blush, and she too could not -help blushing in the corner of her carriage, so great was the -pleasurable revulsion of feeling caused by this unexpected meeting, and -especially by the idea that he must be in love with her. She, the -creature of calculation and deceit, fell into one of those profound -reveries in which women, when in love, anticipate all the delights to -which the sentiment they experience and inspire can give birth. At such -a moment they will give themselves up in thoughts to the man they did -not know a week ago. If they dared, they would give themselves up too, -there and then, though this would not hinder them from persuading the -man who conquered them at the first glance that their subjugation was a -work of time and degrees. In this they are right, for man's stupid -vanity is gratified by the difficulties of the conquest, and few have -sense enough to understand the divine quality of love that is -spontaneous, natural, and irresistible. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst the poet walked off, saying to himself, 'I am undone—she will -never forgive me for such folly,' Suzanne was in one of those transports -of delight before which prudence itself gives way, and, forgetting her -fears of the morning, she now saw her way to carrying out one of those -simple plans such as only the eminently realistic mind of a woman can -concoct. She had set herself the task of deceiving a very sharp man, and -one who was well acquainted with her disposition. The best thing to do, -therefore, was to act in a manner exactly contrary to what that man -would expect and foresee. Matters must be precipitated; René must be -brought to her feet after two or three visits, and she must surrender -before he had had time to woo her; Desforges would never suspect her of -such an escapade—he who knew her to be so circumspect, so cautious, -and so clever. But what if the poet despised her for her too easy -surrender? She shook her pretty head incredulously as this objection -occurred to her. That was a matter of tact and of woman's wit, and there -she was sure of her ground! -</p> - -<p> -Her joy at having roughly worked out this problem and the joy of -deceiving the subtle Baron became so strangely mixed that she now looked -forward to her appointment not only without regret, but with malicious -delight. On reaching the colonnades in the Rue de Rivoli she got out as -usual and sent the carriage home. The house in which the Baron had taken -rooms for his meetings with Suzanne possessed two entrances, an -advantage so uncommon in Paris that buildings favoured in that way are -not only well-known, but much sought after by transgressors of the -Seventh Commandment. Frédéric was too intimately acquainted with this -phase of Parisian life to have fallen into the error of going to a place -whose reputation was already made. The house he had somewhat -accidentally hit upon must have escaped discovery by reason of its -sedate and dismal-looking frontage in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, where he -had taken the first floor, consisting of an ante-room and three other -apartments. The rooms were kept in order by his valet, a man on whom he -could thoroughly rely, thanks to the liberal wages he gave him. -Considerable regard had been paid to what must be called the comfort of -pleasure in furnishing this small suite, where the hangings and curtains -deadened the noises from without, where soft skins were thrown down here -and there for naked feet, where the countless mirrors reminded one of -similar but less decorous places, and where the low arm-chairs and -couches invited those long, familiar talks in which lovers delight. In a -word, the minute care bestowed upon this interior would alone have -betrayed the extent of the Baron's sensualism. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne had so often come to this house during the past few years, she -had so often tied on her thick veil in the doorway in the Rue de Rivoli, -so often hastened past the porter's lodge that she had come to perform -almost mechanically these rites of adultery which procure novices such -exquisite emotions. To-day, as she mounted the stairs, she could not -help thinking how differently she would feel if she were going to meet -René Vincy instead of the Baron in this quiet retreat She knew so well -exactly what would happen. Desforges would be there and have everything -prepared for her reception, from the flowers in the vases to the bread -and butter for tea; then, at a given moment, she would go into the -dressing-room and come out in a loose lace gown, her hair hanging about -her shoulders and her little feet encased in slippers similar to those -she wore in the morning. She took not the least pleasure in all this, -but the Baron had such a charming way of showing his gratitude for the -favours she granted him and displayed so much wit and affection during -their long talks together that it was frequently he who had to remind -his mistress that it was time to go. -</p> - -<p> -To-day the state of her mind and feelings prompted Suzanne herself to -say, as soon as she had entered the room, 'I am very sorry, Frédéric -dear, but I shall have to leave you rather early.' -</p> - -<p> -'Has it put you out to come?' asked the Baron as he helped her off with -her cloak. 'Why didn't you send me a line to countermand our -appointment?' -</p> - -<p> -'He is really too kind,' thought Suzanne, feeling some slight remorse -for her unnecessary fib. Taking her hat off before the glass the flash -of her diamond earrings caught her eye, and suddenly reminded her of all -that she owed this man, who asked for so little in return. -</p> - -<p> -False situations sometimes give rise to conscientious paradoxes, and it -was a feeling of honesty that impelled this woman to come and seat -herself on the arm of the Baron's easy chair and to sigh, 'I should have -been terribly disappointed myself. Will you never believe that I am really -glad to come here?—I owe him that at least,' she thought, and in -further obedience to her strange qualms of conscience she contrived to -be more than usually fascinating and docile during the whole of their -<i>tête-à-tête.</i> -</p> - -<p> -At the end of a couple of hours, whilst she was lying back half buried -in one of the great arm-chairs, enjoying a caviar sandwich and a -thimbleful of fine old sherry, Desforges, who was watching her dainty -movements as she ate, could not help exclaiming: 'Ah! Suzon! At my age, -too! What would Noirot say?' -</p> - -<p> -This Noirot who had so suddenly troubled the Baron's mind was a doctor -who treated him to a course of massage every morning and watched over -his general health. Everything in the life of this systematic voluptuary -was carefully planned out, from the amount of exercise to be taken each -day to the attendance he should receive when in his dotage. He had taken -into his house a poor and pious female relative, to whose good works he -annually subscribed a pretty round sum. When complimented on his -generosity, he would reply in his own jocular and cynical way: 'What can -I do? I must have some one to look after me in my old age. My cousin -will be my nurse, and make the best one in Paris.' -</p> - -<p> -Generally these outbursts of unblushing egotism amused Suzanne. She saw -in them a conception of life whose pronounced materialism was far from -displeasing her. But to-day she looked a little more closely at the -Baron as he uttered his doctor's name, and sitting there with the -lamp-light full upon his wrinkled face, his drooping moustache and his -swollen eyelids, he looked so broken down and so fully his age that the -hideousness of her own life suddenly burst upon her. It is a horrible -thing for a young and beautiful woman to endure the caresses of a man -she does not love, even when that man is young, full of passion and -ardour. But when he is bordering on old age, when he pays for the right -to pollute this fair woman whose love he cannot win, then it is -prostitution so terrible that disgust gives way to sorrow. For the first -time, perhaps, Desforges looked old in Suzanne's eyes, and by an -irresistible impulse of her whole soul she called to mind, as a -contrast, the fresh lips and fair young face of the man whose image had -haunted her for the past two days. She felt how foolishly she had -behaved in hesitating for an instant, and, being a person of -determination, she commenced to act at once. -</p> - -<p> -She was now dressed, and having put on her bonnet and buttoned her -gloves, she said to Desforges before tying on her veil, 'When are you -coming to lunch with me? Once upon a time you often used to come without -being asked—it was so nice of you.' -</p> - -<p> -'To-morrow I can't,' he replied, 'nor the next day either, but the day -after that——' -</p> - -<p> -'Tuesday, then? That's an understood thing. And to-night I shall see you -at Madame de Sermoises', sha'n't I?' -</p> - -<p> -'Charming woman!' thought the Baron, as he was left alone. 'She might -have so many adventures, and her only thought is of pleasing me.' -</p> - -<p> -'The day after to-morrow, then, I am sure of being alone,' said Suzanne -to herself as she swept along the pavement of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, -casting cautious glances to the right and left, but with such art that -her eyes scarcely seemed to move. 'But what excuse can I give -René'—she already called him by that name in her -thoughts—'to make him come? I know—I'll ask him to write a -few lines on a copy of the "Sigisbée" that I'm going to send to a -friend.' -</p> - -<p> -She had to pass a bookseller's in the Rue Castiglione, and went in to -buy the book, being in that state of mind when the execution of an idea -follows almost automatically upon its conception. 'I hope he'll not do -anything foolish before then. And I hope he won't hear anything about me -that will dampen his ardour.' Claude Larcher once more came into her mind. -'Yes—he's certainly dangerous,' she thought, and saw at once the -means of avoiding the danger provided René came to her before speaking -to Claude. Then it suddenly struck her that she did not know the poet's -address, but that difficulty could be got over by calling on Madame -Komof. 'It is past six now, and she is sure to be at home.' Hailing a -cab, she drove to the Rue du Bel-Respiro, and was lucky enough to find -the Comtesse alone, from whom it was easy to obtain the information she -wanted. -</p> - -<p> -The worthy lady, whose <i>soirée</i> had been a success, was loud in her -praise of the poet. '<i>Idéal!</i>' she exclaimed, with one of her wild -gesticulations, 'charming! And so modest! He will be your modern -Poushkin.' -</p> - -<p> -'Do you know where he lives?' inquired Suzanne. 'He called on me and -only left his name.' -</p> - -<p> -No sooner had her note been written and sent than she became a prey to -that uncertainty upon which newborn love thrives so well that in those -days when the strange but not unintellectual vice of seduction was still -fashionable the professors of the art used to dwell upon the importance -of invoking the aid of this feverish condition. Would René come or not? -If he came, what would he look like? -</p> - -<p> -She would be able to see at once by his face if anything had happened to -impair the impression she was sure she had made upon him the other day. -The hour that she had fixed in her note at length arrived, and when the -poet was announced Suzanne's heart beat faster than did that of her -simple lover. She looked at him and read to the bottom of his soul. Yes, -she was still to him the Madonna she had pretended to be from the first -with that facility of metamorphosis peculiar to these Protei in -petticoats. In his soft dark blue eyes she perceived both joy and -fear—joy at seeing her again so soon, and in her own home; fear at -appearing before this angel of purity after having dared to look for her -at the Opera and to wait for her at the corner of the street. -</p> - -<p> -This time the charming actress had devised a new background for her -beauty. She was seated near the window, and with some bundles of silk -thread and the aid of a few pins was working a pattern upon a drum of -green cloth. Behind her the lace curtains were drawn back in their -bands, and the visitor's gaze could rest upon the landscape of the Parc -Monceau, upon the pale blue sky, the bare trees, the yellow grass, and -the dark ivy that grew about the ruins. A February sun lit up this -wintry prospect, and its rays fell caressingly upon Suzanne's hair with -its soft golden sheen. A white dress, made in fanciful style, with long, -wide sleeves and trimmings of violets, gave her the appearance of a lady -of the Middle Ages. Her feet, encased in silk stockings of the same -shade as the trimming of her dress, were modestly crossed upon a low -footstool. Had she been told that less than forty-eight hours ago these -same modest feet had wandered across the carpets of what was almost a -house of ill-fame, that this hair had been handled by an aged lover who -paid her, that she was in fact kept by Desforges, she would probably -have denied the statement in perfect sincerity, so closely did her -desire to please René make her identify herself with the <i>rôle</i> she -was playing. -</p> - -<p> -The poet could not be aware of this. He had spent three days in one -continual state of exaltation, feeling his desire increase hourly, and -very glad to feel it. The beginning of a passion is as alluring at -twenty-five as at thirty-five it is terrifying. Suzanne's note had given -him unmistakable proofs that the trifling imprudences which he himself -looked upon as a crime had not given great displeasure, but in matters -that concern us very closely we always find fresh motives for doubt, and -this grown-up child had been silly enough to fear the reception that -awaited him. How delighted he was, therefore, to be met with the simple -familiarity, the beaming eyes, and the sweet smile of this woman whom, -seated in the foreground of the wintry landscape, he immediately -compared to those saints whom the early masters set in the midst of -green fields and placid lakes. But this was a saint whose gown had been -made by the first tailor in Paris, a saint from whom there emanated that -odour of heliotrope which had already played such havoc with the poet's -senses, and through the opening of whose long, wide sleeves two golden -bands were seen clasping an arm as white as snow. -</p> - -<p> -What René had so much feared did not take place. Madame Moraines did -not make the slightest allusion either to the Opera or to their meeting -at the corner of the street. For some time she continued her work, -having quite naturally brought the conversation round from Madame -Komof's enthusiasm to the poet's plans for the future. She, who could -not have distinguished Béranger from Victor Hugo, or Voltaire from -Lamartine, spoke like one entirely devoted to literature. She had met -Théophile Gautier two or three times under the Empire, and though she -had scarcely looked at him on account of his complete lack of British -elegance, this did not prevent her from giving the enthusiastic René a -minute description of the great writer. He had interested her to such a -degree—she thought she must still have some of his letters. -</p> - -<p> -'I must find them for you,' she said. Then, reminded by this lie, she -added, 'I am sorry to have put you to all this inconvenience for your -autograph, but my friend leaves for Russia to-morrow.' -</p> - -<p> -'What shall I write?' asked René. -</p> - -<p> -'Whatever you please,' she said, rising to get the book, and placing it -on her ivy-mantled desk. She got everything ready for him to make his task -easier—opened the ink-pot with its silver top and put a fresh pen -in the ivory and gold penholder; in doing this she contrived to touch -René lightly in passing to and fro, enveloping him with her sweet -perfume and causing his hand to tremble as he copied on the fly-sheet of -the book the two verses which kind Madame Ethorel had called a sonnet: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">The phantom of a day long dead</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Appeared, with hand stretched out to show</span><br /> -<span class="i2">A fair white rose whose bloom was fled,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And in my ear it whispered low,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">'Where is thy heart of long ago?</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Where is that hope thy fond heart chose</span><br /> -<span class="i2">So like this rose in days of yore?</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Dear was the hope and dear the rose:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">How sweet their perfume heretofore</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When once they bloomed! They bloom no more.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -When he had finished writing Madame Moraines took the book from his -hands, and, standing behind him, recited the verses in a low, almost -inaudible, voice, as if to herself. She added no word of praise or -criticism, but, after having read out the lines with a sigh, remained -standing there as though their music lent an infinitely tender tone to -her reverie. -</p> - -<p> -René gazed at her almost wild with emotion. How could he have resisted -such sweet and supreme flattery as that which she had just employed to -captivate him, appealing, as it did, both to his vanity as an artist and -to his highest conceptions of beauty? And, indeed, she had managed to -fall into a splendid <i>pose</i> whilst reading. She knew how charming she -looked with half-averted face and eyes cast down. But suddenly she -turned these glorious eyes, now eloquent with the feelings inspired by -his lines, full upon the poet, and almost asked pardon for her temporary -abstraction. -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to step out of her poetic visions as though she were afraid -of profaning them, and with a curiosity this time as real as her -artificial emotion was apparent, she said: 'I am sure you did not write -these lines for your play?' -</p> - -<p> -'That is true,' replied René, with another blush. He had scruples about -lying to this woman, even to please her. But how could he tell her the -sad and wretched story which, with a poet's touch, he had transformed -into a romantic idyll? -</p> - -<p> -'Ah! you men!' she went on, without waiting for further reply—'how -full your life is, and how free! But you must not think I am -complaining. We Christian wives know our duty, and a beautiful one it -is—obedience.' After a moment's silence she added: 'Alas! we do -not always choose our master,' and then, in a tone of mingled -resignation and pride that both suggested and forbade further -speculation, 'I am sorry I have not been able to introduce you to -Monsieur Moraines yet I hope you will like him. He is not much -interested in art, but he is a very clever man in business. -Unfortunately we live in an age when one must be born in Israel to get -on well.' -</p> - -<p> -As may be imagined, there was not the slightest anti-Semitic feeling in -Suzanne, who was always very glad to receive invitations to dine at two -or three Jewish houses of princely hospitality, but it had struck her -that these words would intensify the halo of piety with which she had -endeavoured to invest herself in the poet's eyes. 'You will find my -husband somewhat reserved at first,' she continued; 'it was my ambition -to make my drawing-room a rendez-vous of writers and artists, but you -know that business men are a little jealous of you all, and then -Monsieur Moraines doesn't care for society much. He was not at Madame -Komof's the other night; he likes to move just in a small circle, and -have only well-known faces about him.' -</p> - -<p> -She spoke with an air of constraint, as if she meant to say, 'You must -excuse me if I cannot ask you to come and see me here as I should like.' -This constrained air also meant that this lovely woman must have been -sacrificed (not that she was ever heard to complain) to cold social -considerations which take no account whatever of sentiment. Already, in -René's imagination, Paul Moraines, that amiable and jovial fellow, had -become a crotchety and bad-tempered husband, to whom this creature of a -superior race was bound by the terrible chains of duty. In addition to -the passion that animated him, he felt for her that pity which the less -a woman deserves it the more she loves to inspire. -</p> - -<p> -Tempering the pointedness of his reply by the generality in which he -clothed it, he made bold to say, 'I wish I could tell you how often, -when I have wandered as far as the Champs-Elysées, I have longed to -know the secret of the sadness I imagined I saw on certain faces. It has -always seemed to me that the troubles of the wealthy are the worst, and -that mental anguish in the midst of material well-being is most to be -pitied.' -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him as if his words surprised her. In her eyes was that -look of rapt and involuntary astonishment worn by a woman when she -suddenly discovers in a man a shade of sentimentalism which she believed -to be restricted to her own sex. -</p> - -<p> -'I think we shall soon become friends,' she said, 'for there is much in -our hearts that is similar. Are you like me? I believe in sympathy and -antipathy by sheer instinct, and I think I can also feel when people don't -like me. Now—perhaps I am wrong in telling you this, but I speak -to you in confidence, as if I had known you a long time—there is your -friend Monsieur Larcher; I am sure that he doesn't like me.' -</p> - -<p> -She was really agitated as she said this, for she was now about to learn -for certain, not whether Claude had been speaking ill of her—she knew -he had not by René's face—but whether the poet could hold his tongue. -She was well aware that in a love affair the dangerous time for -imprudent confidences lies at the beginning and the end. Your only sure -men are those who can keep their peace when their hearts are overflowing -with hope or bitterness. By René's reply she would be able to judge an -important trait in his character, and one that was a principal factor in -the plan that she had madly and rapidly evolved. It was only natural -that he should have confided his passion to Claude on the very day of -its birth—and he would have done so, too, had it not been for -Colette's presence. This detail was, of course, unknown to Suzanne, and -René's silence was a promise of prudence that set her heart beating. -</p> - -<p> -'We have never mentioned your name,' said the poet; 'but, as you -remarked only too justly the other evening, he has always been -particularly unfortunate in his love affairs, and he cannot shake his -troubles off. If you could but see how he carries on with the woman he -is miserably in love with at the present moment!' -</p> - -<p> -'That is no reason,' said Suzanne, 'why he should revenge himself by -forcing his attentions upon any woman chance throws in his way. I got -quite angry one day when he was seated next to me at table. I heard, -too, that he had been speaking ill of me, but I have forgiven him.' -</p> - -<p> -'And now Claude may say what he likes,' she thought when René had gone -after promising to come again in three days' time and to bring his -collection of unpublished poems. Then she looked at herself in the glass -with unfeigned satisfaction. The interview had been a success; she had -made the poet understand that she could not receive him in the ordinary -way; she had put him on his guard against his best friend, and she had -completed her capture of his heart. -</p> - -<p> -'He is mine,' she cried, and this time her joy was sincere and deep. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap10"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER X -<br /><br /> -IN THE TOILS</h4> - -<p> -Suzanne thought she was very clever—and not without reason; but by -being too clever people often defeat their own ends. Accustomed to -confound love and mere gallantry, she knew nothing of the generous -expansion of feeling to be found in one so young as the object of her -semi-romantic, semi-sensual caprice. She presumed that the insidious -accusation she had thrown out against Claude would put René on his -guard. It resulted, however, in giving the poet an irresistible desire -to talk to Larcher. It grieved him to think that the latter should -entertain a false opinion of Madame Moraines. Which of us, at -twenty-five, has not felt a desire that our dearest friend should -reserve a special place in his esteem for the woman we loved? It is as -strong then as is at forty the wise desire to hide ourselves most of all -from that same friend. -</p> - -<p> -René's first act on leaving Suzanne was to proceed at once to the Rue -de Varenne. He had not been to see Claude since the day when he had met -Colette in his rooms, and as he passed through the gateway and made his -way across the spacious courtyard he could not help comparing this visit -with his last. They were separated by a very few hours only, but yet by -what a gulf! The poet was a prey to that fever of delight which makes -reasoning impossible. He did not reflect that his Madonna had been -wonderfully clever in bringing matters to such a pass so soon. The -amazing rapidity with which his hopes were being realised only delighted -him, and showed him how strong his love really was. He felt so light and -happy that he bounded up the old staircase two steps at a time, just as -he used to do when as a boy he came home from school after reaching the -top of the class. To-day Larcher's man admitted him without the -slightest hesitation, but he wore such a long face that René asked him -what was the matter. -</p> - -<p> -'It isn't right, sir,' sighed Ferdinand, shaking his head. 'Master has -been at it now for forty-eight hours—writing, writing, -writing—and with only about six hours' sleep altogether. You ought -really to tell him, sir, that he'll damage his constitution. Why can't -he get into a nice, comfortable habit of working a little every day, -like everybody else?' -</p> - -<p> -The man's wise remonstrances prepared René for the sight that he knew so -well—the 'den' in which he had seen Colette enthroned turned into a -writer's workshop. He went in. The broad leather-covered couch on which -the graceful but frivolous actress had reclined was now covered with -sheets of paper flung down and covered with great straggling characters -written in haste; similar sheets, all torn or crumpled, being strewn -about the floor, and the chimney-piece encumbered with half-opened -bundles of proofs. -</p> - -<p> -Larcher, with a beard of three days' growth and unkempt hair, was seated -at his writing-table, dressed like a beggar, in a dirty coat devoid of a -single button, a pair of worn-out slippers on his feet, and a silk -handkerchief tied in a knot round his neck. The real Bohemian, utterly -regardless of appearance from his earliest youth, came to the surface -every time the would-be swell was obliged to step out of his part and -put his shoulder to the wheel. And this he was obliged to do pretty -frequently. Like all literary workers whose time is their sole capital, -and who, therefore, lead most irregular lives, Claude was always -behindhand with his work and short of money, especially since his -relations with Colette had involved him in that most ruinous expense of -all—the expense incurred by a young man for a woman he does not keep. -Besides the salary she drew from the theatre, the actress had an income -of twenty thousand francs, left her by an old admirer, a Russian noble -who was killed at Plevna; but what with riding about and dining out with -his mistress, and buying her heaps of flowers and presents, Claude had -to find many a bank-note. The proceeds of the two plays being long -spent, the writer was forced to earn these wretched notes by overworking -his brain in the intervals of his enervating debauches. -</p> - -<p> -'At it again!' he cried, looking up with his pale face and clasping -René's hand in his feverish grasp. 'Fifteen chapters to be delivered at -once. A splendid stroke of business with the <i>Chronique -Parisienne</i>, the new eight-page paper financed by Audry. They came -and asked me for a story the other day to run as a <i>feuilleton</i> for -a fortnight. A franc a line. I told them I had one ready—only -wanted copying. My dear fellow—hadn't got a word written—not -that! But I had an idea. Re-write "Adolphe" up to date in our jargon, -and put in our local colouring. It will be a beastly hash, but all -that's nothing. Do you know what it means to sit down and write while -your heart is being tortured by jealousy? I am here at my table, -scribbling a phrase; an idea occurs to me, and I want to hold it. Now -for it, I think. Suddenly a voice within me says: "What is Colette doing -now?" And I put down my pen as the pain—ah! such terrible -pain!—comes over me. Balzac used to say that he had discovered how -much brain matter was wasted in a night's debauch: half a volume; and he -used to add, "There is not a woman breathing worth two volumes a year." -What nonsense! It isn't love that wears out an artist, but the continual -worry of some fixed idea causing one long heart-ache. Is it possible to -think and feel at the same time? We must choose one or the other. Victor -Hugo never felt anything—nor did Balzac. If he had really loved -his Madame Hanska he would have run after her all over Europe, and would -have cared for his "Comédie humaine" as much as I do for this rubbish. -Ah! my dear René,' he continued with an air of dejection as he gathered -up the sheets scattered all over his desk, 'keep to your simple mode of -life. I hope you have not been weak enough to accept the invitations of -any of the sharks you met at Madame Komof's.' -</p> - -<p> -'I have only paid one visit,' replied René, 'and that was to Madame -Moraines.' He could scarcely control himself as he pronounced her name. -Then, with the involuntary impetuosity of a lover who, though come -expressly to speak of his mistress, is afraid of criticism, and staves -off the reply as he would thrust aside the point of a dagger, he added, -'Isn't she sweetly pretty and graceful? And what lofty ideas she has! Do -you think ill of her too?' -</p> - -<p> -'Bah!' exclaimed Claude, too full of his own sufferings to pay much heed -to René's words, 'I dare say we could find something ugly in her past -or her present if we tried. All women have within them the toad that -springs from the mouth of the princess in the fairy tale.' -</p> - -<p> -'Is there anything you know about her?' asked the poet. -</p> - -<p> -'Anything <i>I</i> know!' replied Claude, struck by the strange tone of his -friend's voice. He looked at René and saw how matters stood. -</p> - -<p> -Mixing as he did in Parisian society, he was well acquainted with the -rumours concerning Suzanne and Baron Desforges, and with the -easy-going—though sometimes mistaken—credulity of a -misanthrope to whom every infamy seems probable because possible, he -believed them. For a moment he was tempted to inform René of these -rumours, but he held his tongue. Was it from motives of prudence, and in -order not to make an enemy of Desforges, in case Suzanne should get to -know what he had said, and tell the Baron? Was it out of pity for the -grief his words would cause René? Was it for the cruel delight of -having a companion in his torture—for how much better was Suzanne -than Colette? Was he impelled by the curiosity of an analyst and the -desire to witness another's passion? Who shall determine the exact point -of departure of so many and such complex motives as go to make up a -sudden resolve? -</p> - -<p> -Claude paused for a moment, as if to ransack his memory, and then -repeated his friend's question. 'Is there anything I know about her? -Nothing at all. I am a <i>professional woman-hater</i>, as the English -say. I only know the woman through having met her here and there, and I -thought her a little less foolish than most of her kind. It's true she -is very pretty!' And then, either out of malice or in order to sound -René's heart, he added, 'Allow me to congratulate you!' -</p> - -<p> -'You talk as though I were in love with her,' replied René, growing red -with shame. He had come there with the intention of singing Suzanne's -praises, and now Claude's bantering tone caused his confidences to -freeze upon his lips. -</p> - -<p> -'So you are not in love with her!' cried Larcher, with his most horribly -cynical laugh. Then, with one of those generous impulses in which his -better and truer nature revealed itself, he took his friend's hand and -begged his pardon. Seeing in René's eyes that this was about to provoke -a fresh outburst, he stopped him. 'Don't tell me anything. You'd only -hate me for it afterwards. I'm not fit to listen to you to-day. I am -enduring torture, and that makes me cruel.' -</p> - -<p> -So it happened that even Suzanne's clumsy manœuvring turned out -favourably for her plan of capture. The only man whose hostility she had -to fear had voluntarily imposed silence upon himself. Since René was in -absolute need of a confidante to receive the overflow of his feelings, -it was to Emilie that he turned, and poor Emilie, out of sheer sisterly -vanity, was already the abettor of the unknown lady whom she had seen -through her brother's eyes encircled with a halo of aristocracy. -</p> - -<p> -The very next morning after the <i>soirée</i> at Madame Komof's she had -guessed from René's words that Madame Moraines was the only woman he -had met there whom he really liked, and the only one, too, upon whom he -had made any strong impression. Mothers and sisters possess some -peculiar sense for perceiving these shades of feeling. For the next few -days after making her discovery René's restlessness was very plain to -Emilie. Bound to him by the double bond of affection and moral affinity, -no feeling could traverse her brother's heart without finding an echo in -her own. She knew that René was in love as well as if she had been -present in the spirit during the two meetings in the Rue Murillo. She -felt delighted, too, without being at all jealous, though her brother's -attachment to Rosalie had caused her not only jealousy, but anxiety. -With peculiarly feminine logic, she thought it but natural that the poet -should enter upon an intrigue with a woman who was not free. She -recognised that exceptional men require a mode of life and a standard of -morality as exceptional as themselves, and she felt that this love of -René's for a grand lady, whilst realising the proud dreams she had -formed for her idol, would not rob her of a jot of affection. -</p> - -<p> -His passion for Rosalie, on the contrary, she had regarded as an -infringement upon her rights. This was because Rosalie resembled her, -and was of her world, and because René's attachment to her could only -result in marriage and the setting up of another home. It was therefore -with secret joy that she beheld the birth of a fresh passion in her -brother. She would have been glad if he had taken her further into his -confidence, and so completed the confession he had made on awakening -only a few hours after the <i>soirée</i> at Madame Komof's. But this he had -not done, neither had she led him on to do so, her instinct telling her -that René's confidences would only be the more complete for being -spontaneous. So she waited, watching his eyes, whose every look she knew -so well, for that expression of supreme joy which is the fever of -happiness. Her silence was also to a great extent due to the fact that -she only saw René when Fresneau was present. With that natural -cowardice begotten of certain false positions, the poet left the house -as soon as he was up and returned only in time for lunch. Then he again -took himself off until dinner, going out immediately after, in order to -avoid meeting Rosalie. The professor's abstraction was so great that he -did not even notice this change in René's habits. Such, however, was -not the case with Madame Offarel. Having come on two consecutive -evenings with her two daughters and seen nothing of him whom she already -looked upon as her son-in-law, she did not hesitate to remark upon his -unwonted absence. -</p> - -<p> -'Does Monsieur Larcher present Monsieur René to a fresh comtesse every -evening that we never see him here now, nor at our house either?' -</p> - -<p> -'It's true,' observed Fresneau, 'I never see him now. Where does he get -to?' -</p> - -<p> -'He has set to work again upon his "Savonarola,"' replied Emilie, 'and -he spends his evenings at the Bibliothèque.' -</p> - -<p> -Early on the morning after this conversation, which was also the morrow -of René's second visit to Suzanne, Emilie entered her brother's room to -give him a full account of what had been said. She found him getting out -a few sheets of fine note-paper—some that she had bought for -him—on which he was about to copy, in his best handwriting, the -verses he was to read to Madame Moraines. The table was covered with -sheet upon sheet of his poems, from which he had already made a -selection. -</p> - -<p> -When Emilie told him of her innocent fib he kissed her, and exclaimed, -with a laugh, 'How clever you are!' -</p> - -<p> -'There is nothing clever in it,' she replied; 'I am your sister, and I -love you.' Then, taking up some of the papers scattered about, she -asked, 'Do you really think of getting on with your book?' -</p> - -<p> -'No,' answered René, 'but I have promised to read a few of my verses to -some one.' -</p> - -<p> -'To Madame Moraines?' exclaimed his sister. -</p> - -<p> -'You have guessed it,' replied the poet, looking slightly confused. 'Ah! -if you only knew!' -</p> - -<p> -And then the pent-up confidence burst forth. Emilie had to listen to an -enthusiastic eulogy of Suzanne and all that concerned her. In the same -breath René spoke of the lofty nobility of this woman's ideas and of -the shape of her shoes, of her marvellous intelligence and of the -figured velvet oh her blotting-book. That childish astonishment at these -luxurious details should be united to the more poetic fancies in the -fabric of love did not surprise Emilie. Had she herself in her love for -René not always associated petty desires with boundless ambition? She -wished, for instance, with almost equal fervour, that he might have -genius and horses, that he might write another 'Childe Harold,' and -possess Byron's income of four thousand a year. In this she was as -ingenuously plebeian as he himself, confounding—in excusable fashion, -after all—real aristocracy of sentiment with that aristocracy -expressed by outer and worldly forms. Those who come of a family in which -the struggle for bread has lowered the tone of thought easily mistake the -second of these aristocracies for a condition inseparable from the -first. -</p> - -<p> -Those words, therefore, which might have led an unkind listener to think -that René loved Suzanne for her surroundings, and not for herself, -charmed Emilie instead of shocking her, and she had so fully entered -into her brother's infatuation that on leaving him she said: 'You are not -at home to anyone—I'll see that no one comes in. You must show me -your verses when you have written them—mind you choose them well.' -</p> - -<p> -The task of making this selection cheated the poet's ardour, and he was -able to await the day fixed for his next visit to the paradise in the -Rue Murillo without much impatience. The hours of solitude, broken only -by his talks with Emilie, passed by in alternate fits of happiness and -melancholy. Often a delightful vision of Suzanne would rise up before -him. He would then lay down his pen, and all the objects about him would -melt away, as if by magic. Instead of the red hangings of his room, it -was the little <i>salon</i> of Madame Moraines that he saw; gone were his -dear Albert Dürers, his Gustave Moreaus, his Goyas, his small library -on whose shelves the 'Imitatio' rubbed shoulders with 'Madame -Bovary'—gone were the two leafless trees that stood out black against -a light blue sky. But in their place he could see Suzanne, her dainty -ways, the poise of her head, the peculiar golden tint of her hair, and -the transparent pink of her lovely complexion. -</p> - -<p> -This apparition, which had nothing of a pale or shadowy phantom about -it, appealed to René's senses in a way that ought to have made him -understand that Madame Moraines' attitudes did but mask the true woman, -the voluptuous though refined courtesan. But of this he took no note, -and, whilst madly desirous to possess her, he believed that his worship -of her was of the most ethereal kind. This mirage of sentiment is a -phenomenon frequently observed in men who lead chaste lives, and one -which renders them the defenceless prey of the most barefaced hypocrisy. -The inability to understand their own feelings makes them still more -incapable of analysing the tricks of the women who arouse in them the -accumulated passion of a lifetime. The poet, however, became perfectly -lucid as soon as Suzanne's image made way for that of Rosalie. On going -through his papers he was continually coming across some page headed, in -boyish fashion, 'For my flower;' that was the name he had given Rosalie -in the heyday of his love, when he had written her a fresh poem almost -every morning. -</p> - -<p> -'O Rose of candour and sincerity!' were the terms in which he addressed -her at the end of one of these effusions. When his eyes fell upon such -lines he was again obliged to lay down his pen, and once more his -surroundings would melt away, but this time to make room for a vision of -torture. The rooms occupied by the Offarels lay before him, cold and -silent. The old woman was busy with her cats. Angélique was turning -over the leaves of an English dictionary, and Rosalie was looking at -him, René—looking at him through an ocean of space with eyes in which -he read no reproach, but only deep distress. He knew as well as if he -were there, near her, that she had guessed his secret, and that she was -suffering the pangs of jealousy. If such were not the case would he have -been so terribly afraid to meet the girl's eyes? Would that he could go -to her and say, 'Let us be only friends!' It was his duty to do so. The -only means of preserving one's self-esteem is by acting with absolute -loyalty in these subsidings of love, which are like fraudulent -bankruptcies of the heart. But that loyalty was thrust aside by weakness -in which both egoism and pity were equally represented. He took up his -pen again, and saying, as on the first day, 'We shall see—later on,' -he tried to work. Soon he had to stop once more as his mind reverted to -Rosalie's sufferings. He thought of the long nights she would spend in -tears, knowing as he did every trifling habit of the simple creature who -had given him her heart. She had often told him that the only time she -could indulge in her own grief was at night. Then he hid his face in his -hands and waited till the vision had passed, meanwhile saying to -himself, 'Is it my fault?' -</p> - -<p> -A law in our nature bids our passions grow stronger in proportion to the -number of obstacles to be overcome, so that the remorse of his -infidelity to poor Rosalie resulted in making René's heart beat faster -as the time fixed by Madame Moraines for their next meeting drew near. -She, on her side, awaited him with an almost feverish impatience that -astonished even herself. She had looked out for the young poet whenever -she had been in the street, and again at the Opera when Friday came -round. Had she seen his eyes fixed upon her in that simple adoration -which is as compromising as a declaration, she would have said, 'How -imprudent!' Not to see him, however, gave her a slight fit of doubt, -which brought her caprice to its climax. She looked forward to this -visit all the more anxiously because she considered it decisive. It was -the third time René visited her, and, out of these three times, twice -unknown to her husband. Further than that she could not go, on account -of the servants. A day or two back Paul, meaning no harm, had said to -her at dinner, 'I was talking to Desforges about René Vincy. He doesn't -seem to have made a good impression on the Baron. It is decidedly better -not to see the authors too closely whose works we admire.' -</p> - -<p> -If the servant who had announced the poet had been in the dining-room at -the moment these words were uttered Suzanne would have had to speak. The -same thing might happen the next or any other day. She was therefore -determined to find a peg in her conversation with René on which to hang -an appointment elsewhere. An idea suddenly occurred to her of going -somewhere with the poet under pretence of curiosity—a meeting in -Notre Dame, for instance, or in some old church sufficiently distant -from the fashionable quarter of Paris to be beyond the risk of danger, -and she relied upon one or other of René's poems to furnish her with an -opportunity of making such an appointment. -</p> - -<p> -On this occasion she once more wore a walking-dress, for, having -attended a marriage ceremony in the morning, she had kept on the rather -smart mauve gown in which her shapely figure, elegant shoulders, and -slim waist were so well set off. Thus attired, and lounging back in a -low arm-chair—an attitude that marked the adorable outlines of her -body—she begged the poet, after the usual commonplaces had passed, to -commence his reading. She listened to his poetry without betraying any -surprise at the peculiar drawl with which even the best scholars intone -their verses, her great intelligent eyes and the repose of her face -seeming to indicate the closest attention. At rare intervals she would -venture upon some apparently involuntary exclamation, such as: 'How -beautiful that is!' or, 'Will you repeat those lines?—I like them so -much!' -</p> - -<p> -In reality, she cared little for the poet's verses, and understood them -less. To comprehend even superficially the work of a modern artist—in -whom there is always a critic and a scholar—requires such mental -development as is only met with in a small number of Society women, -sufficiently interested in culture to read much and to think more in the -midst of a life entirely opposed to all kind of study and reflection. -What made Suzanne's pretty face and big blue eyes look so pensive was -the desire not to let the important word slip by upon which to hang her -project. But line came after line, stanzas succeeded sonnets, and yet -she had not been able to seize upon anything which could reasonably be -made to give the conversation the turn she wanted. What a pity it was! -For René's eyes, that continually wandered from the page; his voice, -that shook occasionally as he read; his hands, that trembled as he -turned the leaves—all showed that her pretended admiration had -completely intoxicated the Trissotin that lurks in every author. -</p> - -<p> -And now there was only one piece left! This the poet had purposely kept -to the last; it was his favourite, and bore a title which was a -revelation to Suzanne, 'The Eyes of the Gioconda.' It was rather a long -poem, half metaphysical, half descriptive, in which the writer had -striven to collect and reproduce in sonorous verse all the opinions of -the modern school of critics concerning Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece. -In this portrait of an Italian woman we ought, perhaps, to see nothing -beyond a study of the purest and most technical naturalism, one of those -struggles against conventionality in art in which the great painter -appears to have been so frequently engaged. Can it not have been an -attempt of the master to seize the unseizable—the play of a face, and -to paint the fleeting expression on the lips as they pass from repose to -a smile? In his poem René, who took a childish pride in the fact that -his family name resembled that of the village which lends its -appellation to the most subtle master of the Renaissance, had condensed -into thirty verses an entire system of natural and historical -philosophy. He valued this symbolical medley higher than the -'Sigisbée,' which contained only what was natural and appertaining to -the passions—two qualities fit only for the vulgar herd. -</p> - -<p> -What then was his delight to hear Madame Moraines say, 'If I might be -allowed to express any preference, I would say that this is the piece -which pleases me most. How well you understand true art! To see the -great masterpieces with you must be a revelation! I am sure that if I -visited the Louvre under your guidance you would explain to me so much -that I see in the pictures but cannot understand. I have often wandered -about there, but quite alone!' -</p> - -<p> -She waited. As soon as René had started reading this last poem she had -said to herself, 'How foolish of me not to have thought of that before!' -closing her eyes for a moment as if to retain some beautiful dream. At -the finish she had purposely used such words as would give him an -opportunity of seeing her again. He would propose a visit together to -the Louvre, to which she would accede, after having cleverly raised just -sufficient difficulties. She saw the suggestion trembling on his lips, -but he had not the courage to make it. She was therefore compelled to do -so herself. -</p> - -<p> -'If I were not afraid of wasting your time——?' Then, with a -sigh, 'But we have not been acquainted long enough.' -</p> - -<p> -'Oh; madame!' cried René, 'it seems to me as if I had been your friend -for years!' -</p> - -<p> -'That is because you feel I am sincere in what I say,' she replied, with -a frank and open smile. 'And I am going to prove it to you once more. -Will you show me the Louvre one day next week?' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap11"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XI -<br /><br /> -DECLARATIONS</h4> - -<p> -An appointment had been made for eleven o'clock on the following -Tuesday, in the Salon Carré of the Louvre. Whilst Suzanne was being -driven to the old palace in a cab she was counting up for the tenth time -the dangers of her matutinal escapade. 'No, it's not a very wise thing -to do,' she thought; 'and suppose Desforges discovers I've been out? -Well, there's the dentist. And what if I meet some one I know? It's very -improbable, but in that case I would tell them just as much of the truth -as was absolutely necessary.' -</p> - -<p> -That was one of her great maxims—to tell as few lies as possible, to -maintain a discreet silence about most things, and never to deny -established facts. She was therefore ready to say to her husband, and to -the Baron as well, if necessary, 'I went into the Louvre this morning as -I passed. I was lucky enough to find Madame Komof's little poet there, -and he showed me through a few of the rooms. Yes,' she said to herself, -'that will do for once. But it would be madness to try it on often.' -</p> - -<p> -Her mind then became occupied with other thoughts of less positive -purport. The uncertainty of what would take place in this interview with -René caused her greater agitation than she cared for. She had played -the part of a Madonna before him, and the time had now come to get down -from the altar upon which she had been so piously adored. Her feminine -tact had hit upon a bold plan—lead the poet to a declaration, reply -by a confession of her own feelings, then flee from him as if in remorse, -and so leave the way open for any step she might afterwards care to -take. Whilst playing havoc with René's heart, this plan would suspend -his judgment of her acts and absolve her of any follies she might -commit. It was bold but clever, and, above all, simple. There were, -nevertheless, a few real dangers connected with it. Let the poet -entertain distrust but for one moment and all was lost. Suzanne's heart -beat faster at the thought. How many women there are who have been -similarly situated, and who, after having reared a most elaborate fabric -of falsehoods, have been compelled to continue their <i>rôle</i> in order -to obtain satisfaction for the true feelings that originally actuated them! -When the men on whose account such women as these have played their -hypocritical <i>rôles</i> discover the lie palmed off upon them, their -indignation and contempt abundantly prove how important a factor vanity -is in all affection. -</p> - -<p> -'Come, come,' exclaimed Suzanne, 'here am I trembling like a -school-girl!' She smiled indulgently as she uttered the words, because -they proved once more the sincerity of her feelings, and again she -smiled when, on alighting from her cab and crossing the courtyard, she -saw that she was there to the minute. 'Still a school-girl!' she -repeated to herself. A momentary fear came over her at the thought that -if René happened to arrive just after her he would see her obliged to -ask one of the attendants for the entrance to the galleries—she -who had boasted of having been there so often. She had not been in the -place three times in her life, though to-day her little feet trotted -across the spacious courtyard in their dainty laced boots as confidently -as though they performed the journey daily. 'What a child I am!' said -the inner voice once more—the voice of the Baron's pupil, who had -acquired as deep a knowledge of life as any hoary diplomat. 'He has been -waiting for me upstairs for the last half-hour!' Still she could not -refrain from looking anxiously about her as she asked her way of one of -the attendants. But her worldly knowledge had not deceived her, for no -sooner had she reached the doorway between the Galerie d'Apollon and the -Salon Carré than she saw René; he was leaning against the iron -railing, just underneath the noble work by Veronese, representing Mary -Magdalene washing our Saviour's feet, and opposite the famous Noces de -Cana. -</p> - -<p> -In his boyish timidity the poor fellow had considered it his duty to put -on his very best clothes in coming to meet one who, besides being a -Madonna in his eyes, was a 'Society woman'—that vague and fanciful -entity which exists in the brain of so many young <i>bourgeois</i>, and is -a curious medley of their most erroneous impressions. He was attired in a -smart-fitting frock coat, and, although the morning was a cold one, he -wore nothing over it. He possessed only one overcoat, and that, having -been made at the beginning of the winter, did not come from the tailor -to whom he had been introduced by his friend Larcher. With his brand-new -chimney-pot hat, his new gloves, and his new boots, he almost looked as -though he had stepped out of a fashion plate, though his dress -contrasted strangely with his artistic face. If he had made himself -appear still more ridiculous, Suzanne would have found still more -reasons for growing fonder of him. Such is the way of women in love. -</p> - -<p> -She understood at once that he had been afraid he would not look nice -enough to please her, and she stood in the doorway for a few seconds in -order to enjoy the anxiety that was depicted on the poet's face. When he -saw her there was a sudden rush of blood to his cheeks, though the blush -soon died away beneath the gold of his fair silken beard. What a flash, -too, lit up those dark blue eyes, dispelling the look of anguish they -contained! 'It is lucky there is no one here to see our meeting,' she -thought, for the pale light that came through the glass roof fell only -upon a few painters setting up their easels and upon a few tourists -wandering about, guide-book in hand. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne, who had taken all this in at a glance, could therefore abandon -herself to the pleasure which René's agitation afforded her; as he came -towards her he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, 'I hardly dared -to hope that you would come.' -</p> - -<p> -'Why not?' she replied, with an air of candid astonishment. 'Do you -really think I cannot get up early? Why, when I go and visit my poor I -am up and dressed at eight.' And in what a tone of voice it was that she -said this! A pleasant, modest tone—like that in which a hero would -tell of something extraordinary he had done without seeing anything in it -himself—the tone in which an officer would say, 'As we were charging -the enemy!' The joke of it was that she had never ventured even to set -her foot in a poor man's dwelling. She had as great a horror of poverty -as of sickness or of old age, and to her selfish nature charity was a -thing almost unknown. But at that moment René would have looked upon -anyone who dared charge her with selfishness as guilty of the most -infamous blasphemy. After having uttered her well-chosen words this -novel Sister of Mercy stopped for a moment in order to enjoy their -effect. In René's eyes shone that look of blind faith which these -pretty hypocrites are so accustomed to regard as their due that they -charge all who refuse it them with heartlessness. Then, as if to evade -an admiration that embarrassed her modesty, she went on, 'You forget -that you are my guide to-day. I will pretend I know nothing of any of -these pictures; I shall then be able to see whether we have the same -tastes.' -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Mon Dieu!</i>' thought René, 'I must take care not to show her anything -that might give her a bad opinion of me!' The most commonplace women -can, when they choose, inspire a man who is vastly superior to them with -this sensation of utter inferiority. -</p> - -<p> -They had now commenced their tour, he leading her to those masterpieces -which he thought would please her. How well acquainted he was with all -the galleries of his dear Louvre! There was not one of these pictures -that did not recall the memory of some dream of his youth—a youth -entirely spent in adorning with beautiful images the shrine we all carry -within us before our twentieth year, but from which our passions soon -expel all but the image of Venus! These pale and noble frescoes of Luini -that hang in the narrow room to the right of the Salon Carré—how -often had he not come to gaze upon their pious scenes when he wished to -lend his poetry the soft charm, the broad and tender touch, of the old -Lombard master! He had feasted his eyes for whole hours upon the mighty -Crucifixion by Mantegna—a fragment of the magnificent painting in the -church of San Zeno at Verona—as well as upon that most glorious of -Raphaels, Saint George—an ideal hero dealing the dragon a furious -stroke of his sword whilst spurring his white charger in pink trappings -across the fresh greensward, symbolic of youth and hope. But it was more -especially the portraits which had been the objects of his most fervent -pilgrimages—from those of Holbein, Philippe de Champaigne, and -Titian, to that of the elegant and mysterious lady simply attributed in the -catalogue to the Venetian school, and bearing a cipher in her hair. He -loved to think, in company with a clever critic, that this cipher meant -Barbarelli and Cecilia—the name of the Giorgione and that of the -mistress for whom tradition says that this great master died. During a -visit he had once paid to the Louvre with Rosalie he had told her the -romantic and tragic story on this very spot and before this very -portrait. He now found himself repeating it to Suzanne, and in almost -the same words. -</p> - -<p> -'The painter loved her, and she betrayed him for one of his friends. At -Vienna there is a picture painted by himself in which you see his sweet, -sad eyes resting upon his treacherous friend, who approaches him with a -gleaming dagger concealed behind his back.' -</p> - -<p> -Yes—the same words! When Rosalie heard the story she had turned her -eyes upon him, and he had distinctly read the thoughts that filled her. -'How can any woman betray the man who loves her?' With her the question, -had remained a dumb one, but Suzanne, after having stared curiously at -the mysterious woman with the thin lips, gave expression to her thoughts -with a sigh and a shake of her fair head. 'And yet she looks so good. It -is terrible to think that a woman with a face like that could lie!' -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke she too turned her eyes upon René; and, gazing into the -clear depths that presented such a contrast to Rosalie's dark orbs, he -felt a strange remorse. By one of those ironies of the inner life which -a comparison of consciences would often reveal, Suzanne, unspeakably -happy in strolling amidst these pictures, which she pretended to admire, -was keenly enjoying the impression that her beauty was making on her -companion, whilst the latter, a simple child, reproached himself with -the double treachery of leading this ideal creature through places that -he had once visited with another. The fatal comparison which, since his -first meeting with Madame Moraines, was effacing poor little Rosalie -from his mind was becoming more obtrusive than ever. -</p> - -<p> -A vision of his betrothed floated before him, humble as she herself, but -beside him walked Suzanne, a living sister of the aristocratic beauties -the old masters had portrayed on their canvases. Her golden hair shone -brightly under her little bonnet; the short astracan jacket fitted her -like a glove, and her grey check skirt hung in graceful folds. In her -hand was a small muff, from which peeped out the corner of an -embroidered handkerchief; the muff matched her jacket, and every now and -then she would hold it up just above her eyes in order to get the right -light to see the pictures well. How could the present fail to conquer -the absent—an elegant woman fail to oust a simple, modest girl, -especially since in Suzanne all the refinement of an æsthetic soul -seemed allied to the most exquisite charm of external appearance and -attitude? -</p> - -<p> -She who in her crass ignorance would have been unable to distinguish a -Rembrandt from a Perugino, or a Ribera from a Watteau, had a clever way -of listening to what René said, and of supporting the opinions he -expressed with an ingenuity that would have deceived men with more -experience of feminine duplicity than this young poet of twenty-five. -This meeting was to him a source of happiness so complete, such perfect -realisation of his most secret dreams, that he felt sad at the thought -of having attained his highest ambition. The time slipped by, and an -indescribable sensation invaded him; it was made up of the nervous -excitement that the sight of masterpieces always produces in an artist, -of the remorse he felt for his treachery in profaning the past by the -present and the present by the past, and finally of the knowledge of -Time's unrelenting flight. Yes, that delightful hour was slipping by, to -be followed by so many cold and empty ones—for never, no, never would -he dare to ask his adorable companion for another such meeting. -</p> - -<p> -She, the sensual Epicurean, was only eager to prolong the delight of -mental possession. Voluptuously, carefully, and secretly did she watch -the poet from the corner of her blue eye that looked so modest beneath -its golden lashes. She was unable to take exact account of all the -changes of feeling he underwent, for although she was already well -acquainted with his inner nature, she was so entirely ignorant of all -the facts of his life that sometimes she would ask herself with a thrill -whether he had ever loved before. It was impossible to follow his -thoughts in detail, but it was not difficult to see that he was now -looking at her much more than at the pictures, and that his distress was -increasing every minute. She attributed this distress to a fit of -shyness—a shyness that delighted her, for it proved the presence of a -passionate longing tempered by respect. How pleased she was to be the -object of a desire that expressed itself with such modesty! It enabled -her to measure more correctly the gulf that separated her little -René—as she already called him in her thoughts—from the bold -and dangerous men with whom she usually mixed. His looks were full of love, -though devoid of insolence, and contained an amount of suffering that -finally decided her to lead him on to the declaration which she had -promised herself to provoke. -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Mon Dieu!</i>' she suddenly cried, catching hold of the iron bar that -runs round the walls, and turning to René with a smile that was meant -to hide some sharp pain. 'It's nothing,' she added, in reply to the -poet's look of anxiety. 'I twisted my foot a little on this slippery -floor.' Then, standing on one leg, she put out the foot that she said -was hurt, and moved it about in the soft boot with a graceful effort. -'Ten minutes' rest and it will be all right, but you must be my crutch.' -</p> - -<p> -As her pretty lips uttered this ugly word she took hold of René's arm, -the poet little thinking, as he almost piously helped her along, that -this imaginary accident was but one episode more in the comedy of love -in which he was playing so innocent a part. Taking care to throw her -whole weight upon him, she managed to redouble his passionate ardour and -to completely intoxicate him by the rhythmic and communicated movement -of her lithe and supple limbs. The trick succeeded only too well. He -could scarcely speak, overwhelmed as he was by the proximity of this -woman and penetrated by the subtle perfume she exhaled. It was as much -as he dared do to look at her, and then he found beside him a face both -proud and playful, a cheek of ideal colouring, and a pair of mobile -cherry lips upon which from time to time there hovered a sweet little -smile that meant mischief, though when their eyes met this smile would -change into an expression of such frank sympathy that it dispelled -René's timidity. This she knew by the greater assurance with which he -now supported her. -</p> - -<p> -She had been careful to choose one of the most isolated rooms—the -<i>salle</i> Lesueur—for acting the episode of her twisted foot. -Arm-in-arm they passed through a small passage, and, crossing one of the -galleries of the French school, entered a dark, deserted chamber in -which were then exhibited Lebrun's pictures representing the victories -of Alexander the Great. The Ingres and Delacroix gallery, by which this -room is now reached, was not yet opened, and in the centre of the floor -stood a large round ottoman covered in green velvet. Though in the very -heart of Paris, this spot was more secluded than a room in any -provincial museum, and there was no likelihood of being disturbed except -by the attendant, who was himself deep in conversation with his -colleague in the next apartment. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne took in the place at a glance, and, pointing to the ottoman, -said to René, 'Shall we sit down there for a few minutes? My foot is -much better already.' -</p> - -<p> -A fresh silence fell upon them. Everything seemed to emphasise their -seclusion—from the noises in the Cour du Carrousel that came to them -in a dull murmur through the two high windows to the dim light in the room -itself. But this seclusion, instead of encouraging the poet to declare -his passion, only increased his distress. He said to himself, 'How -pretty she is, and how sweet! She will go, and I shall never see her -again. How stupid she must think me!—I feel quite paralysed near her -and incapable of speech.' 'I shall never have a better opportunity,' -thought Suzanne. -</p> - -<p> -'You are very sad,' she said aloud, bestowing upon him a look of -affectionate and almost sisterly sympathy. 'I noticed it as soon as I -arrived,' she continued, 'but you do not trust me sufficiently to tell -me your troubles.' -</p> - -<p> -'No,' replied René, 'I am not sad. Why should I be? I have everything -that can make me happy.' -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him again with an expression of surprise and mute -interrogation that seemed to say, 'Tell me what you have to make you -happy?' René thought he saw that question in her eyes, but dared not -understand it so. He sincerely believed himself to be so inferior to -this woman that he had not the courage to disclose to her the depths of -his devotion. All Suzanne's delightful confidence, in which he could not -possibly detect any cold calculation, would be destroyed the moment he -spoke, and he therefore went on as if his words referred to the general -circumstances of life. -</p> - -<p> -'Claude Larcher often tells me that I shall never be happier at any -period of my literary career. He maintains that there are four stages in -a writer's life—when he is unknown, when he is applauded by those who -wish to spite his elders, when he is maligned because he is successful, -and when he is forgiven because he is forgotten. I am so sorry you don't -know him better—I am sure you would like him. Literature is his -religion!' -</p> - -<p> -'He is rather too artless, after all,' thought Suzanne, but she was too -interested in the result of this interview to give way to her -impatience. She seized upon the words René had just uttered and -interrupted his uncalled-for praises of Claude by saying, 'His religion! -It is true, that is just like you writers. I have a friend who is -undergoing the ordeal, and she is always telling me that a woman ought -to be careful not to bestow her affections upon an artist. He will never -love her as much as he loves his art.' -</p> - -<p> -She repeated these supposititious words of her imaginary friend with a -look of pain upon her face; her cherry lips were parted by a -half-stifled sigh that hinted at heartrending confidences and a -presentiment of similar experiences in store for herself. -</p> - -<p> -'Why, it is you who are sad,' observed René, struck by the sudden -change in her pretty face. -</p> - -<p> -'Now for it!' she thought, and then replied, 'That doesn't matter. What -difference can it make to you whether I am sad or not?' -</p> - -<p> -'Do you think that I take no interest in you?' rejoined René. -</p> - -<p> -'A little, perhaps,' she replied, shrugging her shoulders; 'but when you -have left me will you think of me otherwise than as of some sympathetic -woman whom you have casually met and speedily forgotten?' -</p> - -<p> -She had never looked so lovely in René's eyes as when she uttered these -words, which went as far as she dared go without jeopardising her game. -Her gloved hand rested on the green velvet sofa quite close to the poet, -and he was bold enough to take it. She did not draw it back. Her eyes -seemed fixed upon some vision far away, and it was doubtful whether she -had even noticed René's daring action. There are women who have a -delightful way of paying no heed to the familiarities which some people -<i>will</i> take with them. René pressed her dainty hand, and, as she did -not resent it, he began to speak in a voice trembling with emotion: -</p> - -<p> -'I have no right to be surprised at your thinking that of me. Why should -you think that my feelings towards you differ from those of other men -you meet? And yet if I told you that since the day when I first spoke to -you at Madame Komof's my life has changed for ever—ah! do not -smile—yes, for ever! If I told you that since then I have had but -one desire—to see you again; that I came to your house with a beating -heart; that every hour since then has increased my madness; that I came -here in a dream of rapture, and that I shall leave you in despair! I see -you do not believe me! People are willing to admit the existence of -these sudden and lifelong passions in novels, but do such things ever -happen in real life?' -</p> - -<p> -He stopped, amazed at the boldness of his own words. As he finished -speaking there came over him that strange sensation that seizes us when -in our dreams we hear ourselves revealing some secret to the very person -from whom we ought most to hide it. She had listened to him with her -eyes still fixed on vacancy, and still wearing her look of abstraction. -But her eyelids quivered, her breath came short and quick, and her -little hand trembled as it lay in his. This was such a startling and -delightful surprise that it gave René courage to go on. -</p> - -<p> -'Forgive me for talking to you like this! If you only knew—it may be -childish and silly—but when I saw you for the first time I seemed to -recognise you—you are so like the woman I have always dreamt of -meeting ever since I have had a heart. Before meeting you I only thought I -lived, I only thought I felt. What a fool I was! And what a fool I am! I -have gone and undone myself in your eyes. But at least I have told you -that I love you—you know it now. You can do with me as you will. My -God! how I love you, how I love you!' -</p> - -<p> -As he gazed at her in rapt admiration and repeated the words that seemed -to relieve the feelings that raged within him he saw two great tears -fall from Suzanne's eyes and slowly make their way down her pink cheeks. -He did not know that most women can cry like that at will, especially if -they are at all nervous. These two wretched tears drove his delirium up -to its highest pitch. -</p> - -<p> -'You are crying! he exclaimed; 'you——' -</p> - -<p> -'Don't finish your sentence,' cried Suzanne, putting her hand on his -lips and then moving a little further off. Her eyes remained fixed upon -his face, and in them might be read both passion and a kind of startled -surprise. 'Yes, you have reached my heart. You have awakened feelings of -whose existence I had not the faintest suspicion. I am afraid—afraid -of you, afraid of myself, afraid of being here. We must never see each -other again. I am not free. I ought not even to have listened to your -words.' She stopped; then, taking his hand in hers this time, she went -on: 'Why should I deceive you? All that you feel perhaps I feel too, but -I swear to you that I did not know it until a moment ago. The feeling of -sympathy to which I yielded, and which made me come and join you here -this morning—my God!—I understand it now, I understand! Fool -that I was not to have known how easily the heart is ensnared!' -</p> - -<p> -Fresh tears started from her eyes, and René was so agitated by all that -he had said and heard that he could only murmur, 'Tell me that you -forgive me!' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes, I forgive you,' she replied, squeezing his hand so hard that she -hurt him. 'I feel that I love you too,' and then, as though suddenly -awakening from a dream, she added, 'Good-bye—I forbid you to follow -me. This is the last time we shall meet.' -</p> - -<p> -She rose. Her face wore a threatening look, and it was clear that her -feelings of honour were now thoroughly roused. There was no longer any -thought of fatigue or of a sprained foot. She walked straight out, and -with such an angry mien that the poet, utterly crushed by what he had -undergone, saw her depart without doing anything to stop her. She had -been gone some minutes before he rushed off in the direction she had -taken. But he did not find her. Whilst he was trying first one staircase -and then another she had crossed the courtyard and jumped into a cab, -which rapidly bore her, exulting and in ecstasy, to the Rue Murillo. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst René was employed in seeking means to get her to reconsider her -hasty decision he would have no time to reflect upon the rapidity with -which his Madonna had led him to make, and had herself made, a -declaration of love. So much for her exultation. The recollection of the -poet's words, of his face beaming with love, and his eyes eloquent with -passion, enchanted her as with a promise of most perfect happiness. So -much for her ecstasy. She was already drawing up her plans for the -future. He would write to her, of course—but to his first two letters -he would get no answer. On receipt of his third or fourth letter she -would pretend to believe in his threats of suicide and drop upon him at -home—to save him! Just as her thoughts had carried her as far as -this, chance, which is sometimes as sarcastic as an ill-tempered friend, -made her eyes fall upon Baron Desforges walking along the Boulevard -Haussmann. He was probably going to her house to ask her to lunch out -with him. She looked at the pretty little gold watch that hung from her -bracelet and saw that it was only twenty minutes past twelve. She would -be home in good time, and, thoroughly pleased with her morning's outing, -she took a keen delight in pulling down the little window-curtain as she -passed quite close to the Baron without being seen. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap12"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XII -<br /><br /> -CRUEL TO BE KIND</h4> - -<p> -When René Vincy had got as far as the Museum gates without finding -Suzanne a crowd of contradictory ideas burst so suddenly upon him that -he was lifted, metaphorically speaking, off his feet. Suzanne had not -been mistaken in her calculations, the double blow she had dealt the -young poet paralysing all his powers of analysis and reflection. Had she -simply told him that she loved him he would probably have opened his -eyes and perceived the striking contrast between the angelic attitude -assumed by Suzanne and the bluntness of this declaration. He would have -had to acknowledge that the angel's wings were very loosely attached if -they could be so easily laid aside. But instead of committing the -mistake of laying them aside the angel had spread her bright pinions out -wide and disappeared. 'She loves me, and will never forgive me for -having dragged that confession from her,' said René to himself. -</p> - -<p> -He fully believed that she had gone away resolved never to see him -again, and all his thoughts became concentrated upon that idea. How -could he hope to shake the resolution of a creature so sincere that she -had been unable to conceal her feelings, so saint-like that she had -immediately regarded her involuntary confession as a crime? And René -again saw her before him with terror written on her face and tears -starting from her eyes. Lost in these thoughts, he walked straight -before him, unable to bear the sight of a human being, even were it -Emilie, his dear confidante. Hailing a cab, he told the driver to take -him to Saint-Cloud. This was the first name that rose to his lips, -because Suzanne had described to him two <i>fêtes</i> at which she had been -present in the palace when quite a girl. On getting out of the cab he -felt a savage delight in plunging into the denuded wood. A pale February -sun lit up the bleak wintry landscape and the dry leaves cracked under -his tread as he strode along. Now and then, through a network of -blackened trunks and naked branches, he could see the dreary ruins of -the old palace and the blue waters of the little lake upon which, in -bygone days, Madame Moraines had seen the unhappy Prince, since killed -at the Cape. -</p> - -<p> -The impressions produced by his surroundings and by these memories of a -tragic past did not distract the poet's thoughts from the one idea that -hypnotised him, as it were—by what means he could conquer the will of -this woman whom he loved, who loved him in return, and whom he was -determined to see again at all costs. What was to be done? Call at her -house and demand admittance? Inflict his presence upon her by -frequenting the houses she visited? Waylay her at street corners and at -theatres? No—he felt that he could not do anything that might furnish -Suzanne with a single reason for loving him less. It was to her that he -looked for everything, even for the right of beholding her. The memory -of the ideals he had cherished in the first years of his manhood and the -purer years of his youth inspired him with serious thoughts of doing -absolutely nothing to approach her, of obeying her as Dante would have -obeyed Beatrice, Petrarch his Laura, Cino da Pistoia his Sylvia—those -noble poets of the ages of chivalry who gave voice to the lofty -conceptions of an imaginative and holy love full of ideal devotion. He -had so often dipped with delight into the <i>Vita Nuova</i> and devoured -the sonnets these dreamers wrote their lady-loves. But how could such -literature, of almost ascetic purity, hold its own against the poison of -sensuous passion which, unknown to him, Suzanne's beauty and -surroundings had instilled into his blood? Obey her! No—that he could -not do. Fresh ideas welled up within him, and he sought to calm his -overwrought nerves by exercise, the only palliative for the terrible -mental agonies he was suffering. -</p> - -<p> -Night fell—a wintry night preceded by a short, dismal twilight. Worn -out by the excess of emotion, René at last decided to adopt the only -course that could be put into immediate execution—that of writing to -Suzanne. On reaching the village of Saint-Cloud he entered a <i>café</i>, -and there, on a beer-stained blotting-pad, with a spluttering pen, -disgusted with the paper he used and the place he was in, disturbed by -the noise of billiard balls and blinded by the smoke of the players' -pipes, he wrote, under the insolent gaze of a dirty waiter, first one -letter, then another, and finally a third. How horrified he would have -been had Suzanne seen him sitting there! But, on the other hand, he felt -that he could not wait until he got home to tell her what he had to say, -and in the following terms, that would have greatly surprised Baron -Desforges had he read them and been told that they were addressed to his -Suzette of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, he gave vent to his excessive grief: -</p> - -<p> -'I have written you several letters, madame, and torn them up, and I am -not sure that I shall send you this one, so great is my fear of -displeasing you by the crude expression of sentiments which I am sure -would not displease you if you really knew them. Alas! we cannot bare -our hearts, and will you believe me when I tell you that the feelings -which prompt me to write this letter have nothing in them that would -offend the most sensitive and pure-minded woman—not even yourself, -madame? But you know so little of me, and the feeling which, with the -divine sincerity of a soul that abhors concealment, you have permitted -me to see, has been such a surprise that, by the time I am writing these -lines, it has probably been already banished and effaced from your heart -for ever. If that be so, do not answer this letter—do not even read -it. I shall know what to make of your silence, and will bow to your -decision. I shall suffer cruelly, but my gratitude to you will be -eternal for having procured me the absolute and unalloyed delight of -seeing the Ideal of all my youthful dreams in the flesh. For such -happiness I can never be sufficiently grateful, even were I to die of -grief through having met you only to lose you. You crossed my path, and -by your existence alone you have proved that my ideal was no myth. -However hard my lot may one day be, this dear, divine memory will be to -me a talisman, a magic charm. -</p> - -<p> -'But, unworthy as I am, should the feeling that I read in your eyes this -morning—how beautiful they were at that moment, and how I shall -always remember them!—should, I say, that feeling conquer your -virtuous indignation, should that sympathy with which you reproached -yourself still live in your heart, should you remain, in spite of -yourself, the woman who wept when she heard me confess my love and -adoration—then I conjure you, madame, to wrest some pity from that -sympathy. Before confirming the sentence to which I am quite ready to -submit—that terrible sentence never to see you more—let me -ask you to put me to one single proof. My request is so humble, and so -subservient to your will. Hear it, I beg. If I have guessed rightly from -the all too short and fleeting conversations we have had, your life, -though apparently so complete, is devoid of many things. Have you never -felt the need of having near you a friend to whom you could confide your -troubles, a friend who would never speak to you again as he once dared -to do, but who would be content to breathe the same air as yourself, and -to share your joys and sorrows—a friend on whom you could rely, -whom you could take or leave at your sweet will—in a word, a thing -of your own, whose very thoughts would be yours? Such a friend, with no -desire beyond that of serving you, regretting only that he has not -always done so, and entertaining no criminal hopes whatever, is what I -dreamt of becoming before that interview in which my feelings were -stronger than my will. And I feel that I love you sufficiently to -realise that dream even now. Nay, do not shake your head. I am sincere -in my entreaties, sincere in my determination never to utter a word -which will make you repent your forbearance if you decide to put me to -this proof. Will it not be time enough to banish me from your presence -when you think me in danger of breaking the promise I now make? -</p> - -<p> -'My God! how empty my phrases seem! I tremble at the thought that you -will read these lines, and that is why I can scarcely write them. What -will your answer be? Will you call me back to that shrine in the Rue -Murillo where you have already been so kind and so full of indulgence -that the memory of the minutes spent there falls like balm upon my -aching heart? That poor heart beats only for you in obedient and humble -admiration. Say—oh! say that you forgive me. Say that you will let me -see you once more. Say that you will let us try to be friends. You would -say all this, I know, if you could read what is in my heart. And even if -you do not speak those blessed words, there shall be no murmuring, no -reproaches, nothing but eternal gratitude—gratitude as deep in -martyrdom as it would have been in ecstasy. I have learnt to-day how -sweet it is to suffer through those one loves!' -</p> - -<p> -It was six o'clock when René posted this letter. He gazed after it as -it disappeared in the box, and no sooner had it left his hand than he -began to regret having sent it, the anguish of suspense respecting the -result being greater than his sufferings of the afternoon. In his -disturbed state of mind he had entirely forgotten his daily habits and -the fact that he had never stayed from home a whole day without giving -some previous explanation. He sat down to dinner in the first restaurant -he came across, without a thought of his people at home, and completely -absorbed in speculations as to what Suzanne would do after reading his -effusion. The first thing that awoke him from his state of -semi-somnambulism was the exclamation of Françoise when, having reached -home on foot about half-past nine, he opened the door and found himself -face to face with the big, clumsy maid, who nearly dropped the lamp with -fright. -</p> - -<p> -'Oh! sir,' she cried; 'if you only knew how uneasy you've made Madame -Fresneau—it's sent her into fits.' -</p> - -<p> -As Emilie ran out into the passage to meet him René said, 'You don't -mean to say that you've been upset by my not coming home? I couldn't -help it,' he added in an undertone as he kissed her; 'it was on <i>her</i> -account.' -</p> - -<p> -Emilie, who had really spent a most wretched evening, looked at her -brother. She saw that he too had been greatly agitated, and that his -eyes were burning feverishly; she had not the courage to reproach him -with selfishness in paying no regard to her own unreasonable -susceptibilities—though he knew them so well—and replied in a -whisper, as she pointed to the half-open door of the dining-room: 'The -Offarels are here.' -</p> - -<p> -These simple words sufficed to give a sudden turn to René's feelings. -His fever of suspense was dispelled by a more pressing fear. During the -sweetest moments of his walk through the Louvre that morning the memory -of Rosalie had been able to give him pain—even when he was with -Suzanne! And now he was obliged to unexpectedly face—not a -vision—but the girl herself, to meet those eyes which he had -avoided in such cowardly fashion for days past, to gaze upon that pallor -which he himself had caused. A sense of his treachery once more came -over him, but this time it was more painful and acute than ever. He had -spoken words of love to another woman before breaking off his engagement -with her whom he justly regarded as his betrothed. -</p> - -<p> -He entered the dining-room as if he were walking to the scaffold, and -had no sooner come under the full light of the lamp than he saw by the -look in Rosalie's eyes that she read his heart like an open book. She -was seated between Fresneau and Madame Offarel, working as usual, her -feet resting on the supports of an empty chair upon which she had placed -her ball of wool and her father's hat; this, as René knew well enough, -was only an innocent ruse to get him to sit near her when he came home. -She and her mother were knitting some long mittens for old Offarel, who -had now got hold of an idea that he was going to have gout in his -wrists. Her fanciful parent was there, too, drinking, in spite of his -imaginary ills, a glass of good strong grog and playing piquet with the -professor. It was Emilie who had proposed the game in order to -discourage general conversation, and so be able to give herself up to -thoughts of her absent brother, whilst Angélique Offarel had been -helping her to unravel some skeins of silk. A soft light illumined this -quiet, peaceful scene, symbolical, in the poet's eyes, of all that had -so long constituted his happiness, and which he had now given up for -ever. Fortunately for him the professor immediately made his loud voice -heard, and so put an end to his further reflections. -</p> - -<p> -'Young man,' cried Fresneau, 'you can boast of having a sister who -thinks something of you, I can tell you! She was actually proposing to -sit up all night! "Something must have happened to him. He would have -sent a wire." For two pins she would have sent me off to the Morgue. It -was no use my suggesting that some one had kept you to dinner. Come, -Offarel, it's your deal.' -</p> - -<p> -'I had to go into the country,' replied René, 'and I lost the train.' -</p> - -<p> -'How badly he tells them!' thought Emilie, admiring her brother as much -for his unskilfulness, which in this case was a sign of honesty, as she -would have admired him for Machiavelian cleverness. -</p> - -<p> -'You look rather pale,' observed Madame Offarel aggressively, 'aren't -you well?' -</p> - -<p> -'Shall I make room for you here, Monsieur René?' asked Rosalie, with a -timid smile; 'I'll take away papa's hat.' -</p> - -<p> -'Give it to me,' said old Offarel, perceiving a place for it on the -sideboard; 'it will be safer here. It's my Number One, and mamma would -scold me if any harm came to it.' -</p> - -<p> -'It's been Number One for such a long time,' cried Angélique, with a -laugh. 'Look here, papa, here's a real Number One,' she added, holding -up René's hat under the lamp-light and comparing its glossy nap with the -shabby silk and old-fashioned shape of her father's headgear, much to -the latter's disadvantage. -</p> - -<p> -'But nothing is too good for Monsieur René now,' observed Madame -Offarel with her usual acrimony, venting the rest of her displeasure -upon Angélique, whose action had annoyed her. 'You'll be lucky if your -husband is always as well dressed as your father.' -</p> - -<p> -René was seated by Rosalie's side, and let the epigram of the terrible -<i>bourgeoise</i> pass unnoticed, taking no part either in the rest of -the conversation, which Emilie wisely led round to cookery topics. -Madame Offarel was almost as keen on this subject as she was on that of -her feline pets. Not content with having recipes of her own for all -kinds of dishes, such as <i>coulis d'écrevisses</i>, her triumph, and -<i>canard sauce Offarel</i>, as she had proudly named it, she also kept -a list of addresses where specialities might be obtained. Treating Paris -like Robinson Crusoe treated his island, she would, from time to time, -start out on a foraging expedition to the most remote quarters of the -capital, going to some particular shop for her coffee and to another for -her <i>pâtes d'Italie.</i> She knew the exact date on which a certain -man received his consignment of Bologna sausages, and when another got -his Spanish olives in. -</p> - -<p> -The slightest incidents of these excursions were magnified by her into -events. Sometimes she would go on foot, and then her comments on the -improvements she had noticed, on the increase in the traffic, and on the -superiority of the air in the Rue de Bagneux were inexhaustible. At -other times she would go by omnibus, and then her fellow-passengers -formed the subject of her remarks. She had met a very nice woman who was -very fat, or a young man who was very impertinent; the conductor had -recognised her and said good morning; the 'bus had nearly been upset -three times; an old gentleman—'decorated'—had had some trouble -in alighting. 'I really thought he would fall, poor, dear old man!' -</p> - -<p> -The insignificant and superfluous details upon which it pleased the poor -woman's simple mind to dilate generally amused René, for the -<i>bourgeoise</i> sometimes hit upon some curious figures of speech in her -flow of words. She would say, for instance, when speaking of a -fellow-passenger who was paying attentions to a cook laden with -provisions, 'Some people like their pockets greasy,' or of two persons -quarrelling, 'They fought like Darnajats'—a mysterious expression -which she had always refused to translate. -</p> - -<p> -But that evening there was too pronounced a contrast between the state -of romantic excitement into which his interview with Suzanne had thrown -the poet and the meanness of the surroundings in which he had been born. -He did not stop to think that similar contrasts are to be found in every -form of life, and that the substrata of the fashionable world are -composed of mean rivalries, of disgusting attempts to keep up illusory -appearances, and of compromises of conscience compared with which the -narrow-mindedness of the middle classes is a proof of the most -delightful simplicity. -</p> - -<p> -He looked at Rosalie, and the resemblance between the girl and her -mother struck him most forcibly. She was pretty, for all that. Her oval -face, pale with evident grief, had an ivory tint as she bent down over -her knitting in the lamp-light, and when she raised her eyes to his the -sincerity of the passion that animated her shone forth from beneath her -long lashes. But why were her eyes of precisely the same shade of colour -as her mother's? Why, with twenty-four years between them, had they the -same shape of brow, the same cut of the chin, and the same lines of the -mouth? But how unjust to blame this innocent child for that resemblance, -for that pallor, for that grief, and even for the silence in which she -wrapped herself! Alas! that it should be so, but when we have wronged a -woman it is easy enough to find an inexhaustible source of unjust -complaints against her. -</p> - -<p> -Rosalie had unwittingly committed the crime of adding remorse to the -feelings brought into play by René's fresh passion. She represented -that past which we never forgive if it becomes an obstacle between us -and our future. False as most women are in matters of love, their -perfidy can never sufficiently punish the secret selfishness of the -majority of men. If René had had the sorry courage of his friend Claude -Larcher, and looked himself straight in the face, he would have had to -confess that the real cause of his irritation lay in the fact that he -had deceived Rosalie. But he was a poet, and one who was an adept at -throwing a veil over the ugly parts of his soul. -</p> - -<p> -He therefore compelled himself to think of Suzanne, and of the noble -love which had sprung up and was burning within him; for the first time -he succeeded in forming a resolve to break definitely with Rosalie, saying -to himself, 'I will be worthy of <i>her!</i>' <i>She</i> was the lying -wanton who, with her luxurious surroundings, her rare science of dress, -her incomparable power of aping sentiment, and her seductive, -soul-troubling beauty, had such immense advantages over sweet, -simple-hearted Rosalie. Her beauty once more rose up before René's -enslaved imagination just as old Offarel was giving the signal for -departure by rising and saying to Fresneau, 'I've won fourteen <i>sous</i> -from you—ha! ha! that'll keep me in cigars for a week. Come,' he -added, turning to his wife, 'are you ladies ready?' -</p> - -<p> -'Since we are all here,' replied Madame Offarel, emphasising the word -'all' by darting a look at René. 'When are you coming to dinner? Would -Saturday suit you? That's M. Fresneau's best day, I believe?' The -professor replying in the affirmative, she now addressed herself to the -poet direct, 'Will that suit you, René? You'll be more comfortable at -our place, I can assure you, than amongst all those grand people on whom -your friend Larcher goes sponging.' -</p> - -<p> -'But, Madame——' exclaimed the poet. -</p> - -<p> -'Oh—that's enough!' cried the old lady; 'I always remember what my -dear mother used to say: a crust of bread at home is better than a stuffed -turkey at another's table.' -</p> - -<p> -Although this epigram of Rosalie's mother was simply nonsense when -applied to the unhappy Claude, whose acute dyspepsia seldom permitted -him to drink even a glass of wine, it wounded René as deeply as if it -had been thoroughly deserved. This was because he saw in it yet another -sign of deep and ever-increasing hostility between his old associations -and the new life for which since that morning he so eagerly and ardently -longed. These people had a right to him—a fuller right than Madame -Offarel knew, for was he not bound to Rosalie by a secret understanding? -A fresh fit of irritation against this poor child came over him, and he -said to himself more firmly than before, 'I shall break it off.' -</p> - -<p> -Having arrived at that decision, he went to bed, but could not sleep. -The current of his ideas had changed. He was now thinking of his letter. -It must have reached Suzanne by this, and a series of unforeseen dangers -spread itself out before his imagination. Suppose her husband were to -intercept the letter? A thrill ran through him as he thought of the -misery his imprudence might bring down upon this poor woman, in the -power of a tyrant whose brutality he could well imagine. And then, even -if the letter reached Suzanne safely, what if it displeased her? And he -was sure that such would be the case. He tried to remember the words he -had written. 'How can I have been such a fool as to write like that?' he -asked himself, and hoped that the letter might miscarry. He knew that -such things happened sometimes when people wished the contrary. Why -should it not happen now that he expressly desired it? He grew quite -ashamed of his childishness, and attributing it to the nervous -excitement of the evening, began once more to curse Madame Offarel's -mean-spirited remarks. His irritability against the mother paralysed all -pity for the daughter. He passed the night in this fashion, tossed -between two kinds of tortures, until he fell into that deep morning -sleep which is more tiring than refreshing; on awaking, the first -thought that occurred to him was his desire, stronger than ever, to -break off his engagement. -</p> - -<p> -What means could he employ? A very simple expedient presented itself to -his mind at once—ask the girl to make an appointment. It was so easy, -too! How many times had she not let him know when Madame Offarel would -be out, so that he could come to the Rue Bagneux sure of finding her -alone with Angélique; and how considerate the latter had always been in -leaving the two lovers together and in peace! This was undoubtedly the -most loyal means to adopt. But the poet could not even bear to think of -such an interview. -</p> - -<p> -In such crises we are sometimes assailed by a contemptible form of pity -that consists in unwillingness to look upon the sufferings we have -caused. We do not mind inflicting torture upon the woman we cast off, -but we do not care to see her tears. It was only natural that René -should try to spare himself this insufferable pain by writing—the -resource of the weak in every kind of rupture. Paper can stand a good -deal, people say. He got out of bed and commenced to write—but the -words would not flow easily, and he was obliged to stop. Meanwhile the -hour for the postman's first call was drawing near. Although it was -perfect madness to expect Suzanne's reply by that delivery, the lover's -heart beat faster when Emilie entered the room with his letters and the -newspaper, as was her wont when she knew he was awake. How happy would -he have been had one of the three envelopes she brought him borne that -long, elegant hand which, though seen but once, he would have recognised -amongst a hundred others! No—these were only business letters, which -he tossed aside so petulantly that his sister stared at him in surprise. -</p> - -<p> -'Are you in trouble, René?' she asked, and as she put the question -there was a look of such intense devotion and love in her eyes that she -appeared to her brother like a guardian angel come to save him from the -troubles of that cruel night. Why should he not charge Emilie with the -utterance of those words he dared not formulate himself, and which he -could not manage to put into writing? He had no sooner conceived this -plan of getting over the difficulty than he hastened to carry it out -with the impetuosity common to all weak minds, and with tears in his -eyes he began to disclose the unfortunate plight he was in with regard -to Rosalie. -</p> - -<p> -He told his sister exactly how the whole matter stood. Whilst his mind -was in that state of excitement frequently caused by confessions, fresh -ideas originated within him and strengthened the resolve he had made. -They were, however, such as ought to have occurred to him at the time he -was entering into those relations which he now regarded as guilty ones. -When the intimacy had first sprung up between them—a purely innocent -but clandestine affair—he had not told himself that strict morality -forbids any secret engagement of this kind, and that to accustom a girl -to elude the watchfulness of her parents is a most reprehensible -proceeding. He had not told himself then that a man of honour has no -right to declare his love until he has satisfied himself as to its -stability, and that, although the ardour of passion excuses many -weaknesses, a mere desire for obtaining fresh emotions makes such -weakness sinful. These reproaches and many more were now in his mind and -on his lips, and as he looked in Emilie's face he plainly saw what pain -his conduct had caused his confiding sister. In a narrow home circle -such dissimulation is productive of much grief to those who have been -its victims. But though Madame Fresneau felt as though she had been -imposed upon, she vented all her anger upon the girl, and upon her -alone, exclaiming, after her brother had told her what he wanted her to -do, 'I never would have believed her so deceitful.' -</p> - -<p> -'Don't blame her,' said René shamefacedly. If their relations had -remained hidden, whose fault was it? He therefore added: 'I am the -guilty one.' -</p> - -<p> -'You!' cried Emilie, folding him in her arms. 'No, no; you are too good, -too loving. But I will do what you wish, and I promise you I'll be as -gentle as possible. It was the best thing you could have done to come to -me. We women know how to smooth things down. And then, you know, it is -only right that you should put an end to such a false position. The -sooner it's over the better, so I shall go to the Rue Bagneux this very -afternoon. If I can't see her alone I will ask her to meet me -somewhere.' -</p> - -<p> -In spite of the confidence she had expressed in her own tact, Emilie -became so impressed with the difficulties of her mission that, during -lunch, she wore a look of anxiety that made her husband feel uneasy and -awakened in René feelings of remorse. In employing a third person to -tell Rosalie the truth was he not acting in a particularly cruel manner -and adding unnecessary humiliation to unavoidable pain? When his sister -came to him ready dressed, just before starting on her errand, he was on -the point of stopping her. There was still time—but he let her go. He -heard the door close. Emilie was in the street—now she was in the Rue -d'Assas—now in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. -</p> - -<p> -But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by the fever of anxiety -with which he awaited the arrival of the next post. Suzanne must have -had his letter that morning. If she had replied at once the answer would -come by the next delivery. This idea, and the approach of the moment in -which its correctness would be tested, at once cut short his pity for -the girl he had cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the -heart, love simplifies them wondrously. René was tortured by the -suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple soldier who expects an -ill-spelt letter from his sweetheart to the royal prince carrying on a -sentimental correspondence with the brightest and most heartless Court -beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual occupations, but his mind -is on the alert, counting the minutes and unable to endure the torment -of waiting. He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of -possibilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour to the -person from whom he gets his letters, and ask whether there is nothing -for him. Such is the agony of waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its -mad conjectures, the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments. -Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and, consumed in this fire -of impatience. When Emilie came back, after having been gone an hour and -a half, René seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he had -sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his sister's face that it -quite startled him. -</p> - -<p> -'Well?' he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense. -</p> - -<p> -'It is all over,' she replied, almost in a whisper. 'Oh, René, how I -misjudged her!' -</p> - -<p> -'What did she say?' -</p> - -<p> -'Not a word of reproach. She only wept—but, oh, how bitterly! Her -love for you is greater than I thought. Her mother had gone out with -Angélique—how cruel it sounds!—to order the things for -Saturday's dinner. I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie -opened the door, she turned so pale that I thought she was going to -faint. She guessed everything before I said a word. She is like I am -with you—it is a kind of second sight. She took me into her room. -It is full of you—of your portraits, of trifles that remind her of -places you've been to together, and of cuts from the illustrated papers -about your play. I began to deliver your message as gently as I could, -but I give you my word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, "It is -so good of him to have asked you to come. You at least will not think me -foolish in loving him as I do." And then she went on, "I have been -expecting it for some time. It seemed too good to be true. Ask him to -let me keep his letters." Oh, my God! I can't tell you any more about it -now. I am so afraid for you, my dear René; I am so afraid that her -grief may bring you ill luck.' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap13"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XIII -<br /><br /> -AT HOME</h4> - -<p> -The letter posted by René at Saint-Cloud had duly reached its -destination on the morning of the day that was to complete poor -Rosalie's unhappiness. Suzanne had received it with the rest of her -correspondence a few minutes before her husband entered her room to get -his morning cup of tea, and she was just engaged in reading it when -Paul's kind and jovial face appeared in the doorway. -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Bon jour</i>, Suzon,' he cried in his deep but cheery voice, adding, as -he sometimes did, 'my fair rose.' This allusion to de Musset's -well-known romance was always accompanied by a kiss. In Paul's eyes de -Musset was the embodiment of youth and love, with just a spice of -suggestiveness, and it was the favourite joke of this simple-hearted -fellow to look upon himself as Suzanne's lover, and not as a lawful -spouse. He was one of those strange husbands who say to you in -confidence, 'I have no secrets from my wife—that is the only way to -cure her of curiosity.' Meanwhile, he was as much in love with his 'fair -rose' as ever, and proved it by the manner in which he tenderly kissed -her on the neck. -</p> - -<p> -But she checked further demonstrations of affection with the words, 'Get -along! See to the tea, and let me finish my letter.' -</p> - -<p> -She knew that Paul would never ask her anything about her -correspondence, and it gave her such intense pleasure to read the poet's -ardent phrases that she was not satisfied with going over them once, but -read them a second time, and then, folding up the letter, slipped it -into her bodice. She looked so supremely happy as she sat down to the -table and took up the fine porcelain cup filled with fragrant tea that -Moraines, wishing to tease her, said, in a voice that was meant to be -gruff, 'If I were a jealous husband, I should think you had received a -letter from your sweetheart, you look so happy, madame. And if you knew -how nice you look like that,' he added, kissing her arm just above the -wrist, where the delicate pink skin, perfumed and warmed by her -luxurious bath, looked so inviting. -</p> - -<p> -'Well, sir, you would be right,' she replied, with a roguish air. Women -take a divine pleasure in saying in fun things which, though true, will -not be believed. It procures them that mild sensation of danger which -titillates their nerves so delightfully. -</p> - -<p> -'I hope this sweetheart of yours is a nice fellow?' asked Paul, quite -amused by what he considered a good joke. -</p> - -<p> -'Very nice.' -</p> - -<p> -'And may I know his name?' -</p> - -<p> -'You are too inquisitive. Guess.' -</p> - -<p> -'Bless me—no!' cried Paul. 'I should have too much to do. Ah! -Suzanne,' he added, suddenly changing his tone to one that betrayed deep -feeling, 'what pain it must be to harbour suspicions! Just fancy me -being jealous of you, and having to sit in the office all day whilst my -heart was being torn by doubts! Ah! well,' this with a shrewd look, 'I -would set Desforges to watch you!' -</p> - -<p> -'It's lucky there was no one to hear his "joke,"' thought Suzanne when -she was alone. 'He has a silly way of saying these things, too, when -he's out.' René's letter had, however, put her in such a good temper -that she forgot to get angry, as she would do when she thought her -husband too utterly simple. Such is the logic of these pretty and -light-hearted sinners; they will exercise all their wits in blindfolding -a man, and then blame him for stumbling. The fact of having deceived him -does not satisfy them—he must only be deceived up to a certain point. -If he goes beyond that it is too much—he makes them feel uneasy, and -they hate him for it—sincerely. Suzanne contented herself with a -shrug of her shoulders and a look of sweet pity. Then she took the letter -from its hiding-place and read it for the third time. -</p> - -<p> -'It's quite true,' she said aloud; 'he is not like other men.' -</p> - -<p> -Thereupon she fell into a deep reverie, in which she saw the poet as she -had seen him waiting for her at the Louvre, standing just under the -large Veronese canvas with his face turned a little to the right. How -agitated he had been when his eyes met hers! How young he was! How his -lips had trembled when he told her a little later that he loved -her—those full, fresh lips which she could have bitten like some -fruit, after having caressed his fair cheeks and the soft silken beard -that adorned his manly face. But the fruit was not yet ripe; she must -learn to wait. She sighed. Her calculation that the poet would write -that very letter, and so soon after their meeting, too, had proved -correct. She had made up her mind not to reply to it, nor yet to the -second. For this second letter she waited one, two, three days. Though -her confidence in the strength of the passion with which she had -inspired René was unshaken, she was somewhat startled when, on the -afternoon of the third day, just as her brougham was turning the corner -of the Rue Murillo, she saw him standing where she had seen him once -before. She was very careful to look as though she had not noticed him, -and put on her saddest expression, her most dreamy eyes and an air of -sweet resignation that would have moved a tiger. The comfortable -brougham, furnished with a number of dainty and useful knick-knacks, was -immediately transformed in René's eyes into a prison van containing a -martyr—a martyr to her husband, a martyr to her home, a martyr to -her love, and a martyr to her virtue. -</p> - -<p> -She was not acting a very great lie, either, as she passed René. As she -saw the pallor on his cheeks, caused by three days' anguish, and the -look of despair in his eyes, she would have given much to be able to -stop the brougham, to get out or to make him get in, and to exclaim as -she carried him off, 'I love you as much as you love me!' Instead of -that she drove on to do her shopping and pay her calls, sure now that -the second letter so impatiently expected would not be long in coming. -It came the same afternoon, but just when its arrival presented most -danger. And for this reason. Having gone home immediately after meeting -Suzanne, René had written her four pages in feverish haste, and in -order that they might reach her sooner and more safely, he had sent them -about five o'clock by a commissionaire; the letter was therefore handed -to Suzanne by her manservant whilst Desforges was with her. He had come, -as he often did at that hour, with a dainty little present; this time it -was a pretty needle-case in old gold which he had picked up at a sale. -</p> - -<p> -No sooner had she recognised the writing on the envelope than she said -to herself, 'The least sign of emotion and the Baron will smell a rat!' -As sometimes happens, the fear of betraying her agitation made it more -difficult for her to conceal it. She took the letter, looked at the -address as we do when trying to guess from whom a communication comes, -tore it open and skimmed its contents, after having first cast a glance -at the signature; then, getting up to place it amongst some others on -her desk, she said: -</p> - -<p> -'Another, begging letter! It's astonishing how many I've had lately. How -do you manage with them, Frédéric?' -</p> - -<p> -'I have a very simple plan,' replied the Baron. 'Fifty francs the first -time of asking, twenty francs the second, nothing the third. My -secretary has orders to that effect. That's one of the fads I don't -believe in—charity! Just as if it were through want of money that -the poor are poor! It's their disposition that has made them so, and -that you'll never change. Look here, take this person who is sponging on -you to-day; I'll bet twenty-five pounds that if you inquire about him -you'll find that fortune, or at least a competency, has been in his -grasp ten times during his life. If you were to set him up afresh he -would be in the same plight in a few years from now. Not that I mind -giving, and as much as people want—but as to believing that money -so spent is of the least use, that's a different thing altogether. And -then these benefactors and lady patronesses—I know them; it's all -advertisement—a means of making their way into Society and of -getting hold of good people.' -</p> - -<p> -'That's enough,' said Suzanne, 'you are a terrible sceptic.' And with -that delicate irony that women sometimes use in avenging themselves upon -the man who compels them to lie, she added, 'You're not one to be easily -duped.' -</p> - -<p> -The Baron accepted this flattery with a smile. Had his suspicions been -aroused, that phrase alone would have lulled them. The most cunning men -have that weak point by which they can always be conquered—vanity. -But suspicion of any kind had been far from the Baron's mind. Suzanne -deceived him as easily as René had deceived his sister. Those who see -us every day are the last to perceive what would be evident to the -merest stranger. That is because the stranger comes to us without any -preconceived idea, whilst our daily associates have formed an opinion -about us which they do not take the trouble to verify or change. The -Baron therefore did not remark that Suzanne was that afternoon a prey to -intense agitation, which lasted during the whole of his visit. He stayed -rather longer than usual, too, telling her all sorts of club stories, -while she pottered about in the room, under some pretence or other, with -one eye on her letter, seizing it once more with delight as soon as -Desforges had at last decided to go. -</p> - -<p> -'He is an excellent fellow,' she said, 'but such a bore!' A fortnight's -passion had sufficed to bring her to this stage of ingratitude, and she -now found compensation for the restraint of the past hour in going over -each phrase and word of the poet's mad letter. This time it was an -ardent prayer—an appeal to a woman's love. He no longer spoke of -friendship. The air of melancholy she had assumed in the brougham had -told. -</p> - -<p> -'Since you love me,' he said, 'have pity on yourself, if you have no -pity on me.' What would have appeared to Suzanne an intolerable piece of -conceit in anyone else touched her deeply as a mark of absolute -confidence in her love. She recognised it for what it really -was—worship so devout that it did not harbour a shadow of doubt. It -would have been so natural if René had accused her of having cruelly -trifled with his feelings, but such an hypothesis was far from the -poet's thoughts. 'Poor boy!' she said to herself, 'how he loves me!' -Then, thinking of Desforges by way of comparison, she added, 'It is the -best way to make sure of not being deceived!' She took the letter out -once more. Its language was so touching, and it was full of such sincere -grief; then, again, the cosy <i>salon</i>, just at that hour, reminded her -so forcibly of the poet and of his first visit, and she asked herself -whether she had not put him sufficiently to the proof. 'No,' she -concluded, 'not yet.' -</p> - -<p> -This burning letter could, indeed, have but one reply—to tell René to -come and see her there, and it was in his own home that she wanted to -see him, in the little room he had described to her. She would appear -before him in a state of distraction, and under pretence of saving him -from suicide. The third letter would undoubtedly furnish her with that -pretence, and she decided to await its coming, already enjoying in -anticipation the delight of seeing René once more. Amidst the whirl of -excitement that her sudden and unexpected appearance would cause the -poet there would be no room for reflection. All the hateful -preliminaries of a false step, impossible to discuss with a man so -inexperienced as he, would be dispensed with. It was true there was the -presence of the rest of the family to consider. Suzanne would not have -been the depraved woman she was, even in this crisis of true passion, if -this detail had not given her plans the charm of doubly forbidden fruit. -</p> - -<p> -She waited for that third letter with intense longing. The time slipped -rapidly by. She dined out, went to the theatre, and paid calls, her mind -entirely absorbed in that one thought. As luck would have it, Desforges, -having no doubt been lectured by Doctor Noirot, had not asked for any -appointments in the Rue du Mont-Thabor that week. She knew that this was -merely a postponement. Even after becoming René's mistress she would -still have to continue her relations with the man who supplied so many -of her luxurious wants. This seemed to her as natural as the fact of -being Paul's wife. 'What does that matter, since you know I love only -you?' is what such a wife will say to her lover when he gets into one of -those ridiculous fits of jealousy that so ill become a man in that -position. And these women are never more sincere than in uttering that -phrase. They know full well that love is totally different from duty, -interest, or even pleasure. Though Suzanne saw nothing particularly -shocking in the plural life she was leading, she was glad that the -opportunity was afforded her of devoting herself entirely to her new -passion for a day or two. In all this, however, she was still the -courtesan, one of those creatures who, when they do fall in love, become -real artists of sentiment, feeling as delicately on certain points as -they are abominably wanton in others. -</p> - -<p> -'What if he should really have taken it into his head to go away!' This -was the thought that struck her when she at last received the much -desired third letter, consisting of one long, heartrending -farewell—without a word of reproach. -</p> - -<p> -She trembled lest René might have had recourse to the proceeding -counselled by Napoleon, who, with his imperial good sense, said, 'In -love the only victory is flight.' In behaving as she had done she had -staked all. Would she win? What she had foreseen had come to pass with a -precision that both delighted and frightened her. The third letter bore -the imprint of such deep despair that, on reading it a second time, this -subtle actress, with all her experience, was seized by a fresh fear more -terrible than the first—the fear that René might really have -destroyed himself. In vain did she argue with herself that if the poet -had had real intentions of going away he would have mentioned it in the -letter, and that a handsome young man of twenty-five does not kill -himself on account of the silence of a woman he believes to be in love -with him—her anguish was none the less real and intense when she -reached the Rue Coëtlogon a few hours after having received the letter. -</p> - -<p> -It was two o'clock. She stopped for a moment at the corner of the -street, gazing in wonderment at this provincial corner of Paris, whose -picturesqueness had so charmed Claude Larcher on the evening our story -opens. The grey clouds hung low in the wintry sky, and the bare branches -of the trees stood out drearily against them. The cries of a few -children playing at soldiers amongst the ruins at the back alone broke -the silence. The strange appearance of the peaceful little street, the -perils attending the step she was about to take, and the uncertainty of -the result, all combined to bring Suzanne's excitement to its highest -pitch, though she smiled as she thought to herself that there was no -reason for believing René to be at home unless he were hopelessly -waiting for a reply to his last letter. But when the <i>concierge</i> had -told her that M. René was in, and had pointed out the door, her wits at -once came back to her. -</p> - -<p> -Like all strong-minded women, she possessed the characteristics of a man -of action. A plain and circumscribed course of events inspired her with -determination and courage to carry out her plans. She rang the bell. -Heavy footsteps were heard approaching, and the face of Françoise -appeared in the doorway. At any other time she would have smiled at the -look of amazement which the simple maid did not even try to conceal. -Colette Rigaud had once called upon the poet to get him to make some -slight alteration in her part, and Françoise, recovering somewhat from -her surprise, no doubt thought that this was a similar visit, for -Suzanne could hear her say, as she opened the last door on the right: -'Monsieur René, there's a lady asking for you. . . . A very pretty -woman—probably some actress.' -</p> - -<p> -She saw the poet come out of his room and turn as pale as death on -recognising her. She glided quietly, along the passage which Raffet's -prints had turned into a small Napoleonic museum and entered René's -room. He was obliged to get out of the way to let her pass; the door -closed, and they were alone. -</p> - -<p> -'You—you here!' cried René. He could only gaze at her as she stood -before him looking so slim and elegant in the dark costume she had -chosen for this visit, for he was in that state of speechless agitation -caused by some unexpected event that suddenly raises us from the depths -of despair to the height of bliss. At such moments we are assailed by a -whirlwind of ideas and sensations that threatens to turn our brain. Our -legs give way beneath us and our hands tremble. It is happiness, and it -gives pain. René was obliged to support himself against the wall, his -eyes still fixed upon that handsome face that he had despaired of ever -seeing again. A small detail completed the madness of his joy. He -noticed that Suzanne's hands trembled a little too, and, as it happened, -her emotion was sincere. -</p> - -<p> -To the passionate feelings that inspired her there was now added the -fear of displeasing the man she was resolved to win. On entering this -chamber, where she was sure no woman had ever been before her, her plan -of action was as clearly traced as plans of that kind can be. Room must -always be left for the unforeseen. Suzanne felt that with René there -would be many difficulties which with others might have been lightly and -safely glided over. His simplicity both charmed and frightened her. In -him she could rely, it was true, upon the impulse of the -passions—more daring than cool calculation—but to arouse -unnoticed that impulse in the poet when she was herself suffering its -tortures was no easy matter. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst he stood gazing at her after the door had closed she felt a -momentary hesitation; then, almost forgetting her plans and her part, -she threw herself upon his neck and stammered out, 'I was in such -terrible fear. Your letter frightened me so that I could not help -coming. I have had an awful struggle, and could not hold out any longer. -My God, my God! What will you think of me?' -</p> - -<p> -He held her in his arms, and a thrill ran through her. Then he lifted -her lovely head and commenced to kiss her, first on her eyes, those eyes -whose sadness had so touched him as she passed him in her -brougham—next on her cheeks, those cheeks whose ideal form had so -charmed him from the first—finally on her sweet mouth, which gave -his kisses back. What did he think of her? How could any idea shape -itself in his mind, absorbed as it was by that union of the lips which -is in itself complete and intoxicating possession? What delight, too, -that embrace was to Suzanne! Through all the horrible complexities of -her feminine diplomacy one sincere desire had grown stronger and -stronger within her—that of meeting with a fresh and spontaneous, -natural and thrilling passion. This passion she found in René's breath; -it stirred the very depths of her soul and made her almost faint with -emotion. Ah! this was youth, with its complete and absolute abandonment, -expressing neither thought nor word; oblivious of all, except the -immediate present; effacing all, except the fleeting sensation whose -sweetness and whose very outlines seem to lie in a kiss. -</p> - -<p> -This woman, corrupted by the influence of a Parisian cynic of fifty and -degraded by that horrible venality which has not the excuse of -necessity—this Machiavelian courtesan, who had regulated her passion -for René like a game of chess—tasted for one second that divine joy. -The punishment of those who let calculation enter into their love lies -in the remembrance of their calculation in the moment of ecstasy. Though -intoxicated by the mad kisses she had given and received, Suzanne -clearly saw that she could not abandon herself at once to her lover's -arms. She therefore broke away from him and said, 'Let me go now that I -have seen you and now that I know you are alive. I beg you to let me go. -O René!'—she had never called him by this name before—'don't -come near me!' -</p> - -<p> -'Suzanne,' replied the poet, maddened by the burning nectar he had found -on those lips—the certainty of being loved—'don't be afraid of -me. When shall we have another hour like this to ourselves? Let me beg of -you to stop. See,' he added, receding still farther from her, 'I will -obey you. I obeyed you even when I found it so very hard. Ah! you -believe me now!' he exclaimed, seeing that Suzanne's face no longer -expressed such intense fear. 'Will you be very nice?' he continued, in -that playful tone which takes so well with women, and which will make -any one of them, be she a lady of high degree or a simple girl, call a -man a 'darling.' 'Sit down there in that arm-chair, where I have so -often sat at work, and then be nicer still, and try to look as though -you were not on a visit.' -</p> - -<p> -He had again come closer and had forced her into the chair; then he took -away her muff and began to unbutton her coat. She submitted to this with -a sad smile, like one who yields against her will. This smile was the -death agony of the Madonna, the last act in the comedy of the Ideal -performed by Suzanne. He also took off her bonnet, a <i>toque</i> that -matched her coat. He was now kneeling before her and gazing at her with -that look of idolatry a woman is sure to provoke in her lover if she but -give him one of those proofs of affection that flatter a man's vanity -and love—the lower passions and the higher passions of the heart. The -poet said to, himself: 'How she must love me to have come here, she whom -I know to be so pure, so pious, and so devoted to her duty!' -</p> - -<p> -All the lies she had so carefully told him came back to his mind like -further proofs of her sincerity as he said: 'How delighted I am to have -you here, and just now, too! Don't be afraid—we are quite alone. My -sister has gone out for the whole afternoon, and the slave'—this was -the name he gave Françoise, in order to amuse Suzanne—'the slave is -busy in the kitchen. And I have you here! You see, this is my own little -kingdom, this room—the place in which I have endured so much! There -is not one of these corners, not one of these objects that could not tell -you what I have suffered these past few days. My poor books'—and he -pointed to his low bookcase—'were left unopened. These dear old -engravings I scarcely looked at. The pen with which I had written to you -I never touched. I sat just where you are sitting now counting the hours -as they passed. God! what a week I have spent! But what does it all -matter now that you are here and I can gaze at you? It is happiness to -me to tell you even my troubles!' -</p> - -<p> -She listened with half-closed eyes, giving herself up to the music of -his words, and following out her plan in spite of the passions that -welled up within her. Does the knowledge of danger as he faces his -adversary drive from the mind of a skilful swordsman the lessons he -learnt in the school? René's assurance that they were alone in the -house had sent a thrill of joy through Suzanne, and the glance she had -thrown round the little room, so neatly and carefully kept, had proved, -to her delight and satisfaction, that she had not been mistaken -concerning her lover's past. Everything here spoke of a studious and -secluded life, the pure and noble life of an artist who surrounds -himself with an atmosphere of beautiful dreams. Above all, the poet -himself pleased her, with his love-lit eyes and the playful way in which -he treated her, and she began to see that this exchange of confidences -respecting their mutual sufferings would lead her to her goal without -the least risk of diminishing her prestige in his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -'And don't you think that I have suffered too?' she replied. 'Why should -I deny it? You speak of your letters—God knows that I did not want to -read them! I kept the first one in my pocket a whole day, having neither -the courage to tear it open nor to burn it. To read your words was to -hear you speak once more, and I had determined that it should not be! I -had prayed to my guardian angel so long and so fervently for strength to -forget you. How I struggled to do so!' Here the Madonna appeared for the -last time. She lifted her eyes to heaven—or rather to the ceiling, -from which hung two or three little Japanese dolls—and in her -glorious orbs were reflected the wings of her guardian angel as he flew -far, far away. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Fixing her blue eyes once more on René, she sighed in that tone of -abandonment that proves a conquered heart: 'I am lost now, but what of -that? I love you so dearly that I do not care what happens—only I -cannot bear to picture you in distress.' -</p> - -<p> -Here she broke down, her bosom racked with convulsive sobs, and as the -poet tenderly kissed her tears away her head once more fell upon his -breast. She lay there for a few moments listening to the wild beating of -his heart—then, like a tired child, she entwined her arms about his -neck, and heaved a sigh of peace. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap14"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XIV -<br /><br /> -HAPPY DAYS</h4> - -<p> -When Suzanne left the house in the Rue Coëtlogon her next meeting with -René was already arranged. After taking a few steps down the little -street she stopped and turned her head, although it would have been more -prudent to walk straight on, as she always did in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor. But so firm a hold had passion obtained upon this usually -cold-blooded woman that she smiled and waved her hand at the poet as he -stood watching her from the window of the room in which she had enjoyed -such a triumph—for all her calculations had turned out perfectly -correct. Getting into a cab at the corner of the Rue d'Assas, she drove -to the Bon Marché, where she had ordered her carriage to meet her; on -the way the details of the conversation she had had with René recurred -to her, and, going over them again, she congratulated herself upon the -manner in which she had acquitted herself. As soon as the first real -step has been taken in an intrigue of this kind the discussion of -further arrangements becomes as easy and as delightful as it was before -hateful and difficult. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne had been the first to attack this delicate question. 'I want you -to promise me something. If you do not wish me to reproach myself with -this love as with a crime, promise me that you won't go out into Society -at all. You are not accustomed to that kind of life, and you ought to be -at work. You would fritter away your magnificent talents and genius in -idle nonsense, and I should look upon myself as the cause. Promise me -that you won't go and see anyone'—and in a whisper—'any of -those women who flocked round you the other night.' -</p> - -<p> -How tenderly René had kissed her for those words, in which the author -could read a tribute of devotion paid to his future work and the lover a -delicate expression of secret jealousy. He asked a little timidly, -'Mayn't I come even to your house?' -</p> - -<p> -'To mine least of all,' she replied. 'I could not bear to see you touch -my husband's hand now. You know what I mean,' she added, passing her -fingers caressingly through his hair. He was sitting at her feet, while -she was still in the arm-chair. She bent forward and hid her face on -René's shoulder. 'Don't make me say any more,' she sighed; then, after -a few minutes, 'What I should like to be to you is the friend who only -enters into a man's life to bring him the sweet and noble gifts of joy -and courage, the friend who loves and is beloved in secret, away from -the mocking world that sneers at the purest feelings of the soul. I have -committed a great sin as it is'—here she hid her face in her pretty -hands—'do not let it grow into that series of base and sordid acts -which fills me with such horror in others. Spare me this, René, if you -love me as you say you do . . . But tell me, do you really love me so -much?' -</p> - -<p> -In delivering herself of this pretty batch of lies she had seen in the -face of her simple and romantic victim the rapturous joy with which -these beautiful sentiments inspired him. The Madonna resumed the halo -which she had temporarily laid aside. Then, by a skilful combination of -ruse and affection, by giving to cool calculation an appearance of -tenderest susceptibility, she had led him to agree to the following -convention as being the only one befitting the poetry of her love. He -was to look out for a small suite of rooms somewhere not very far from -the Rue Murillo; he would engage them in an assumed name, and they could -meet there two, three, or four times a week. She had suggested -Batignolles, but it was so cleverly done that he almost imagined he had -hit upon it himself, as indeed upon the rest of <i>her</i> ideas. He was -to start out the very next day, and then write to her, <i>poste -restante</i>, in certain initials, at a certain office. All these -unnecessary precautions gave René an idea of the state of slavery in -which his poor angel lived—if such an existence could be called -living! 'Poor angel' he had called her, as she gave utterance to a -half-stifled complaint concerning her husband's despotism and compared -herself to a hunted animal, 'how you must have suffered!' And she had -lifted her eyes to the ceiling with such a well-feigned expression of -grief that, years afterwards, the man for whose benefit all this was -done still asked, 'Was she not sincere?' -</p> - -<p> -There was, however, no need for so much theatrical display to make René -joyfully accede to the plan proposed by the clever pupil of Desforges. -Simply out of love for her he would have agreed with pleasure and -alacrity to any kind of scheme she put forward. But the programme laid -before him corresponded well with the romantic side of his nature. It -enchanted the poet to dwell upon the idea of carrying such a delightful -secret with him through life, whilst the phraseology in which Suzanne -had posed as the patron saint of his work had flattered his vanity, -dreaming as he did of reconciling art and love, of uniting indulgence of -the baser passions with that independence and solitude his work -required. -</p> - -<p> -And now René, after so many days of torture, felt as though both his -mind and his heart had wings. So great was his happiness that he did not -even notice the look of pained surprise that his sister wore during the -evening that followed Suzanne's visit. What had Françoise heard? What -had she told Madame Fresneau? That the latter was deeply agitated was -very evident. The profound ignorance of certain women who are both -romantic and pure exposes them to these rude surprises. They interest -themselves in love affairs because they are women, and assist in the -establishment of relations which they believe to be as innocent as they -are themselves. Then, when they see the brutal consequences to which -these relations almost necessarily lead, their surprise is so great that -but for its cruelty it would be comical. -</p> - -<p> -According to the description given her by the servant, Emilie had no -doubt as to the identity of the visitor, and the mere idea of what might -have taken place there in her house filled the staid and pious matron -with horror. Her mind involuntarily reverted to the bitter tears she had -seen on Rosalie's pale cheeks, and as she thought, first of the poor -girl, of whose sincerity she was convinced, and then of the unknown -Society lady for whom in her simplicity she had taken sides, she said to -herself, 'What if René should be mistaken in this woman?' -</p> - -<p> -But she was a sister too—a sister indulgent to a fault, and, after a -feeling of uneasiness which his evident distress had caused her during -the past week, she had not the courage to trouble her brother with -reproaches on seeing him look so happy. This mixture of conflicting -sentiments prevented her from provoking any fresh confidences, and René -was become too discreet to make them. It was impossible for him to speak -of Suzanne now; what he felt for her could not be expressed in words. He -had found suitable apartments almost immediately in a quiet street in -the centre of the Batignolles quarter, just where Suzanne had wanted -them; and almost immediately, too, chance had so willed it that he was -free to devote himself to her entirely. A week had scarcely passed since -Suzanne's appearance in the Rue Coëtlogon when Claude Larcher, the only -one of the poet's friends whom he visited at all often, suddenly left -Paris. He called on René, who had neglected him a little of late, about -half-past six one evening, in travelling garb, his face pale and -agitated. The family were just sitting down to dinner. -</p> - -<p> -'I have only come to bid you good-bye,' said Claude without taking a -seat; 'I am going by the nine o'clock Mont Cenis express, and I shall -have to dine at the station.' -</p> - -<p> -'Shall you be away long?' asked Emilie. -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Chi lo sa?</i>' replied Claude, 'as they say in that beautiful land -where I shall be to-morrow.' -</p> - -<p> -'Lucky fellow!' cried Fresneau, 'to be able to go and read Virgil in his -own country instead of teaching donkeys to translate him!' -</p> - -<p> -'Very lucky, indeed!' said the writer with a forced laugh; but when he -took leave of René at the gate, where his cab laden with luggage -awaited him, he burst into sobs. 'It's that beast of a Colette!' he -cried. 'You remember that day you saw her in my rooms? God! how sweet -she looked! And do you remember what she said, as I thought, in a joke? -I can't even repeat it. . . . Well, things have come to such a pass that -life for me here is unbearable, and I must be off for a time. I had no -money, so I was forced to go to a usurer who lent me some at sixty per -cent. Terrible, isn't it? What with the usurer, my old aunt in the -country, to whom I was bad enough to write, my publisher, and the editor -of the "Revue parisienne"—who, by the way, has got me to sign a -contract for copy—I have six thousand francs. As the train carries me -along every turn of the wheel will seem to go over my heart, but at any -rate I shall be getting away from her; and when she gets my letter, -written from Milan, what a grand revenge it will be!' He rubbed his -hands with joy, then, shaking his head, said, 'It has been like Heine's -ballad of Count Olaf all along. You know how he talks of love to his -betrothed while the headsman stands at the door—that headsman has -always been at the door of Colette's chamber. But when he assumed the -form of a Sappho I could bear it no longer. Good-bye, René, you will -not see me back till I am cured.' Since then there had been no news from -the unhappy fellow, of whom René generally thought when comparing the -noble woman he idolised with the savage and dangerous actress. Claude's -absence was the reason why René never put in an appearance now at the -green-room of the Théâtre Français. Why should he expose himself to -the rancour of Colette's tongue, which no doubt wagged loudly enough -when on the subject of her fugitive lover? Thanks to this absence, too, -all bonds between the poet and the world into which Larcher had -introduced him were severed. -</p> - -<p> -Under the influence of his growing passion for Suzanne, the author of -the 'Sigisbée' had ignored the most elementary rules of etiquette. Not -only had he neglected to call upon the different women who had so -graciously invited him, but he had not even paid Madame Komof his duty -visit. The Comtesse, who was large-minded enough to understand the -unconventional ways of genius, and kind enough to forgive such -irregularity, said to herself, 'He was probably bored here,' and, though -not angry with him, had not asked him again. She was busy, too, for the -moment in bringing out a Russian pianist who pretended that he was in -direct communication with the soul of Chopin. René, feeling safe in -that quarter, had heard with regret that Madame Offarel was greatly -offended that neither he nor Emilie had come to the famous dinner whose -ingredients it had taken her a week to collect from all parts of Paris. -Fresneau had gone all alone. -</p> - -<p> -'A fine expedition you sent me on!' he said to his wife on his return. -'When I mentioned your headache the old woman gave a grunt that almost -knocked me down, and when I told her that René was gone to see a sick -friend—a very queer excuse, by the way, but let that -pass—she said, "In some palace, I suppose!" During dinner poor -Claude was the only topic of conversation. She pulled him to pieces till -he hadn't a rag on his back. "He is an egoist and an ill-mannered -fellow, he is in bad health and has no future!"—and goodness knows -what she didn't say! If it hadn't been for a game of piquet with -Offarel—and even that the sly old fox won. Oh!—Passart was -there too. Remind me about recommending him to the Abbé for the -college. He's a nice young fellow. Between you and me, I think Rosalie -rather likes him.' -</p> - -<p> -Emilie could not help smiling at her husband's marvellous perspicacity. -She had often heard Madame Offarel complain of the pressing attentions -of the young drawing-master, and she immediately understood that he had -been asked at the last minute to prove that, besides René, there were -other suitors on hand. Thereupon the Offarels, who had never allowed -four days to pass without coming in after dinner, had not set foot in -the Rue Coëtlogon for a fortnight. When they at last decided to resume -their visits, at their wonted hour, they were escorted by the -aforementioned Passart, a tall, fair, gawky lad in spectacles, with a -shy look on his freckled face. Emilie saw at once that their motive in -bringing him was to arouse her brother's jealousy, and the old lady was -not long in showing her hand. -</p> - -<p> -'Monsieur Offarel is engaged this evening,' she said, 'so Monsieur -Passart was kind enough to bring us. Give Monsieur Jacques that seat -near you, Rosalie.' -</p> - -<p> -Poor Rosalie had not seen René since receiving his cruel message -through Emilie. In passing from the Rue Bagneux to the Rue -Coëtlogon—in reality a short, but to her an interminable -distance—she had suffered agonies, and her heart beat fast as she -entered the room. She had, however, the courage to steal a glance at her -old lover, as a kind of protest that she was not responsible for her -mother's mean calculations, and the courage also to reply coldly, as she -took a seat in a corner and placed a chair before her, 'I want this -chair to put my wool on. I'm sure Monsieur Passart won't deprive me of -it.' -</p> - -<p> -'There's room here,' said Emilie, coming to the poor girl's aid, and -giving the young man a seat next to herself. Rosalie firmly refused to -play the <i>rôle</i> marked out for her, although she well knew what a -terrible scene awaited her at home. And yet it would have been so -natural if spite had inspired her with that petty mode of revenge. But -women with truly delicate feeling, who know what real love is, are -strangers to such mean spite. To inspire a fickle lover with jealousy -would horrify them simply because it would mean flirting with another, -and such a proceeding is beneath them. Such scrupulous loyalty in spite -of all is a touching proof of love, and one which ensures a woman a -place in a man's regrets for ever. -</p> - -<p> -For ever! But as far as regards the present hour and the immediate -result, these loyal hearts get left far behind, and the flirts win. When -the years have fled, and the lover, grown old, shall institute -comparisons, he will understand the unique position held by her who would -not cause him pain—even to win him back. Meanwhile he runs after -the jades who make him drink the bitter cup of that degrading but -intoxicating passion, jealousy. It is only fair to René to say that, in -sacrificing Rosalie for Suzanne, he believed that he was acting in the -interests of true love. When, next morning, his sister praised the -girl's noble behaviour, he was quite sincere too in his reply, smacking -as it did, though, of naïve self-conceit. -</p> - -<p> -'What a pity that such fine feeling should be wasted!' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes,' repeated Emilie with a sigh, 'what a pity!' -</p> - -<p> -Had René had a thought for aught else than his love, the tone in which -his sister had uttered these words would no doubt have revealed to him -the change that her opinions had undergone with regard to Madame -Moraines. His love, however, entirely absorbed him. His days were now -parcelled out into two kinds—those on which he was to meet Suzanne -and those which he was to spend without seeing her. The latter, which were -by far the more numerous, were passed in the following manner. A great -part of the morning he spent in bed, dreaming, for he was already -beginning to feel a diminution of vital energy. Then he bestowed much -time upon his toilet, lavishing such attention on details as would -convince a woman of experience that a young man was beloved. His toilet -finished, he wrote to his Madonna. She had imposed upon him the sweet -task of sending her an account of all his thoughts day by day. As for -herself, he had not a line of her writing. She had said, 'I am so -watched, and never alone!' And he pitied her as he devoted himself to -compiling the detailed diary that she had demanded. -</p> - -<p> -This pose of a sentimental Narcissus gazing incessantly upon himself and -his love was well in keeping with that deep-rooted vanity which he -possessed in common with nearly all writers. Suzanne had not -sufficiently reflected upon the anomalous nature of a man of letters to -have taken vanity into account. It pleased her to read René's words -when he was not there simply as a burning reminder of the kisses they -had exchanged. When the poet had paid his morning devotions to his -divinity in this fashion it was time for lunch. Immediately after that -he would go to the Bibliothèque in the Rue de Richelieu and work -unremittingly at the notes for his 'Savonarola,' which he had again -taken up, during the whole of the afternoon, and sometimes right on into -the evening. He worked now without ever having, as in writing the -'Sigisbée,' those flashes of talent which pass from the brain to the -pen, charging the memory with a flow of words and drawing the images -with such precision and life-like resemblance that the effort of -production becomes a strong but delightful intoxication that ends in a -state of agreeable exhaustion. -</p> - -<p> -To build up the scenes of the drama he was now writing, René had to -keep his mind in a painful state of tension, and at a worse tension -still to turn his prose sketches into verse. His brain no longer served -him in making happy finds. For this there were several important and -distinct reasons. The first—a physical one—was the waste of -vital energy inseparable from all reciprocated passions; the -second—a moral one—the constant hold that Suzanne had upon -his mind and the inability to entirely forget her; the last—an -intellectual and secret one, though most powerful—was the -deadening influence which success exercises upon the greatest genius. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst conceiving and writing he was beginning to think of the public. -He saw before him the house on the first night, the critics in their -stalls, the fashionable people scattered here and there, and, seated in -a box, Madame Moraines. He already heard the shouts of applause, as -demoralising for a dramatic author as the number of editions is for a -novelist. The desire to produce a certain effect took the place of that -disinterested, natural, and irresistible impulse which is a necessary -condition in true art. Still too young to possess the skill with which -literary veterans can write impassioned phrases in cold blood, and even -well enough to deceive the best critics, René sought in himself that -source of ideas which he no longer found. His play would not take shape -in his mind in a natural and easy way. The goat-like features of the -Florentine monk and the tragic figures of the terrible pontiff Alexander -VI., the violent Michael Angelo, the sour Machiavelli, and the -formidable Cæsar Borgia would not clothe themselves in flesh and blood -before his eyes, in spite of the heaps of notes and documents he had -collected and the pages erased again and again. Frequently he would lay -down his pen and gaze up at the blue sky through the lace curtains of -his window; he would listen to the noises in the house—the closing of -a door, Constant playing, Françoise grumbling, Emilie passing quietly, -Fresneau walking heavily—and then find himself counting how many -hours he had still to wait before seeing Suzanne. -</p> - -<p> -'How I love her! How I love her!' he would exclaim, increasing his -passion by the fervour with which he uttered these words. Again, he -would delight in conjuring up a vision of the room in which these -meetings, awaited with such feverish impatience, took place. He had been -more lucky in finding a suitable place than his inexperience had led -Suzanne to expect, It was a small suite consisting of three rooms, -rather prettily furnished by Malvina Raulet, a brunette of about -thirty-five, whose sweet voice, demure looks, and general air of -propriety had at once enchanted René. This lady, whose attire was -almost severe in its simplicity, gave herself out as a widow. She lived -ostensibly on a small income left her by the late M. Raulet, an -imaginary individual whose profession she defined in a vague way by -saying that 'he was in business.' As a matter of fact, the shrewd and -cunning landlady had never been married. She was, for the moment, being -'protected' by a respectable physician—a well-known man and the -father of a family—whom she had so thoroughly taken in by her fine -manners that she managed to get five hundred francs a month out of him, -regularly paid on the first, like the salary of a Civil Servant. -</p> - -<p> -Being before all else a thrifty soul, she had conceived the idea of -increasing her monthly income by letting out three of the rooms she did -not want, and as there were two doors to her flat she was able to give -this small suite a separate entrance. The almost elegant furniture it -contained had come to her as a weird inheritance. For ten years she had -been the mistress of a madman, whose family, desiring for some reason to -keep this insanity secret, had paid her well. Upon her unhappy lover's -death, Malvina had, according to promise, received twenty thousand -francs and the contents of the house in which she had played such a -strange part. This woman's dark and hideous past René was never to -know. In that gay city, where clandestine attachments abound, how many -of the thoughtless youths who hire such places know aught of the history -of those who pander to their wants? Nor could the poet think for one -moment that this woman with the irreproachable manners had seen right -through his demands at the first glance. He had told her that he lived -in Versailles, and that he was obliged to come to Paris two or three -times a week. The name he gave her was that of his favourite hero—the -paradoxical d'Albert in 'Mademoiselle de Maupin;' but as he wrote it at -the bottom of the agreement which the careful Madame Raulet got him to -sign, he placed his hat on the table, and there the crafty landlady -could plainly read the real initials of her new lodger. -</p> - -<p> -'If you would like my servant to undertake the cleaning of the rooms,' -she said, 'it will be fifty francs a month extra.' -</p> - -<p> -This exorbitant demand was made in such a cool tone, and Madame Raulet, -moreover, looked so thoroughly respectable, that René dared not discuss -the amount. He could, however, not help eyeing her somewhat -distrustfully. Her appearance, it was true, disarmed all suspicion. She -wore a dark dress, well but simply made. Round her neck hung one of -those long gold chains so much worn at one time by the French -<i>bourgeoisie</i>—a chain which had no doubt once belonged to her -sainted mother. She wore her watch in her belt; a brooch containing a -lock of white hair—that of a beloved father, most -probably—fastened her neat lace collar, and through the meshes of -the silk mittens that covered her long hands might be seen her wedding -ring. -</p> - -<p> -As René was leaving, this virtuous creature remarked, 'The house is a -very quiet one, sir. You are a young man,' she added with a smile, 'and -you will not be offended if I make so bold as to say that the least -noise on the stairs at night, or anything like that, would be sufficient -reason for my asking you to leave.' -</p> - -<p> -René felt himself blush as she spoke. In his excessive simplicity he -feared lest the worthy widow might give him notice after his first -meeting there with Suzanne. This ridiculous fear impelled him to visit -his landlady immediately Madame Moraines had gone under pretence of -speaking to her about some trifling matter he wanted done. She received -him with the polite air of a woman who knows nothing, understands -nothing, and has seen nothing, although she had been watching Suzanne's -departure from her window, and had, with the practised eye of a -Parisian, taken that lady's measure at a glance. Malvina now saw through -it all—her lodger's visitor was a woman in the first ranks of -Society, but he himself, although well dressed, showed by the cut of his -beard, his hair, his walk and his whole appearance that he belonged to a -lower station in life. The landlady thought that most probably the rent -would be paid by the mistress, and not by the lover, and she regretted -not having asked more than five hundred francs a month besides the fifty -for attendance. The whole of the flat cost her fourteen hundred francs a -year, and she paid her maid-of-all-work forty-five francs! No matter, -she would make up for it in the extras—in the firing, the washing, -and especially in the meals, if ever the young man asked her to provide -lunch, as she had offered to do. -</p> - -<p> -'She is an excellent woman, and very attentive,' said René, when -Suzanne questioned him about Madame Raulet. Was the poet wrong in being -so trustful? Of what use would it have been to indulge, as Claude would -have done, in a pessimistic analysis of this woman's character, except -to conjure up thoughts of blackmail and other dangers, all entirely -imaginary, as it happened? For although Malvina was far from being a -saint, she was at the same time a <i>bourgeoise</i> who had a sincere -hankering after respectability, and who proposed, as soon as she had -made her little pile, to return to her native town of Tournon, and lead -a life of absolute purity. The fear of seeing her name figure in the -report of some evil-smelling case was sufficient to deter her from -practising any pronounced form of imposition. So far did her love of -respectability carry her that she wove a complicated web of falsehoods -to the <i>concierge</i> about her new lodger. She made out that Suzanne and -René were a happy couple who lived in the country all the year round, -and that they were distantly related to the late M. Raulet. Then, in -order that he should have nothing whatever to do with the said -<i>concierge</i>, she herself handed René two keys even before he had asked -for them. -</p> - -<p> -What cared the poet for the real cause of her attentiveness? The young -have sense enough not to go into facts which lend themselves to the -gratification of their desires. This system sometimes leads them along -perilous paths, but they cull many a flower by the wayside and enjoy its -fragrance, nevertheless. When the poet walked across half Paris to reach -his little suite in the Rue des Dames there was a music in his heart -that shut out all dissonant voices of suspicion. His meetings with -Suzanne were generally in the morning. René had never asked himself why -that time of the day was most convenient to his beloved. As a matter of -fact it was the hour when she was most certain of escaping the -watchfulness of Desforges. In the forenoon the hygienic Baron devoted -himself to what was dearest to him on earth—his health. First he had -a bout of fencing, which he called his 'dose of exercise'; then he -galloped through the Bois, which was his 'air cure'; lastly he 'burnt -his acid,' a formula he owed to Doctor Noirot. -</p> - -<p> -The double Madonna, who had studied her man thoroughly, knew that he was -as much a slave to these rules of health as Paul was to those of his -office. She therefore felt a secret pleasure in thinking of her husband -seated at his desk, of her 'excellent friend' bestriding an English -mare, and of her René entering a florist's to buy some flowers -wherewith to adorn the chapel of their love. Roses were his usual -choice, roses red as his darling's lips, roses fair as her blushing -cheeks, fresh and living blooms that filled the air with their sweet and -penetrating perfume. As she was borne towards the harbour of their love -she knew that René would be standing at the window listening to the -rattle of the cabs as they passed. How delighted he would be when hers -stopped before the house! She would ascend the stairs, and there he -would be waiting for her, having softly opened the door so as not to -lose one second of her sweet presence. Then he would hold her in his -arms devouring her with silent kisses that pierced the black lace veil -as they sought her fresh and mobile lips. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne's great triumph consisted in her ability to preserve her -innocent Madonna-like expression amidst all the madness of their love; -and, by a singular dispensation of nature, too, this strange creature -was entirely devoid of all sense of remorse. She belonged, no doubt by -heredity, being the daughter of a statesman, to the great race of active -beings whose dominant trait is a faculty for distributing their -energies. These beings have the power to make the most of the present -without allowing themselves to be troubled either by the past or the -future. In modern slang we find a pretty phrase to express this power of -temporary oblivion—it is called 'cutting the cord.' Suzanne had -parcelled out her life into three parts—one belonging to Paul, one to -Desforges, and one to René. During the time she devoted to each there -was such absolute suspension of the rest of her existence that she would -have had some difficulty in realising the extent of her duplicity had -she cared to probe her conscience—a proceeding she never dreamt of -whilst the opium of pleasure coursed through her brain. She generally -remained with René till about twelve o'clock, and when she was gone -Madame Raulet would send up his lunch; and he would stay in the rooms -for the rest of the day, ostensibly to work, for he had some of his -papers there, but really to gloat over the reminiscences that floated in -the very air he breathed. When night was beginning to fall he would wend -his way homewards, under the twinkling gas lamps that illumined his -route, possessed by a divine languor that seemed to combine and blend -into one harmonious whole all the delights of the day. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap15"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XV -<br /><br /> -COLETTE'S SPITE</h4> - -<p> -This delightful existence had been going on for about two months with -nothing to break its sweet monotony but the pain of parting and the joy -of meeting when, one morning, just as René was about to proceed to the -Rue des Dames, Françoise handed him a letter that made him start, for -on it he recognised Claude Larcher's handwriting. By calling at -Larcher's rooms René had learnt from Ferdinand that the writer had -stopped at Florence and then at Pisa. He had even sent him a letter to -each of these towns addressed <i>poste restante</i>, but had received no -reply. He saw by the postmark that Claude was now in Venice, and with -feelings of intense curiosity he tore open the envelope, reading the -contents as he strolled down to the river through the quiet suburban -streets on this fair spring morn that was as fresh and bright as his own -love. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<blockquote> -<p style="margin-left: 50%;">'Venice, Palais Dario: April, 1879.</p> - -<p> -'My DEAR RENÉ,—I am writing you these lines from your -Venice—from that Venice whence you evoked the cruel features of -your Cœlia and the sweet face of your Beatrice; and as this fairy-like -city is, as it always was, the land of improbabilities, the city of the -Undines, which on these Eastern shores are called sirens, I have, like -Byron, discovered a small furnished suite in a most delightful little -palace on the Grand Canal, a <i>palazzino</i> with marble medallions on -its façade, all ornamented, carved, and engraved, and leaning as badly -as I do on my bad days. As I scribble this letter I have the blue waters -of the Canal Grande under my window and around me the peace of this -great city—the Cora Pearl of the Adriatic, a wretched play-writer -would say—like the silence of a dream. My dear fellow, why have I -brought my battered old heart here of all places—here, where I -feel it beat louder and stronger in the sweet stillness? I must tell you -that it is two o'clock, that I have just breakfasted at Florian's under -the arcades after having been to San Giorgio in Bragora to look at a -divine Cima, that I am to dine to-night with two ladies directly -descended from the Doges—fair as the creations of -Veronese—and some Russians as amusing as our friend Beyle's -Korazoff, and that, instead of feeling elated, I have come home to look -at Her Portrait—with a capital H and a capital P—the -portrait of Colette! René, René, why am I not seated in my stall at -the Théâtre Français, gazing at her as Camille in "On ne badine pas -avec l'amour"—a divine play, as bitter as "Adolphe," yet as sweet -as the music of Mozart? Do you remember her smile as she holds her -pretty head on one side and says, "Are you sure that a woman lies with -all her soul when her tongue lies?" Do you remember Perdican and these -words: "Pride, thou most fatal of human counsellors, why art thou come -between this maid and me?" All my story—all our story lies in -those few words. Only it happens that I am the real Perdican of the -play, having in my soul that source of idealism and love, ever flowing -in spite of experience, ever pure in spite of so many sins! And she, my -Camille, has been stained by so much shame that nought can wash her -clean! Alas! how sadly the world treated my flower—when I wished -to inhale its fragrance I found instead a smell as of the grave. -</p> - -<p> -'Come, come, it was not to write you such stuff that I sat down before -my balcony, through the carving of which I can see the gondolas pass. -They glide and slant and turn about, looking so pretty with their slim, -funereal shapes. If each of these floating biers carried away one of my -dead dreams, what an interminable procession there would be on the -dreary waters! Would that I were an etcher! I know what Dance of Death I -would engrave—a flight of these black barques in the twilight, -with white skeletons as gondoliers at the prow and poop, and a row of -ruined palaces for a background. Under it I should write: "Such is my -heart!" After a youth more down-trodden than the grapes in the -wine-tubs, and when I had just emerged from the miserable drudgery of my -profession, it was this horrible slavery of love that stared me in the -face—this love with its basis of hatred and contempt! Why, just -Heaven!—why? Who could have guessed on that July evening when this -madness began that I was entering upon one of the most solemn periods of -my life? I had been dining alone after a hard day's work, and, in order -to get a little fresh air and pass the time until ten o'clock, I was -just strolling wherever my fancy took me, gazing idly at the passers-by. -What invisible demon led my steps to the Comédie Française? Why did I -go up into the green-room, where I had not been for months, to shake -hands with old Farguet, about whom I did not care a rap? Why had I such -a ready flow of wit and such brilliant repartee at my command at that -very moment—I who, at fashionable dinners, had frequently found -myself as dumb as the carp <i>à la Chambord</i> on the dish? Why was -Colette there in that adorable costume that belongs to the old -<i>répertoire</i>? She was playing Rosine in the "Barber of Seville," -and I went to the front to hear her sing the air, "When Love brings us -spring again." Why did she look at me as she sang it, and show such real -emotion that I dared scarcely believe it was meant for me? Why had she -those lips, those eyes, that face on which might be read the sufferings -of a conquered Psyche, a prey to love? How passionately we loved each -other from that very first evening! And it was only the second time we -had met. Can you understand how I was mad enough to expect fidelity from -a girl who had thrown herself at me in that fashion? As soon as I got -back behind the scenes she invited me into her dressing-room, and before -we had been there a quarter of an hour her lips were pressed to mine in -most painful ecstasy. Fool that I was! I ought to have taken her for -what she was—a charming courtesan—and remembered that women -are just the same to others as they are to us. Instead of which— -</p> - -<p> -'Let us leave this road, my dear René, for I perceive a finger-post on -which is written "To despair," like the posts in that forest of -Fontainebleau where I took her one summer morning in a dog-cart drawn by -a black horse named Cerberus. I can see the horse now, with a fox-tail -hanging down over his forehead, and my Colette beside me, looking pale, -but so beautiful. When was she not beautiful to me? But let us leave, I -say, this fatal road, and come to the present, of which I owe you an -account, since you have been good enough to write me several such nice -letters. When I left you in the Rue Coëtlogon and hied me off to -Italy—it sounds like a song!—I wanted to see whether I could do -without her. Well, the experiment has been made—and has failed. I -cannot. I have argued with myself, and I have struggled long and hard. -Since my departure I have got up not ten—but twenty, thirty times, -and sworn not to think of her during the whole of that day. It's all right -for a quarter of an hour, for half an hour even. But at the end of that -time I see her again. I see her eyes and her mouth, I see those gestures -I have seen in none other—the pretty way she had, for instance, of -laying her head on my shoulder when I held her in my arms, and then, -wherever I may be, I am obliged to stop and lean against a wall, so -sharp is the pain that pierces my heart. Would you believe that I had to -leave Florence because I spent my time in the "Uffizi" before -Botticelli's "Madonna Incoronata," a photo of which you have seen in my -rooms? I have sometimes taken a cab from the other end of the town in -order to reach the gallery before closing time, so that I might gaze -upon the canvas once more. The angel on the right, the one that lifts -the curtain, is the very image of her, and wears that look which has so -often made me pity Colette and bewail her misfortune when I ought to -have killed her. -</p> - -<p> -'So I left Florence and came to Pisa, the dead city whose sweet silence -had enchanted me in days gone by. I had taken an immense fancy to the -square in which stand the Dome, the Baptistery, and the Belfry, with a -cemetery wall and the remains of a battlemented rampart to enclose it. -Then there was the shore of the Gombo two hours distant—a sandy -desert among the pines—and the yellow Arno flowing sluggishly by! -My room looked out upon the dreary river, but it was full of sunshine, -warm and clear, and I had come there filled with a glorious plan. An old -maxim of Goethe had come into my mind, "Poetry is deliverance!" "I will -try it," I said to myself, and I swore not to leave Pisa before I had -turned my grief into literature. Perhaps, in making bubbles out of the -tears I had already shed, I might forget to shed fresh ones. These -bubbles grew into a story which I called <i>Analysis.</i> You have no -doubt read it in the <i>Revue parisienne.</i> Don't you think it as good -as anything I have done? As you see, it is the whole story of my sad -love; every detail is absolutely correct, from the episode of the letter -to my jealousy of the Sapphos. What do you think of Colette—isn't -she well drawn? And of me? Alas! my dear fellow, would that I had -obtained peace of mind by besmirching the image of her I have so loved, -by dragging in the dirt the idol once adorned with freshest roses, by -dishonouring the dear past with all the strength at my command! Hear the -result of this noble effort—I had no sooner posted the manuscript -of this story than I went home and wrote to Colette asking her to -forgive me. An excellent joke, this maxim of Goethe—a sublime -Philistine and a Jupiter, as they used to style him! I have plunged a -pen into my wound to use my blood for ink, and I have only poisoned -myself afresh. If I am to be cured at all, time is the only thing that -will cure me. But, after all, why be cured? -</p> - -<p> -'Yes, why? I have been proud—I am proud no longer. I have struggled -against the passion that abased me—I will struggle no more. If I had -the cancer in my cheek, should I be ashamed of it? Well, I have a cancer -in my soul, and make no attempt to check its growth. Listen to the end -of my story. Colette did not answer my letter. Could I expect her to be -kind to me after my behaviour? I had already begun to humble myself by -writing to her. I went on doing so. Then I commenced to feel such delight -as I had never felt before—that of degrading myself before her, -of letting her trample upon my manly dignity. I wrote to her a second, a -third, a fourth time. -</p> - -<p> -'My novel appeared, and I wrote to her again—letters in which I -delighted in humbling myself, letters that she might show about and say: -"He has left me, he insults me, and yet see how he loves me!" Should not -those very insults have proved to her how much I loved her? You don't -know her, René; you don't know how proud she is, in spite of all her -faults. What pain that wretched novel must have caused her I scarcely -dare to think, and that, too, is why I dare not come back. In my present -state of mind I could not possibly face a scene such as we used to have, -and to live longer without her is equally beyond me. I have therefore -decided, my dear René, to ask you to go and speak to her. I know that -she has always liked you, and that she is really grateful to you for the -pretty <i>rôle</i> you wrote her. I know that she will believe you when you -say to her, "Claude can stand it no longer—have pity on him." Tell -her, too, René, that she need have no fear of my horrible temper. The -rebellious Larcher she could not bear exists no longer. To be near her, -to live in her shadow, to have her near me, I will tolerate all, -all—you understand. Our last months together were not all honey, it -is true, but what a paradise they were compared with this Inferno of -absence! And we had our happy hours, too—those afternoons we spent -together in her rooms in the Rue de Rivoli, overlooking the gardens of -the Tuileries. The bustle of the great city went on around us as I held -my darling pressed to my heart. See how my hand trembles only to think -of it! If I have ever done you a service in the past, as you say I have, -be my friend now and call on her, show her this letter, speak to her, -appeal to her heart. Ask her to say that she forgives me and that I may -come back to her. Good-bye. I await your reply in agony, and you know -what torture that machine is capable of suffering which calls itself -your old friend. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">'C. L.</p> - -<p> -'P.S.—Go to the <i>Revue</i> office and ask for five copies of my -story; I can get rid of them here.' -</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -'How like him!' said René, after having read this strange epistle, -which was nothing but a bundle of the different elements that made up -Claude's composite personality. Childish sincerity wedded to a taste for -dramatic display; a love of posing even when suffering bitter anguish; -most susceptible professional vanity and an absolute lack of all -pretensions; profound self-knowledge and total inability to govern -himself—all this was there. 'I shall go to the theatre to-night if -Colette is playing,' said René to himself. He bought a paper and saw -her name in the list for that evening. 'But,' he thought, 'how will she -receive me?' -</p> - -<p> -He was so interested in what would happen and so moved by his dear -friend's grief that he could not help telling Suzanne all about it as -soon as he reached the trysting-place. He even gave her the letter to -read, and as she handed it back to him she said: 'Poor fellow!' adding, -in an indifferent tone, 'Haven't you really ever mentioned me when -talking together?' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes, once, quite casually,' replied René, with some hesitation. Since -he had become Suzanne's lover he had never forgiven himself for the -question he had put to Claude about her—the unfortunate question -which had drawn down upon him the sarcasm of his friend. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne mistook the cause of his hesitation and returned to the charge. -'I am sure that he said something nasty about me?' -</p> - -<p> -'Indeed, he didn't,' replied René, in a tone of assurance. He was too -well acquainted with the play of Suzanne's face not to have remarked the -look of anxiety in her eyes as she put her second question, and he, in -his turn, now asked: 'How you distrust him! Why?' -</p> - -<p> -'Why?' she repeated with a smile; 'because I love you so dearly, René, -and men are so bad.' Then, wishing to entirely destroy the effect that -her excessive distrust might have produced in the poet, she added, 'You -must go and see Mademoiselle Rigaud.' -</p> - -<p> -'Certainly I must,' said René; 'I intend going to-night And you?' he -asked, as he often did, 'how are you going to spend your evening?' -</p> - -<p> -'I am going to the theatre, too,' she replied; 'but not behind the -scenes. My husband wants to take me to the Gymnase. Why do you put me in -mind of it? I shall be quite miserable enough when I'm there all alone -with him. . . Come, give me a nice kiss.' -</p> - -<p> -That voice, sweet as the sweetest music, was still in the poet's ears, -and his soul was still troubled by those kisses, more intoxicating than -strong drink, when about nine that night he entered the stage door of -the Théâtre Français in order to reach the celebrated green-room. He -cast a glance round the doorkeeper's lodge, remembering that the room -had been one of the stations in Claude's Calvary. Frequently, when -entering the theatre together, Larcher would say to his friend as he -pointed to the pigeon-hole that contained Colette's letters: 'If I stole -them I should perhaps know the truth.' -</p> - -<p> -'How happy I am,' thought René, 'not to know that terrible malady -called suspicion!' And he smiled as he ascended the staircase, whose -walls are covered with the portraits of actors and actresses of a bygone -age. There, fixed on the canvas, are the grinning faces of past -Scapins—there the Célimènes, who lived and loved long years ago, -still smile down upon us. These reminders of mirth for ever vanished, of -passions for ever stilled, of once happy generations for ever gone, have -something strangely sad about them for the dreamers who feel their life, -like all life, slipping away, and who realise the brevity of human joys. -</p> - -<p> -Often had René experienced this feeling of vague sadness; it came over -him again now, in spite of himself, and made him hasten to the -green-room, expecting to find a good many acquaintances there with whom -he might exchange a few words of greeting. But he found the place -entirely given up to two actors in Louis XIV. costumes, their heads -adorned with enormous wigs, their legs incased in red stockings, and -their feet cramped in high-heeled shoes. They were engaged in a -political argument, and took no notice of the poet, who heard one of -them, a long, thin, bilious-looking creature, say to the other, a round, -red-faced individual, 'All the misfortunes of our country arise from the -fact that people do not take sufficient interest in politics.' -</p> - -<p> -'What a pity Larcher isn't here!' thought René as he caught these -words; he knew what pleasure they would have given his friend, the -exclamation that would have escaped him—'This is grand!'—and -how he would have clapped his hands with delight. Everything in this part -of the theatre reminded him of Claude, who had so often accompanied him -there. They had sat together in the little green-room, now empty. -Together they had descended the few steps that lead behind the scenes, -and, slipping in between the properties, had mingled with the actors and -actresses standing in the narrow passage waiting for their calls. -</p> - -<p> -Colette was not there, and René determined to go up the steep staircase -and along the interminable corridors lined with private dressing-rooms. -He at length reached the door that bore the name of Mademoiselle Rigaud; -he knocked, feebly at first, but conversation was probably going on -inside, and he was not heard. He had to knock louder. 'Come in!' cried a -shrill voice, which he recognised; it was the same that could make -itself so sweet to recite: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">If kisses for kisses the roses could pay . . .</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -On opening the door the visitor entered a tiny ante-room, which -communicated with a tiny dressing-room. René lifted the -gilt-embroidered curtain of black satin that divided the two miniature -apartments, and found himself in an atmosphere overheated by the lamps -and the presence of six people; five of these were men, two in evening -dress being evidently 'swells,' and the other three friends of the -actress of a slightly inferior order. One of the two black-coated -gentlemen was Salvaney, but he did not recognise René. He and his -friend were the only two who were seated. The ottoman on which they sat -had been recovered with an old Chinese dress of pink satin; it was -Claude who had given Colette that dress, and who, in the heyday of their -love, had presided over the arrangement of the whole dressing-room. He -had ransacked Paris to collect the panels set in bamboo frames which -adorned the walls. Three of these panels bore figures of Chinese women -painted on pale silk. The widest, which, like the heavy curtain, was of -black satin, represented a flight of white birds amidst peach blossoms -and lilies of the valley. Bright-coloured fans and bunches of peacock's -feathers distributed here and there, and a great gilt dragon with -enamelled eyes suspended from the ceiling, helped to give this pretty -little cabin an air of charming originality. -</p> - -<p> -Colette, with her hair all undone and her bare arms emerging from the -wide sleeves of a loose bright blue dressing-gown, was 'making up' under -the gaze of the five men. Before her, on the dressing-table, stood a -whole row of pots filled with different salves. There were other pots, -containing white, yellow, and pink powder, and a few saucers filled with -long 'tragedy' pins, while hare's feet covered with paint, enormous -powder puffs, black pencils, and small sponges lay scattered all about. -The actress could see who entered by looking in the large glass before -her. Recognising the author of the 'Sigisbée,' she half turned and -showed him her hands covered with vaseline as an apology for not -offering him one, and by the look she gave him René understood how -prudent Claude had been in not coming back without some previous -understanding. -</p> - -<p> -'Good evening!' she cried. 'Why, I thought you were dead, but I see by -your face that you've only had an excess of happiness. I'm playing you -to-morrow, you know. Sit down, if you can find room.' And before René -had time to reply she turned to Salvaney, saying: 'Well, I will if you -like. Come for me to-morrow at twelve. Aline will be there, and we'll go -and have lunch together first.' -</p> - -<p> -Having uttered these words, she darted another look at René. The lines -of her mouth deepened, and her charming face suddenly assumed an -expression of intense cruelty. The words had really been hurled in -defiance at Claude through his most intimate friend. This friend would -certainly repeat them to the jealous lover. It was just as if she had -shouted through space to the man whom she could not forget in spite of -his flight and his insults: 'You are not here, and so I do exactly what -will cause you most pain.' -</p> - -<p> -She then exchanged a few words with the other visitors, recommending -some poor fellow in whom she was interested to one, importuning another -for the insertion of a complimentary notice in some paper, returning to -Salvaney to ask him for a tip for the next races, until at last, having -wiped her hands, she rose and said, 'And now, my dear fellows, it is -very kind of you to stay, but'—pointing to the door—'I am -going to dress, so you must go. No, not you,' she went on, speaking to -René, and not minding the others, 'I want to talk to you for a minute.' As -soon as they were alone, and she was again seated before the glass -pencilling her eyebrows, she asked, 'Have you read Claude's infamous -work?' -</p> - -<p> -'No,' replied René, 'but I have received a letter from him; he is -terribly unhappy.' -</p> - -<p> -'Oh! haven't you read it?' cried Colette, interrupting him. 'Well, read -it! You will see what a cad your friend is!' Crossing her arms, she -turned to face the poet, the angry glitter in her eyes intensified by -their painted rings and by the artificial pallor of her cheeks. 'Tell -me, is it right for a man to insult a woman? What have I done to this -gentleman? I refused to slavishly obey his whims, to cut off all my -friends, and lead the life of a dog! Did he imagine that I was his wife? -Did he keep me? Did I ask him for an account of what he did? And even if -I had been in the wrong, was that why he must go and tell the public all -the lies he can invent about me? He's a cad, I tell you—a low cad! -You can write and tell him so from me, and tell him that I shall spit in -his face when I see him! Your fine gentleman treated me like a drab, did -he? Well, he shall find out how the drab takes her revenge! Not yet, -Mélanie,' she said, as the dresser came in, 'I'll call you in a quarter -of an hour.' -</p> - -<p> -'But if he did not love you,' replied René, taking advantage of this -interruption, 'he would not carry on in this fashion. He is maddened by -grief.' -</p> - -<p> -'Oh! don't come to me with such rubbish,' cried Colette, shrugging her -shoulders and again setting to work on her eyebrows; 'do you think that -creature has got a heart? And he's no friend of yours, my dear fellow. -If you had heard him making fun of your love affairs you would know what -to think of him.' -</p> - -<p> -'Of my love affairs?' repeated René, in blank astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -'Come, come,' said the actress, with a nasty laugh, 'it's no use trying -to bluff me; but when you want a confidant, choose a better one than -your friend Monsieur Larcher?' -</p> - -<p> -'I don't understand you,' replied the poet, his heart beating fast; 'I -have never made a confidant of him.' -</p> - -<p> -'Then he must have invented the story of your being in love with Madame -Moraines, that pretty, fair woman, the mistress of old Desforges. Well, -that beats all!' exclaimed the cruel actress, with the bitter and -ironical laugh of a creature whose pride has been deeply wounded. The -unhappy Claude, who in his tender moments forgot what he thought of -Colette in his lucid ones, had simply said to her on the morrow of -René's visit, 'Poor Vincy is in love.' 'With whom?' she had asked. And -he had told her. -</p> - -<p> -Colette was well acquainted with the rumours that were afloat concerning -Suzanne and the Baron, thanks to the habit most fast men have of -retailing Society scandal, be it true or not, to the <i>demi-mondaines</i> -whom they frequent. In alluding to René's love affair with Madame -Moraines, the actress, beside herself with passion, had spoken almost at -random, in order to lower Larcher in his friend's esteem. Seeing the -effect that her words had produced on the latter, she continued the -theme. To torture the man she had before her, and in whose features she -could read the suffering she caused, was to satisfy to a certain extent -her thirst for revenge against the other, knowing, as she did, how dear -the poet was to Claude. -</p> - -<p> -'Claude did not tell you that,' cried René, excitedly, 'and if he were -here he would forbid you to slander a woman whom he knows to be worthy -of your respect.' -</p> - -<p> -'Of my respect!' repeated Colette, with a shrill, nervous laugh. 'What -do you take me for, my dear fellow? Of my respect! Because she has a -husband to hide her shame and help her spend the old man's money? Of my -respect! Because she wants a higher wage than the girl in the street who -hasn't the price of a dinner? Do you believe in them, these Society -women? And look here,' she cried, rising in her fury and betraying her -low extraction by the way in which she jerked her head and blinked her -eyes, 'if you don't like me telling you that she is your mistress and -the Baron's too, go and fight it out with Claude. It'll furnish my fine -gentleman with copy. Are you beginning to have the same opinion about him -as I have? Between you and me, my boy—just you keep your eyes open. -Worthy of my respect! Ha! ha! ha! No—that's a bit too thick. Well, -good-bye. This time I am going to dress in earnest. Mélanie!' she -cried, opening the door, 'Mélanie! Give Claude my compliments,' she -added, as a parting shot, 'and tell him that trifling with Colette is as -dangerous as trifling with love.' -</p> - -<p> -With this allusion to the play so enthusiastically mentioned by Claude -in his letter, she pushed René out of her room, and as she closed the -door broke out once more into silvery but cruel, mocking -laughter—laughter that was a strange mixture of affectation and -hatred, of a courtesan's nonchalance and the vengeance of a slighted -mistress. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap16"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XVI -<br /><br /> -THE STORY OF A SUSPICION</h4> - -<p> -'What a wicked woman! What a wicked woman!' muttered René as he went -down the staircase, now re-echoing with the shouts of the call-boy. He -trembled with agitation and asked himself, 'What harm have I ever done -her?' forgetting that for a quarter of an hour he had represented Claude -in Colette's eyes. Perhaps the joy felt by the actress in wounding him -to the quick might have had its rise in the malice often occasioned by a -man's unwillingness to pay his friend's mistress attentions. The loyalty -of one man to another ranks amongst the sentiments most odious to women. -</p> - -<p> -'What have I done to her?' repeated the poet, unable to find an answer -to his question, unable even to collect his thoughts. There are phrases -which, flung at us unexpectedly, will stun us as surely as any blow -physically dealt. They bring about a sudden cessation of all -consciousness—a cessation even of pain. René was not quite himself -again until he stood in the Place du Palais Royal amid its throng of -traffic. The first feeling that animated him was a fit of furious rage -against Claude. 'The perfidious wretch!' he cried; 'how could he trust -my secret to a creature like that? And such a secret, too! What did he -know about it?' A slight blush and a moment's hesitation in uttering her -name. 'He thinks that is sufficient evidence upon which to slander a -woman he hardly knows, and in the ears, too, of a hussy whose infamy he -proclaims from the housetops!' -</p> - -<p> -He recalled to mind every detail of the only conversation in which -Larcher might have discovered his nascent feelings for Suzanne. He saw -himself once more in Claude's rooms in the Rue de Varenne, with the -manuscripts and proofs strewn about, and the writer's face looking livid -in the greenish light of the stained-glass windows. He saw the sceptical -smile flit across that face whilst the sarcastic lips uttered the words: -'So you are not in love with her!' Borne on the same wave of memory came -other visions connected with the last. He heard Suzanne's voice saying -on the occasion of his third visit: 'Your friend M. Larcher—I am -sure he doesn't like me.' Had she not expressed her distrust of him only -that morning? Her suspicions had, indeed, been only too well justified. -And then if he had only contented himself with coupling her name with -his, René's. But he had even dared to make this other vile -accusation—that she was kept by Desforges! Not that René -harboured the least shadow of a suspicion against his divine -mistress—it was not that which maddened him—but the -knowledge that Colette had not lied in claiming to have heard this -infamous thing from Larcher. If Larcher repeated it, he must have got it -from some one else. And if Suzanne had insisted, as she had twice done, -upon being told how Claude spoke of her, it was because she knew she was -exposed to the insult of this abominable calumny. -</p> - -<p> -René remembered the old beau whom he had once met at her house, with -his military bearing, his red, bloated face, and his grey hair. And then -he saw her as she had looked only that morning, so fair, so white, so -dainty—with her pale blue eyes and that peculiar air of refinement -that lent an almost ideal charm to her most passionate embraces. Was it -possible that such vile calumnies could have been spread concerning this -woman! 'People are too horribly wicked!' exclaimed René aloud. 'And as -for Claude——' His affection for him had been so sincere, and -it was this man, his dearest friend, who had spoken of Suzanne in such a -shameless manner, like a blackguard and a traitor. What a contrast with -the poor angel thus insulted, who, knowing it, had taken no further -revenge than to say, 'I have forgiven him!' On every other occasion when -she had spoken of Claude it had been to admire him for his talents and -to pity him for his faults. Another phrase of Suzanne's suddenly struck -him. 'That is no reason why he should revenge himself by forcing his -attentions upon any woman chance throws in his way. I got quite angry -one day when he was seated next to me at table.' 'That is the reason!' -said the poet to himself with returning anger; 'he has paid her -attentions which she has repelled, and so he slanders her. It is too -disgusting!' -</p> - -<p> -A prey to these painful reflections, René had walked as far as the -Place de l'Opéra, and, mechanically turning to the right, had ascended -the boulevard without really noticing where he was. Hatred and rancour -were so repugnant to his soul that these feelings were soon supplanted -by the love he bore the beautiful woman so basely reviled by the -vindictive actress. What was she doing at that moment? She was yonder, -in a box at the Gymnase, obliged to sit out some play with her husband, -and, no doubt, sadly dreaming of their love and their last kisses. No -sooner had he conjured up her adorable image than he was seized with an -instinctive and irresistible longing to see her in the flesh. He hailed -a passing cab and gave the driver the name of the theatre. How often had -he been similarly tempted to go to some place of amusement when he knew -Suzanne would be there! But having given his mistress a promise that he -would not do so, he had always scrupulously repelled the temptation. -Besides, he took a curious pleasure in dwelling upon the absolute -distinction between the two Suzannes—between the woman of fashion -and his simple love—above all, he feared to meet Paul Moraines. He -had read Ernest Feydeau's 'Fanny,' and was more afraid of the terrible -jealousy described in that fine work than of death itself. To an -analytical writer, like Claude, this would have been an excellent reason -for seeking an encounter with the husband, so as to have a new kind of -wound to examine under the microscope. The poets who have not turned -their art into a trade nor their hearts into a raree-show are possessed -of an instinct which makes them avoid such degrading experiments; they -respect the beauty of their own feelings. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst the cab was rolling along towards the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle -all these scruples, which René had once so religiously observed, -returned to him. But Colette's words had moved him more deeply than he -cared to admit. A hideous vision had flashed across his brain. He half -feared that it might come again, and he knew that Suzanne's presence was -the best preventive. Lovers frequently have these apparently unwarranted -ideas—the results of an instinct of self-preservation which our -feelings, like animate beings, possess. The cab rolled on whilst René -defended his infraction of the agreement made with his mistress. 'If she -could know what I have been obliged to hear, would she not be the first -to say, "Come and read my love for you in my face?" Besides, I shall -only look at her for a quarter of an hour, and then go away purged of -this stain. And what of the husband? Well, I must see him sooner or -later, and she tells me he is nothing to her!' Madame Moraines had not -failed to make her favourite lover swallow the improbable fable served -up by all married women to their paramours, though sometimes the fable -is true—for woman will be a riddle to all eternity—as the -reports of the divorce cases prove. In the delicacy with which Suzanne -had allayed his most secret and least legitimate feelings of jealousy -René found an additional pretext for denouncing those who slandered -this sublime creature. 'This woman the mistress of Desforges! Why? For -money? What nonsense! She, the daughter of a Cabinet Minister and the -wife of a business man! Claude, Claude! how could you?' -</p> - -<p> -This tumult of ideas was somewhat stilled by the necessity for action as -soon as the poet reached the doors of the Gymnase. He was most anxious -that he should not be seen by Suzanne, and stood on the steps outside -for a moment lost in reflection. The first act was just over, as he -could see by the people flocking out, and this circumstance furnished -him with an idea for beholding his mistress without being observed by -her. He would first take a ticket for one of the cheaper seats in order -to get into the house; then, having found out where Suzanne was -sitting—which he could easily do during the interval from the -corridor at the side of the stalls—he would take a better seat, from -which he could safely feast his eyes upon her adorable features. -</p> - -<p> -As he entered the theatre he was startled for a moment by coming face to -face with the Marquis de Hère, one of the swells he had seen at Madame -Komof's; the young nobleman, wearing a sprig of heather in his -button-hole, was swinging his stick and humming an air from the then -popular 'Cloches de Corneville' so lightly that he could hardly hear it -himself. He brushed past René without recognizing him, or appearing to -do so, any more than Salvaney had done an hour ago. The poet quickly -made his way to one of the entrances to the stalls. He had not long to -look; Madame Moraines was in the third box from the stage, almost -opposite him. She occupied the front seat, and there were two men in the -background; one, a fine young fellow, with a long beard and a pale -complexion—the husband, no doubt—was standing up. The other, -who was seated—— -</p> - -<p> -But why had chance—it could only be chance—brought into that -box on this very night the man whose name the wretched actress had just -coupled with Suzanne's? Yes, it was indeed Desforges who occupied the -chair behind Madame Moraines. The poet had not the slightest difficulty -in recognizing the Baron's energetic countenance, his piercing brown -eyes, his fair moustache, his high colour, and his forehead surmounted -by a wealth of almost white hair. Why did it distress René to see this -old beau talking so familiarly to Suzanne as she sat there fanning -herself, her face turned towards him, whilst Moraines scanned the boxes -with his opera-glass? Why did it cause him such pain as to make him turn -hastily away? For the first time since he had had the happiness to catch -sight of this woman on the threshold of the Komof mansion, looking so -fair and slim in her red gown, suspicion had entered his soul. -</p> - -<p> -What suspicion? He could not possibly have expressed it in words. And -yet? When Suzanne had spoken to him about the theatre that morning she -had told him that she was going alone with her husband. What motive had -led her to pervert the truth? The detail, it was true, was of no -importance. But a lie, be it great or small, is still a lie. After all, -perhaps Desforges was only visiting them in their box during the -interval. This explanation seemed so natural as well as acceptable that -René adopted it on the spot. -</p> - -<p> -Returning to the box-office, he asked for an outside stall, on the left, -having calculated that from this seat he would have the best opportunity -of watching the Moraines without being seen himself. Meanwhile the -audience had again settled down and the curtain rose. Desforges did not -leave the box. He kept his seat at the back, leaning forward to talk to -Suzanne. But why not? Could not his presence be explained in a thousand -ways without Suzanne having lied? Could not Moraines have invited him -without his wife's knowledge? He spoke familiarly to the woman, it is -true, and she answered him in a similar manner. But had not he, René, -met him at her house? A gentleman is sitting down in a theatre talking -to a lady he knows. Does that prove that there is a vile bond of sin -existing between them? -</p> - -<p> -The poet argued in this fashion, and his arguments would have seemed to -him irrefutable if he had seen on Suzanne's face a single one of those -traits of melancholy he had expected to find. On the contrary, as she -sat there in her elegant theatre-gown of black lace, with a little pink -bonnet on her fair hair, eating, with dainty fingers, from the box of -crystallised fruit that stood before her, she looked thoroughly happy, -and as though she had not a care in the world. She laughed so heartily -at the jokes in the piece, and her eyes were so bright and sparkling as -she chatted with her two companions, that it seemed impossible to -imagine she had only that morning paid a visit to the shrine of her most -secret and heartfelt love. The emotions called forth by her meeting with -her lover had left so few traces on her face, now beaming with pleasure, -that René scarcely believed his own eyes. He had expected to find her -so very different. -</p> - -<p> -The husband, too, with cordial joviality expressed in his manly -features, seemed by no means the crabbed and suspicious recluse Suzanne -had led her credulous lover to imagine. The unhappy fellow had come to -the theatre to get rid of the pain which Colette's words had caused him, -but when he reached home his distress had only increased. It has often -been said that we should not keep many friends if we could hear those to -whom we give that title speak of us behind our back. It is an even less -satisfactory experiment to take by surprise the woman we love. René had -just tried it, but he was too passionately fond of Suzanne to believe in -this first vision of his Madonna's duplicity. -</p> - -<p> -'What am I worrying about after all?' he thought, on waking next -morning, and finding that he was still a prey to his painful feelings. -'That she was in a good temper last night? I must be very selfish to -reproach her with that! That Baron Desforges was in her box when she had -told me that she was going to the theatre with her husband alone? She -will explain that next time I see her. That her husband's face was not -in keeping with his character? Appearances are so deceptive! How -thoroughly have I been deceived in Claude Larcher, with his wheedling -ways and his frank face! How often has he done me a favour and then -pretended he had forgotten it, and yet how basely he has betrayed me -after all!' -</p> - -<p> -All the cruel impressions he had experienced on the preceding evening -were now concentrated in a fresh and more furious fit of resentment -against the man who, by his wicked gossip, had been the primary cause of -his trouble. In the excess of his unjust anger René ignored the -unquestionable merits of his friend and protector—absolute -disinterestedness, a devotion that hoped for no return, and a total lack -of literary envy. He was not even charitable enough to admit that Claude -might have spoken to Colette unthinkingly and incautiously, but without -any treacherous intentions. Suzanne's lover felt that he could not -remain the friend of a man who had gone so far as to say what Larcher -had said of his mistress. That is what René kept repeating to himself -the whole day. On his return from the Bibliothèque, where he had found -it almost impossible to work, he sat down to his table to write this -villain one of those letters that are not easily forgotten. Having -finished it, he read it over. The terms in which he defended Madame -Moraines proclaimed his love, and now more than ever did he wish to keep -that a secret from Claude. -</p> - -<p> -'What is the use of writing to him at all?' he thought; 'when he comes -back I will tell him what I think of him—that is much better.' -</p> - -<p> -He was just about to destroy this dangerous letter when Emilie came in, -as she often did before dinner, to ask him how he was getting on with -his work. With a woman's innate curiosity, she read the address on the -envelope, and said, 'Oh! is Claude in Venice? Then you've heard from -him!' -</p> - -<p> -'Never utter that name before me again!'replied René, tearing up the -letter in a kind of cool rage. -</p> - -<p> -Emilie said no more. She had not been mistaken in her brother's accents. -René was in pain, and his anger against Claude was very great; but -since he was silent concerning its cause, his sister knew that the -latter must be something more than a mere literary dispute. By that -intuition which always accompanies tender affection, Emilie guessed that -the two writers had quarrelled on account of Madame Moraines, whose name -René never mentioned now, and whom she was beginning to hate for the -same reasons that had at first prompted her to like her. For some weeks -past she had noticed a great mental and physical change coming over her -brother. Although a model of purity herself, she was shrewd enough to -attribute this degeneration to its true cause. She noticed it as she -copied the fragments of the 'Savonarola' in the same way as she had -copied the 'Sigisbée'; and although her admiration for the lightest -trifle that came from René's pen was intense, there were many signs by -which she could see how differently the two works had been -inspired—from the number of lines written at each sitting to the -continual reconstruction of the scenes and even to the handwriting, -which had lost a little of its bold character. -</p> - -<p> -The bubbling spring of clear, fresh poetry in which the 'Sigisbée' had -had its source seemed to have dried up. What change had taken place in -René's life? A woman had entered it, and it was therefore to this -woman's influence that Emilie attributed the momentary impairment of the -poet's faculties. She went still further, and hated this unknown but -formidable creature for the pain inflicted on Rosalie. By a strange -lapse of memory, frequently met with in generous natures, she forgot -what part she had herself taken in her brother's rupture with his former -<i>fiancée.</i> It was Madame Moraines whom she blamed for it all, and now -this same woman was embroiling René with the best and most devoted of -his friends—the one whom his faithful sister preferred because she -had gauged the strength of his friendship. -</p> - -<p> -'But how could it have happened,' she thought, 'since Claude is not -here?' -</p> - -<p> -She cudgelled her brains for a solution to this problem whilst attending -to her household duties, hearing Constant's home lessons, making out -Fresneau's bills, and conscientiously examining every button-hole and -seam of her brother's linen. René was shut up in his room, where -everything reminded him of Suzanne's one heavenly visit, and with -feverish impatience he awaited the day appointed for their next meeting. -Slander was doing its secret work, like some venomous sting. A poisoned -man will go about without knowing that he is ill, except for a vague -feeling of restlessness, but all the while the virus is fermenting in -his blood and will produce sudden and terrible results. -</p> - -<p> -The poet still treated the shameful accusations brought by Colette -against Suzanne with scorn, but, by dint of pondering on her words in -order to refute them, his mind became more accustomed to their tenour. -At the moment when the actress had made her terrible charge he had not -stooped to rebut it; but now, as he turned it over in his mind, he tried -to save himself from a terrible abyss of doubt and from the most -degrading jealousy by clutching at the marks of sincerity Suzanne had -given him. What, then, were his feelings when, at the very outset of -their next meeting, he received undeniable proofs that her sincerity was -not what he had thought it? -</p> - -<p> -He had reached the Rue des Dames with a troubled look on his face that -had not escaped Suzanne. In reply to her solicitous inquiries he had -pretended that it was due to an unfair article that had appeared in some -paper, but had almost immediately felt ashamed of this innocent excuse, -so sweetly had his mistress rebuked him. -</p> - -<p> -'You big baby, you cannot have success without inspiring jealousy.' -</p> - -<p> -'Let us talk about you instead,' he replied, and then asked, with a -beating heart: What have you been doing since I saw you last?' -</p> - -<p> -Had Suzanne been watching him at that moment she must have seen his -agitation. It was a trap—innocent and simple enough—but a trap -for all that. In three times twenty-four hours suspicion had brought the -enthusiastic lover to this degree of distrust. But Suzanne could not -know this, for he was treating her in exactly the same way as she was -treating Desforges. She did not think René capable of stepping out of -the only <i>rôle</i> in which she had seen him. How could she imagine that -this simple boy was trying to catch her? -</p> - -<p> -'What have I been doing?' she repeated. 'First of all I went to the -Gymnase the other evening with my husband. Fortunately we haven't much -to say to each other, so I could think of you just as well as if I were -alone—I do feel so alone when I am with him. You talk of the troubles -of your literary life—if you only knew the misery of my so-called -life of pleasure and the loneliness of these weary <i>tête-à-têtes!</i>' -</p> - -<p> -'Did you feel bored at the theatre, then?' continued René. -</p> - -<p> -'You were not there,' she replied with a smile, and looked more intently -at him. 'What is the matter, love?' -</p> - -<p> -She had never seen this bitter, almost hard, expression on René's face. -</p> - -<p> -'It's very stupid of me, but I can't forget that article,' said the -poet. -</p> - -<p> -'Was it so very bad, then? Where did it appear?' she asked, her instinct -of danger thoroughly aroused; but René, being unable to reply to this -unexpected question, merely stammered, 'It isn't worth your troubling to -read it.' -</p> - -<p> -This only confirmed her suspicions—he was angry with her about -something. A question rose to her lips: 'Has some one been speaking ill -of me?' Her diplomacy, however, got the better of her impetuosity. Is -not anxiety to disarm suspicion almost a confession in itself? The -really innocent are quite callous. Her best course was to find out what -René had been doing himself, and what persons he had seen who might -have told him something. -</p> - -<p> -'Did you go and see Mademoiselle Rigaud?' she asked, indifferently. -</p> - -<p> -'Yes,' replied René, unable to disguise his embarrassment at the -question. -</p> - -<p> -'And has she forgiven poor Claude?' continued Suzanne. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' he rejoined, adding: 'She is a very bad woman,' and in such a -bitter tone that Madame Moraines at once guessed part of the truth. The -actress must certainly have spoken of her to René. She was again seized -with a desire to provoke his confidence, and reflected that the surest -means of attaining her object was by intoxicating her lover with -passion. She knew how powerless he would be to resist the emotions her -caresses would let loose, and at once sealed his lips with a long kiss. -By the silent and frenzied ardour with which he returned it Suzanne -understood not only that René had suffered, but that she had, to a -great extent, been the cause. -</p> - -<p> -In her sweetest voice, and in tones best calculated to reach that heart -which had always been open to her, she said, 'What is this trouble that -you won't tell me?' -</p> - -<p> -Had she uttered those words at the beginning of their interview he would -not have been able to resist them. Amidst tears and kisses, he would -have repeated what Colette had said! But alas! it was no longer -Colette's words that caused him his present sufferings. What now gave -him frightful pain and pierced his heart like a dagger was the fact of -having caught her, his idol, in a deliberate lie. Yes, she had lied; -this time there was no doubt about it. She had told him that she had -been to the theatre with her husband only, and that was false; that she -had been sad, and that was false too. Could he reply to her question, -which betrayed affectionate concern, by two such clear, explicit, and -irrefutable charges? He had not the courage to do it, and got out of the -dilemma by repeating his former reply. Suzanne looked at him, and he was -obliged to turn his head. She only sighed and said, 'Poor René!' and, -as it was almost time for her to go, she pushed her inquiries no -further. -</p> - -<p> -'He will tell me all about it next time,' she thought as she went home. -In spite of herself she was worried by René's silence. Her love for the -poet was sincere, though it was a very different passion from that which -she expressed in words. Before all else it was a physical love, but, -corrupted as Suzanne was by her life and her surroundings, or perhaps -because of this very corruption, the poet's nobility of soul did not -fail to impress her. And to such an extent that she imagined their -romance would be robbed of half its delight if ever the circle of -illusions she had drawn round him were broken. That some one had tried -to break this magic circle was evident, and this some one could only be -Colette. Everything seemed to prove it. But, on the other hand, what -reason could the actress have for hating her, Suzanne, whom she probably -did not know, even by name? Colette and Claude were lovers, and here -Madame Moraines again came upon the man whom she had distrusted from the -first day. If Colette had spoken to René about her, Claude himself must -have spoken about her to Colette. At this point her ideas became -confused. Larcher had never seen her with René. And the latter, whose -word she did not doubt, had told her that he had confided nothing to his -friend. -</p> - -<p> -'I am on the wrong track,' thought Suzanne. Argue as she would, she -could not convince herself that René was so troubled on account of this -pretended newspaper article. There was danger in store for the dear -relations that existed between them. She felt it, and the feeling became -still more pronounced by what her husband told her on the very next day -after her unsatisfactory interview with René. -</p> - -<p> -It was just before seven, and Suzanne was alone in the little -<i>salon</i> where she had first cast her net over the poet—a net -as finely woven and as yielding as the web in which the spider catches -the unwary fly. She had had more callers than usual that afternoon, and -Desforges had only just gone. Suddenly Paul came in his wonted noisy way -and in high animal spirits. Seizing her by the waist—for she had -started up at his boisterous entry—he said, 'Give me a -kiss—no, two kisses,' taking one after the other, 'as a reward for -having been good.' Seeing the look of interrogation in Suzanne's eyes, -he added, 'I have at last paid Madame Komof that visit I've owed her for -so long. Whom do you think I met there? Guess—that young poet, -René Vincy. I can't understand why Desforges doesn't like him. He's a -charming fellow; he pleased me immensely. We had quite a long talk. I -told him that you would be very glad to see him. Was I doing right?' -</p> - -<p> -'Quite right,' replied Suzanne; 'and who else was there?' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst her husband was reciting a list of familiar names she was -thinking: 'What reason had René for going to Madame Komof's?' This was -the first call of that kind he had made since the beginning of their -attachment. He had so often said to his mistress: 'I want only you and -my work.' It had been his custom during the past few months to give her -a full account not only of what he had done, but of what he was going to -do, and yet he had said nothing of this visit, so entirely out of -keeping with his present mode of life. And he had met Paul, who had no -doubt proved himself the very opposite of what his wife had described -him to be. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne felt quite out of temper with the kindhearted fellow who had -been guilty of calling on the Comtesse on the same day as the poet, and -she said, in an almost petulant tone: 'I am sure you haven't written to -Crucé for that Alençon.' -</p> - -<p> -'I have written,' replied Moraines, with an air of triumph, 'and you -shall have it.' Crucé, who acted as a sort of private art broker, had -spoken to Suzanne about some old lace, and it was this she wished her -husband to get her. From time to time she would ask him for something -that she could show her friends and say, 'Paul is so good to me. This a -present he brought me only the other day.' She would forget to add that -the money for such presents generally came from Desforges—in an -indirect way, it is true. Although the Baron seldom troubled himself -with business matters except so far as the careful investment of his -capital necessitated, he often had opportunities for speculating with -almost absolute safety, and always gave Moraines a chance of doing the -same. The Compagnie du Nord, of which Desforges was a director, had -recently taken over a local line that was on the brink of ruin. Paul had -succeeded in making a profit of thirty thousand francs by purchasing -some shares at the right moment, and it was out of this profit that -Suzanne was going to have her lace. This little business operation, too, -had indirectly led to a somewhat strange scene between René and his -mistress. -</p> - -<p> -In the course of conversation she had asked him how much the 'Sigisbée' -had produced, adding, 'What have you done with all that money?' -</p> - -<p> -'I don't know,' René had replied, with a laugh. 'My sister bought me -some stock with the first few thousand francs, and I have kept the rest -in my drawer.' 'Will you let me talk to you like a sister, too?' she had -said. 'A friend of ours is a director of the Compagnie du Nord, and he -has given us a valuable tip. Do you promise to keep it a secret?' -Thereupon she had explained to him how to get hold of some shares. 'Give -your orders to-morrow, and you can make as much as you like.' -</p> - -<p> -'Hold your tongue!' René had said, putting his hand over her mouth. 'I -know it's very kind of you to talk like that, but I can't allow you to -give me that sort of information. I should feel ashamed of myself.' -</p> - -<p> -He had spoken so seriously that Suzanne had not dared to press the -matter, though his scruples had appeared to her somewhat ridiculous. But -then, if he had not been so unsophisticated and such a <i>gobeur</i>, as -she called him in that horrible Parisian slang that spares not even the -highest forms of sentiment, would she have been so fond of him? And yet -it was this very innocence of soul that she feared. If ever he should -get to hear what her life was really like, how his noble heart would -turn against her, and how incompatible it would be with his high sense -of honour ever to forgive her! A hint had, nevertheless, somehow reached -him. In going over the different signs of danger that she had noticed -one after another—René's trouble, his anger against Colette Rigaud, -his reticence and his unexpected visit to Madame Komof—Suzanne said -to herself: 'I made a mistake in not getting him to explain at once.' -</p> - -<p> -When, therefore, she made her appearance in the Rue des Dames a few days -later she was fully determined not to fall into the same error again. -She saw at once that the poet was even more distressed than before, -though she pretended not to notice this distress nor the cool manner in -which he received her first kiss. With a sad smile she said to him: -</p> - -<p> -'It was very silly of you, dear, not to tell me you were about to call -on the Comtesse. I would have taken care that you were spared a meeting -which must have been very painful?' -</p> - -<p> -'Painful?' repeated René in an ironical tone that Suzanne had never -heard him use before, 'why, M. Moraines was charming.' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes,' she replied, 'you have made a conquest. He, so sarcastic as a -rule, spoke of you with an enthusiasm that really pained me. Didn't he -invite you to call on us? You may be proud. It is so rare that he -welcomes a new face. Poor René,' she continued, placing both her hands -on her lover's shoulder, and laying her cheek on her hands, 'how you -must have suffered!' -</p> - -<p> -'I have indeed suffered,' replied René, in a hollow voice. He looked at -the pretty face so near his own and remembered what Suzanne had said to -him in the Louvre before the portrait of the Giorgione's mistress, 'How -can anyone lie with a face like that?' Yet she had lied to him. And what -proof had he that she had not been lying all along? Whilst a prey to the -torments of suspicion, and especially since his meeting with Paul, the -most frightful conjectures had entered his mind. The contrast between -the Moraines he had seen and the tyrannical husband described by Suzanne -had been too great. 'Why has she deceived me on that point too?' René -had asked himself. -</p> - -<p> -He had called on Madame Komof without any distinct aim, but in the -secret hope of hearing Suzanne spoken of by those of her own set. They -at least would be sure to know her! But alas! his conversation with -Moraines had sufficed to involve him in more horrible doubt than ever. -One thing was now very plain to him; Suzanne had used her husband as a -bugbear to keep him, René, from visiting their house. Why—if it were -not that she had something in her life to hide? What was this something? -Colette had taken upon herself to answer this question in advance. Under -the influence of that horrible suspicion, René had conceived a plan, -very simple of execution, and the result of which he thought would prove -decisive. He would take advantage of the husband's invitation to ask -Suzanne for permission to visit her at home. If she said yes, she had -nothing to hide; if she said no—— -</p> - -<p> -And as this resolution recurred to the poet he continued to gaze upon -that adorable face resting on his shoulder. Each one of those dear -features recalled fresh memories! Those eyes so clear and -blue—what faith he had had in them! That noble brow—what -refined thoughts he had imagined it to shelter! Those delicate, mobile -lips—with what sweet abandonment had he heard them speak! -No—what Colette had told him was impossible! But why these -lies—a first, a second, and a third time? Yes, she had lied three -times. There is no such thing as a trivial lie. René understood this -now, and felt that confidence, like love, is governed by the great law -of all or nothing. We have it or we have it not. Those who have lost it -know this only too well. -</p> - -<p> -'My poor René!' repeated Suzanne. She saw that he was in that state -when compassion softens the heart and opens it wide. -</p> - -<p> -'Poor indeed!' replied the poet, moved by this mark of pity, that came -just when he had most need of it; then, looking into her eyes, he -unburdened himself. -</p> - -<p> -'Listen, Suzanne, I prefer to tell you all. I have come to the -conclusion that the life we are leading now cannot last. It makes me too -unhappy—it does not satisfy my love. To see you only by stealth, -an hour to-day and an hour in a few days' time, to know nothing of what -you are doing, to share no part of your life, is too cruel. Be -quiet—let me speak. There was a weighty objection to my being -received in your house—your husband. Well—I have seen him. I -have borne the ordeal. We have shaken hands. Since it is done, allow me -at least to benefit by my effort. I know there is nothing very noble in -what I am saying, but I have no desire to be noble—I love you. I -feel that my mind is getting full of all kinds of ideas about you. I -entreat you to let me come to your house, to live in your world, to see -you elsewhere than here, where we meet only to—' -</p> - -<p> -'To love each other!' she exclaimed, interrupting him and shaking her -head; 'do not utter blasphemy.' Then, sinking down into a chair, she -continued, 'Alas! my beautiful dream is over then—that dream in which -you seemed to take as much delight as I—the dream of a love all to -ourselves, and only for ourselves, with none of those compromises that -horrified us both!' -</p> - -<p> -'Then won't you let me come and see you as I ask?' said René, returning -to the charge. -</p> - -<p> -'What you are asking me to do is to kill our happiness,' cried Suzanne; -'so sensitive as I know you to be, you would never stand the shocks to -which you would be exposed. You know nothing of that world in which I am -obliged to live, and how unfitted you are for it. And afterwards you -would hold me responsible for your disenchantment. Give up this fatal -idea, love, give it up for my sake.' -</p> - -<p> -'What is there then in this life of yours that I may not see?' asked the -poet, looking at her fixedly. He could not be aware that Suzanne had -only one aim in view—to get him to tell her the reason of this sudden -desire—for she concluded that it must be the same reason which had -caused his distress the other day, and which had taken him to Madame -Komof's so unexpectedly. She was not mistaken as to René's meaning, and -replied in the broken accents of a woman unjustly accused: -</p> - -<p> -'How can you talk to me like that, René? Some one must have poisoned -your mind. You cannot have got hold of such ideas yourself. Come to my -house, love! Come as often as you like! "Something in my life that you -may not see"—I, who would rather die than tell you a lie!' -</p> - -<p> -'Then why did you tell me a lie the other day?' cried René. Conquered -by the despair he thought he could see in those beautiful eyes, disarmed -by the permission she had just given him, unable to keep the secret of -his grief any longer, he felt that necessity of unbosoming himself -which, in a quarrel with a woman, is as good as putting one's head into -a noose. -</p> - -<p> -'I told you a lie?' exclaimed Suzanne. -</p> - -<p> -'Yes, when you told me you went to the theatre with your husband.' -</p> - -<p> -'But I did go——' -</p> - -<p> -'So did I,' said René; 'there was some one else in your box.' -</p> - -<p> -'Desforges!' cried Suzanne; 'you're mad, my dear René—mad! He came -into our box during one of the intervals, and my husband made him stay -till the piece was over. Desforges!' she repeated with a smile, 'why, -he's nobody. I didn't even think of mentioning him. Seriously, you don't -mean to say you're jealous of Desforges?' -</p> - -<p> -'You looked so bright and happy,' rejoined René, in a voice that -already showed signs of relenting. -</p> - -<p> -'Ungrateful man,' she said; 'I wish you could have read what was going -on within me! It is this necessity for continual dissimulation which is -the bane of my life; and now, to have you reproach me with it! No, -René—this is too cruel, too unjust!' -</p> - -<p> -'Forgive me! Forgive me!' cried the poet, now perfectly convinced by the -natural manner of his mistress. 'It is true. Some one has poisoned my -mind. It was Colette! How justified you were in your distrust of Claude -Larcher!' -</p> - -<p> -'I did not allow him to pay me attentions,' said Suzanne; 'men never -forgive that.' -</p> - -<p> -'The wretch!' cried the poet angrily, and then, as if to rid himself of -his grief by telling it, he went on: 'He knew that I loved you. How? -Because I hesitated and got confused the only time I ever mentioned your -name to him. He knows me so well! He guessed my secret and told his -mistress all about it—and a lot of other lies. I can't repeat them to -you.' -</p> - -<p> -'Tell me, René, tell me,' said Suzanne, wearing at that moment the -noble look of resignation that is seen on the faces of those who go to -the scaffold innocent. 'Did they say that I had had lovers before you?' -</p> - -<p> -'Would that it were only that!' exclaimed René. -</p> - -<p> -'What then, <i>mon Dieu?</i>' she cried. 'What does it matter to me what -they said, but that you, René, should believe it! Come, confess, so that -you may have nothing on your mind. I have at least the right to demand -that.' -</p> - -<p> -'True,' replied the poet, and looking as shamefaced as though he were -the guilty one, he stammered rather than pronounced the following words: -'Colette told me she heard from Claude that you were . . . No—I can't -say it—well, that Desforges . . .' -</p> - -<p> -'Still Desforges,' said Suzanne, interrupting him with a sweet but -ironical smile; 'it is too comical.' She did not want René to formulate -the charge that she could now guess. It would have wounded her dignity -to descend to such depths. 'You were told that Desforges had been my -lover—that he was still so, no doubt. But that is not -slander—it is too ridiculous to be that. Poor old friend—he -who knew me when I was as high as that!—he and my father were -always together. He has seen me grow up, and loves me as if I were his -own child. And it is this man whom—— No, René, swear to me -that you didn't believe it. Have I deserved that you should think so -badly of me?' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap17"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XVII -<br /><br /> -PROOFS</h4> - -<p> -In that strange mental disease called jealousy the intervals between the -attacks are periods of delight. For some days or for some hours the -feelings of love regain their divine sweetness, like a return to -strength in convalescence. Suzanne had so fully convinced René of the -absurdity of his suspicions that he did not wish to be behind her in -generosity, and refused to avail himself of the permission to call in -the Rue Murillo for which he had so earnestly entreated. Two or three -phrases uttered in the right manner and with the right expression will -always overcome the deepest distrust of a devoted lover, provided he has -not had ocular proofs of treason—and even then? But here the elements -of which this first suspicion was composed were so fragile! -</p> - -<p> -It was therefore with absolute good faith that the poet said to Suzanne, -who was herself quite delighted with this unexpected result, 'No, I -shall not come to your house. It was foolish of me to desire any change -in our relations. We are so happy as we are.' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes, until some wretch libels me again,' she replied. 'Promise me that -you will always tell me.' -</p> - -<p> -'I swear I will, love,' said he. 'But I know you now, and I am more sure -of myself.' -</p> - -<p> -He said so, and he thought so. Suzanne thought so too, and gave herself -up to the delights of her paradise regained, though fully aware that she -would have a second battle to fight when Claude returned. But could -Larcher say more than he had already said? Besides, René would tell her -of his return, and if the first meeting of the two men did not result in -a definite rupture it would be time to act. She would make her lover -choose between breaking entirely with Claude or with herself, and about -his choice she had no doubt whatever. In spite of his protests, the poet -seemed to be less sure of himself, for his heart beat fast when, on his -return home from the Bibliothèque one evening about a week after the -scene with Suzanne, his sister said to him, 'Claude Larcher is back.' -</p> - -<p> -'And has he dared to call here?' cried René. -</p> - -<p> -Emilie was visibly embarrassed and said, 'He asked me when he could see -you?' -</p> - -<p> -'You should have answered "Never,"' replied the poet. -</p> - -<p> -'René!' exclaimed Emilie, 'how could I say that to an old friend who -has been so kind and devoted to you? I think I had better tell -you——' she added; 'I asked him what had taken place between -you. He seemed so surprised—so painfully surprised—that I -will swear he has never done you any harm. There is some -misunderstanding. I told him to come to-morrow morning, and that he -would be sure to find you in.' -</p> - -<p> -'Why don't you mind your own business?' cried René angrily; 'did I ask -you to meddle in my affairs?' -</p> - -<p> -'How unkind you are!' said Emilie, deeply hurt by her brother's words, -and almost in tears. -</p> - -<p> -'All right, don't cry,' replied the poet, somewhat ashamed of his -roughness; 'perhaps it is better that I should see him. I owe him that. -But after that, I never want to hear his name again. You -understand—never!' -</p> - -<p> -In spite of his apparent firmness, René did not sleep much that night, -but lay awake thinking of the approaching meeting. Not that he had much -doubt about the issue, but, try as he would to increase his resentment -against his old friend, he could not get as far as hating him. He had -grown extremely fond of this peculiar individual who, when not -intentionally disagreeable, commanded affection by his sincere though -frivolous nature, by his originality, by those very faults which only -harmed himself, and above all by a kind of innate, indestructible, and -invincible generosity. -</p> - -<p> -On the eve of severing their friendship René recalled to mind how it -had originated. Claude, then very poor, was a tutor in the Ecole -Saint-André when René himself was a scholar in the sixth form. A -curious legend concerning the eccentric professor was told in this -well-conducted and eminently religious institution. Some of the boys -declared they had seen him seated in an open carriage next to a very -pretty woman dressed in pink. Then one day Claude disappeared from the -school, and René did not see him again until he turned up at Fresneau's -wedding as best man, and already on the road to fame. After some talk -over old times, Claude had asked to see his poems. The writer of thirty -had shown as much indulgence as an elder brother in reading these first -essays, and had immediately treated the aspiring lad as an equal. With -what tact had he submitted these rough sketches to the processes of a -higher criticism—a criticism which encourages an artist by pointing -out his defects without crushing him beneath their weight. And then had -followed the episode of the 'Sigisbée,' in which Claude had displayed -unusual devotion for one who was himself a dramatic author. -</p> - -<p> -The poet was sufficiently well acquainted with literary life to know -that even simple kindness is rarely met with between one generation and -the next. His rapid success had already procured him what is perhaps the -bitterest experience of the years of apprenticeship—the jealousy of -those very masters he admired most, in whose school he had formed his -style, and at whose feet he would so gladly have laid his sprig of -laurel. Claude Larcher's delight in another's talent was as spontaneous -and as sincere as if he had not already wielded the pen for fifteen -years. And now this valuable, nay, unique friendship was to be severed. -But was it his fault, René asked himself, as he tossed about in his -bed, and recalled all these things one after another? Why had Larcher -spoken to this wretched girl as he had done? Why had he betrayed his -young friend, who looked up to him as a brother? Why? -</p> - -<p> -This distressing question again led René's mind to ideas from which he -turned instinctively. Basilio's famous phrase—'Slander, -slander—some is sure to stick'—expresses one of the saddest -and most indisputable truths concerning the human heart. René would, it -is true, have despised himself for doubting Suzanne after their -reconciliation, but every suspicion, even a groundless one, leaves -behind it some poisonous remnant of distrust, and had he dared to look -into the very depths of his soul he would have recognised that fact in -the unhealthy curiosity he felt to learn from Claude what reasons had -led him to make his lying accusation. This curiosity, the reminiscences -of a long friendship, and a kind of fear of the man who, by his age -alone, had always had an advantage over him—all tended to lessen -the anger of the wounded lover. He tried to work himself up to the same -degree of fury that had possessed him on leaving Colette's -dressing-room, but he was not successful. Like all who know themselves -to be weak, he wished to rear an insurmountable barrier between Claude -and himself at once, and when Larcher made his appearance at nine -o'clock, and held out his hand in friendly greeting, the poet kept his -own hand in his pocket. -</p> - -<p> -The two men stood for a moment facing each other, both very pale. -Claude, though tanned by his travels, looked thin and careworn, and his -eyes blazed at the insult offered him. René knew to what lengths -Larcher's anger would lead him, and expected to see the hand he had -refused raised to strike a blow. But Claude's will was stronger than his -offended pride, and he spoke in a voice that trembled with suppressed -passion. -</p> - -<p> -'Vincy, do not tempt me. You are only a child, and it is my duty to -think for both of us. Come, come! Listen, René—I know all. Do you -understand? All—yes, all. I arrived yesterday. Your sister told me -that you were angry with me, and a good many other things that opened my -eyes. Your silence had frightened me. I thought that you had betrayed me -with Colette. Fool that she is! Fortunately she hadn't the sense to -guess that there was my vulnerable point. On leaving here I went to her -house. I found her alone. She told me what she had done—what she had -told you, and gloried in it, the hussy. Then I did what was right.' Here -he began to march up and down the room, absorbed in recollections of the -scene he described and almost oblivious of the poet's presence. 'I beat -her—beat her like a madman. It did me good. I flung her to the ground -and rained blow upon blow until she cried "Mercy! mercy!" I could have -killed her—and taken a delight in it. How beautiful she looked, too, -with her hair all tumbling about and her dress hanging in shreds where I -had torn it from her snowy shoulders. Then she grovelled at my feet, but -I was relentless, and left the house. She can show the marks on her body -to her next lover if she likes, and tell him from whom she got them. How -it relieves one to be a brute sometimes!' Then, suddenly stopping before -René, he said, 'And all because she had touched you. Yes or no,' he -cried, in his same angry tone, 'is it on account of what this jade told -you that you are angry with me?' -</p> - -<p> -'It is on that account,' replied René coldly. -</p> - -<p> -'Very well,' said Claude, taking a seat, 'then we can talk. There must -be no misunderstanding this time, so I shall be as plain as I possibly -can. If I understand rightly, this wretch of a girl has told you two -things. Let us proceed in order. This is the first—that I told her -you were intimate with Madame Moraines. Excuse me,' he added, as the -poet made a gesture. 'Between us two, in a matter affecting our -friendship, I don't care a rap for the conventionalities that forbid us -to mention a woman's name. I am not conventional myself, and so I -mention her. Infamy number one. Colette told you a lie. This was exactly -what I had said to her—I recollect the words as though it were -yesterday, and regretted them before they had left my mouth—"I -think poor René is falling in love with Madame Moraines." The only -thing I went by was your embarrassed manner when mentioning her to me. -But Colette had seen you sitting next to her at supper and paying her -great attention. We had joked about the matter—as people will joke -about these things—without attaching much importance to it. At -least, I didn't—but all that's nothing. You were my friend. Your -feeling might have been a serious one—it was, as it happened. I -was wrong, and I frankly apologise in spite of the insult which, on the -word of this vile drab, you have just offered me—me, your best and -oldest friend!' -</p> - -<p> -'But then why,' cried René, 'did you give me away to this creature, -knowing what she was? And again, had you spoken only of me, I would have -forgiven you——' -</p> - -<p> -'Let us pass on to this second point,' said Claude, in his calm, -methodical tone, 'that is to say, to the second lie. She told you that I -had informed her of Madame Moraines' relations with Desforges. That is -false. She had heard of them long ago from all the Salvaneys with whom -she dined, supped, and flirted. No, René—if there is anything with -which I reproach myself, it is not for having spoken to her about Madame -Moraines—I could not have told her anything she didn't know. It is -for not having spoken to you openly when you came to see me. I was fully -acquainted with the depravity of this second but more fashionable -Colette, and I did not warn you of it while there was yet time. Yes, I -ought to have spoken—I ought to have opened your eyes and said: "Woo -this woman, win her and wear her, but do not love her." And I held my -peace. My only excuse is that I did not think her sufficiently -disinterested to enter into your life as she has done. I said to myself: -"He has no money, so there is no danger."' -</p> - -<p> -'Then,' cried René, who had scarcely been able to contain himself -whilst Claude was speaking of Suzanne in such terms, 'do you believe -this vile thing that Colette has told me of Madame Moraines and Baron -Desforges?' -</p> - -<p> -'Whether I believe it?' replied Larcher, gazing at his friend in -astonishment. 'Am I the man to invent such a story about a woman?' -</p> - -<p> -'When you have paid a woman attentions,' said the poet, uttering his -words very slowly, and in a tone of deepest contempt, 'attentions which -she has repulsed, the least you can do is to respect her.' -</p> - -<p> -'I!' cried Claude, 'I! I have paid Madame Moraines attentions? I -understand—this is what she has told you.' He broke into a nervous -laugh. 'When we put such things into our plays these harlots accuse us -of libelling them. Of libelling them! As if such a thing were possible! -They are all the same. And you believed her! You believed me, Claude -Larcher, to be such a villain as to dishonour an honest woman in order -to avenge my wounded pride? Look me well in the face, René. Do I look -like a hypocrite? Have you ever known me to act as one? Have I proved my -affection for you? Well—I give you my word of honour that this woman -has lied to you, like Colette. The hussies! And there was I dying of -grief, without a word of pity, because this woman, who is worse than a -prostitute, had accused me of this dirty thing. Yes—worse than a -prostitute! They sell themselves for bread—and she, for what? For a -little of the wretched luxury that <i>parvenus</i> indulge in.' -</p> - -<p> -'Hold your tongue, Claude, hold your tongue!' cried René, in terrible -accents. 'You are killing me.' A storm of feelings, irresistible in its -fury, had suddenly burst forth within him. He could not doubt his -friend's sincerity, and this, added to the assurance with which Claude -had spoken of Desforges, forced upon the wretched lover a conviction of -Suzanne's duplicity too painful to endure. He could restrain himself no -longer, and, rushing upon his tormentor, seized him by the lapels of his -coat and shook him so violently that the material gave way. -</p> - -<p> -'When you tell a man such things about the woman he loves you must give -him proofs—you understand—proofs!' -</p> - -<p> -'You are mad!' replied Claude, disengaging himself from his grasp; -'proofs!—why, all Paris will give you them, my poor boy! Not one -person, but ten, twenty, thirty, will tell you that seven years ago the -Moraines were ruined. Who got the husband into the Insurance Company? -Desforges. He is a director of that company, as he is also a director in -the Compagnie du Nord, and a deputy and an ex-Councillor of State, and -Heaven knows what besides! He is a big man, this Desforges, although he -doesn't look it, and one who can indulge in all kinds of luxuries. Whom -do you always find in the Rue Murillo? Desforges. Whom do you meet with -Madame Moraines at the theatre? Desforges. And do you think the fellow -is a man to play at Platonic love with this pretty woman married to her -ninny of a husband? Such nonsense is all very well for you and me, but -not for a Desforges! Wherever are your eyes and ears when you go to see -her?' -</p> - -<p> -'I have only been to her house three times,' said René. -</p> - -<p> -'Only three times?' repeated Claude, looking at his friend. Emilie's -plaintive confidences on the preceding evening had left him no doubt -concerning the relations between Suzanne and the poet. René's imprudent -exclamation, however, opened his eyes to the peculiar character these -relations must have assumed. -</p> - -<p> -'I don't want to know anything,' he went on; 'it is an understood thing -that honour forbids us to talk of such women, just as if real honour did -not call upon us to denounce their infamy to the whole world. So many -fresh victims would then be spared! Proofs? You want proofs. Collect -them for yourself. I know only two ways of getting at a woman's -secrets—by opening her letters or having her watched. Madame Moraines -never writes—you may be sure of that. Put some one on her track.' -</p> - -<p> -'You are advising me to commit an ignoble action!' cried the poet. -</p> - -<p> -'Nothing is noble or ignoble in love,' replied Larcher. 'I have myself -done what I advise you to do. Yes, I have set detectives to watch -Colette. A connection with one of these hussies means war to the knife, -and you are scrupulous about the choice of your weapon.' -</p> - -<p> -'No, no,' replied René, shaking his head; 'I cannot.' -</p> - -<p> -'Then follow her yourself!' continued the relentless logician. 'I know -my Desforges. He's a character, don't you make any mistake. I made a -study of him once, when I was still fool enough to believe that -observation led to talent. This man is an astonishing compound of order -and disorder, of libertinism and hygiene. Their meetings are no doubt -regulated, like all else in his life,—once a week, at the same -hour,—not in the morning, which would interfere with his -exercise,—not too late in the afternoon, which would interfere -with his visits and his game of bézique at the club. Watch her. Before -a week is over you will know the truth. I wish I could say that I had -any doubt concerning the result of the experiment And it is I, my poor -boy, who led you into this mire! You were so happy here until I took you -by the hand and introduced you to that wicked world where you met this -monster. If it hadn't been she it would have been another. I seem to -bring misfortune on all those I love. But tell me you forgive me! I have -such need of your friendship. Come, don't say no!' -</p> - -<p> -Then, as Claude held out his hands, René grasped them fervently, and -sinking down into a chair—the same in which Suzanne had sat—he -burst into tears and exclaimed, 'My God, what suffering this is!' -</p> - -<p class="center"> * * * * *</p> - -<p> -Claude had given his friend a week. Before the end of the fourth day -René called at the Sainte-Euverte mansion in a state of such agitation -that Ferdinand could not repress an exclamation as he opened the door. -</p> - -<p> -'My poor Monsieur Vincy,' said the worthy man, 'are you going to kill -yourself with work like master?' -</p> - -<p> -Claude was seated at his writing-table in the famous 'torture-chamber,' -smoking as he worked, but, on seeing René, he threw down his cigarette, -and a look of intense anxiety came into his face as he cried, '<i>Mon -Dieu!</i> What has happened?' -</p> - -<p> -'You were right,' replied the poet, in a choking voice, 'she is the -vilest of women.' -</p> - -<p> -'Except one,' remarked Claude bitterly, and, parodying Chamfort's -celebrated phrase, added, 'Colette must not be discouraged. But what -have you done?' -</p> - -<p> -'What you advised me to do,' replied René, in accents of peculiar -asperity, 'and I have come to beg your pardon for having doubted your -word. Yes—I have played the spy upon her. What a feeling it is! The -first day, the second day, the third day—nothing. She only paid -visits and went shopping, but Desforges came to the Rue Murillo every day. -I was in a cab stationed at the corner of the street, and when I saw him -enter the house I suffered agonies of torture. At last, to-day, about -two o'clock, she goes out in her brougham. I follow her in my cab. After -stopping at two or three places, her carriage draws up in front of -Galignani's, the bookseller's, under the colonnade in the Rue de Rivoli, -and she gets out. I see her speak to the coachman, and the brougham goes -off without her. She walks for a short distance under the colonnade, and -I see that she is wearing a thick veil. How well I know that veil! My -heart beat fast and my brain was in a whirl. I felt that I was nearing a -decisive moment. She then disappears through an archway, but I follow -her closely and find myself in a courtyard with an opening at the other -end, affording egress into the Rue du Mont-Thabor. I look up and down -the latter street. No one. She could not have had time to get out of -sight. I decide to wait and watch the back entrance. If she had an -appointment there she would not go out the same way she came in. I -waited for an hour and a quarter in a wine-shop just opposite. At the -end of that time she reappeared, still wearing her thick veil. The dress, -the walk, and the veil—I know them all too well to be mistaken. -She had come out by the Rue du Mont-Thabor. Her accomplice would -therefore leave by the Rue de Rivoli. I rush through to that side. After -a quarter of an hour a door opens and I find myself face to face -with—can you guess? Desforges! At last I have them—the proofs! -Wretch that she is!' -</p> - -<p> -'Not at all! Not at all!' replied Claude; 'she is a woman, and they're -all alike. May I confide in you in return—that is, make an exchange -of horrors? You know how Colette treated me when I begged for a little -pity? The other night I flogged her till she was black and blue, and -this is what she writes me. Read it.' And he handed his friend a letter -that was lying open on the table. René took it and read the following -lines: -</p> - -<blockquote> -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">'2 A. M.</p> - -<p> -'I have waited for you till now, love, but you haven't come. I shall -wait for you at home all day to-day, and to-night after I come from the -theatre. I only act in the first piece, and I shall make haste to get -back. Come for the sake of our old love. Think of my lips. Think of my -golden hair. Think of our kisses. Think of her who adores you, who is -wretched at having given you pain, and who wants you, as she loves -you—madly. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">'Your own COLETTE.'</p> -</blockquote> - -<p> -'That's something like a love letter, isn't it?' said Larcher with a -kind of savage joy. 'It's more cruel than all the rest to have a woman -love you like that because you've beaten her to a jelly. But I'll have -no more to do with them—neither with her nor anyone else. I hate love -now, and I'm going to cut out my heart. Follow my example.' -</p> - -<p> -'If I could!' replied René, 'but it's impossible. You don't know what -that woman was to me.' And again yielding to the passion that raged -within him, he wrung his hands and broke into a fit of convulsive sobs. -'You don't know how I loved her, how I believed in her, and what I've -given up for her. And then to think of her in the arms of this -Desforges—it's horrible!' A shudder of disgust ran through him. -'If she had chosen another man, a man of whom I could think with hatred -or rage—but without this feeling of horror! Why, I can't even feel -jealous of him. For money! For money!' He rose and caught hold of -Claude's arm frantically. 'You told me that he was a director of the -Compagnie du Nord. Do you know what she wanted to do the other day? To -give me a few good tips in shares. I, too, would have been kept by the -Baron. It's only natural, isn't it, that the old man should pay them -all—the wife, the husband, and the lover? Oh! if I only could! She -is going to the Opera to-night—what if I went there? What if I -took her by the hair and spat in her face, before all the people who -know her, telling them all that she is a low, filthy harlot?' -</p> - -<p> -He fell back into his chair, once more bursting into tears. -</p> - -<p> -'She occupied my thoughts every hour, every moment of the day. You had -told me to be on my guard against women, it is true. But then you were -beguiled by a Colette, an actress, a creature who had had other lovers -before you—whilst she—— Every line in her face swears -to me that it is impossible—that I have been dreaming. It is as if -I had seen an angel lie. And yet I have the proof, the undeniable proof. -Why did I not confront her there in the street, on the threshold of that -vile place? I should have strangled her with my hands, like some beast. -Claude, my dear fellow, how I wronged you! And the other! I have crushed -and trodden under foot the noblest heart that beat in order to get to -this monster. It is but just—I have deserved it all. But what can -there be in Nature to produce such beings?' -</p> - -<p> -For a long, long time these confused lamentations continued. Claude -listened to them in silence, his head resting on his hand. He too had -suffered, and he knew what consolation it gives to tell one's sorrow. He -pitied the poor youth who sat there sobbing as if his heart would break, -and the clear-sighted analyst within him could not help observing the -difference between the poet's grief and that which he himself had so -often felt under similar circumstances. He never remembered having -suffered this torture, even when hard hit, without probing his wounds, -whilst René was the picture of a young and sincere creature who has no -idea of studying his tears in a mirror. These strange reflections upon -the diversity of men's souls did not prevent him from sympathising most -deeply with his friend, and there was a note of true feeling in his -voice when he at last took advantage of a break in René's lament to -speak. -</p> - -<p> -'It is as our dear Heine said—Love is the hidden disease of the -heart. You are now at the period of inception. Will you take the advice -of a veteran sufferer? Pack up your traps and put miles upon miles -between you and this Suzanne. A pretty name and a well-chosen one! A -Suzanne who makes money out of the elders! At your age you will be -quickly cured. I am quite cured myself. Not that I know how and when it -happened—in fact, it amazes me! But for the past three days I have -been rid of my love for Colette. Meanwhile, I'm not going to leave you -alone; come and dine with me. We shall drink hard and be merry, and so -avenge ourselves upon our troubles.' -</p> - -<p> -After his fit of passion had spent itself René had fallen into that -state of mental coma which succeeds great outbursts of grief. He -suffered himself to be led, like one in a trance, along the Rue du Bac, -then along the Rue de Sèvres and the boulevard as far as the Restaurant -Lavenue at the corner of the Gare Montparnasse, long frequented by many -well-known painters and sculptors of our day. Claude led the way to a -<i>cabinet particulier</i>, in which he pointed out to René Colette's name, -scratched on one of the mirrors amidst scores of others. Rubbing his -hands, he exclaimed: 'We must treat our past with ridicule,' and ordered -a very elaborate meal with two bottles of the oldest Corton. During the -whole of the dinner he did not cease to propound his theories on women, -whilst his companion hardly ate, but sat lost in mental contemplation of -the divine face in which he had so fully believed. Was it possible that -he was not dreaming, and that Suzanne was really one of those of whom -Claude was speaking in terms of such contempt? -</p> - -<p> -'Above all,' said Larcher, 'take no revenge. Revenge in love is like -drinking alcohol after burning punch. We become attached to women as -much by the harm we do them as by that which they do us. Imitate me, not -as I used to be, but as I am now, eating, drinking, and caring as much -for Colette as Colette cares for me. Absence and silence—these are -the sword and buckler in this battle. Colette writes to me, and I don't -answer. She comes to the Rue de Varenne. No admission. Where am I? What -am I doing? She cannot get to know. That makes them madder than all the -rest. Here's a suggestion: To-morrow morning you start for Italy, or -England, or Holland, whichever you prefer. Meanwhile Suzanne thinks you -are piously meditating upon all the lies she has told you, but in -reality you are comfortably seated in your compartment watching the -telegraph poles scud past and saying to yourself, "We are on even terms -now, my angel." Then in three, four, or five days' time the angel begins -to get uneasy. She sends a servant with a note to the Rue Coëtlogon. -The servant comes back:—"Monsieur Vincy is travelling!" "Travelling?" -The days roll on and Monsieur Vincy does not return, neither does he -write—he is happy elsewhere. How I should like to be there to see the -Baron's face when she vents her fury upon him. For these equitable -creatures invariably make the one who stays behind pay for the one who -has gone. But what's the matter with you?' -</p> - -<p> -'Nothing,' said René, though Claude's mention of Desforges had caused -him a fresh fit of pain. 'I think you are right, and I shall leave Paris -to-morrow without seeing her.' -</p> - -<p> -It was on that understanding that the two friends separated. Claude had -insisted on escorting René back to the Rue Coëtlogon, and, as he shook -hands with him at the gate, said, 'I will send Ferdinand to-morrow -morning to inquire what time you start. The sooner the better, and -without seeing her, mind—remember that!' -</p> - -<p> -'You need not be afraid,' replied René. -</p> - -<p> -'Poor fellow!' muttered Claude, as he returned along the Rue d'Assas. -Instead of going towards his own home he walked slowly in the direction -of the cab rank by the old Couvent des Carmes, turning round once or -twice to see whether his companion had really disappeared. Then he -stopped for a few minutes and seemed to hesitate. His eyes fell upon the -clock near the cab rank, and he saw that it was a quarter-past ten. -</p> - -<p> -'The piece began at half-past eight,' he said to himself, 'and she's -just had time to change. I should be an ass to miss such a chance. -<i>Cocher!</i>' he cried, waking up the man whose horse seemed to have most -speed in him, 'Rue de Rivoli, corner of Jeanne d'Arc's statue, and drive -quickly.' -</p> - -<p> -The cab started off and passed the top of the Rue Coëtlogon. 'He is -weeping now,' said Claude to himself; 'what would he say if he saw me -going to Colette's?' He little thought that as soon as he had entered -the house René had told his sister to get out his dress suit. -Astonished at such a request, Emilie ventured upon an interrogation, but -was met with, 'I have no time to talk,' uttered in such harsh tones that -she dared not insist. -</p> - -<p> -It was Friday, and René, as he had told Claude, knew that Suzanne was -at the Opera. He had calculated that this was her week. Why had the idea -that he must see her again and at once taken such a firm hold upon him -that, in his impatience to be off, he quite upset both his sister and -Françoise? Was he about to put his threat into practice and insult his -faithless mistress in public? Or did he only wish to feast his eyes once -more on her deceptive beauty before his departure? On the occasion of -his visit to the Gymnase a week ago, after his interview with Colette, -his aim had been clear and definite. It was the outward similarity of -that visit with the step he was now taking that made him feel more -keenly what a change had come over him and his surroundings in such a -short space of time. How hopefully had he then betaken himself to the -theatre, and now in what mood of despair! Why was he going at all? -</p> - -<p> -He asked himself this question as he ascended the grand staircase, but -he felt himself impelled by some force superior to all reason or effort -of will. Since he had seen Suzanne leave the house in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor he had acted like an automaton. He took his seat in the -stalls just as the ballet scene from 'Faust' was drawing to a close. The -first effect produced by the music on his overstrung nerves was a -feeling of almost morbid sadness; tears started to his eyes and dimmed -his vision as he turned his opera-glasses upon Suzanne's box—that box -in which she had looked so divinely modest and pretty on the morrow of -Madame Komof's <i>soirée</i>, though not more so than she did now. -</p> - -<p> -To-night she was in blue, with a row of pearls round her fair throat and -diamonds in her golden hair. Another woman, whom René had never seen, -was seated beside her; she was a brunette, dressed in white, and wore a -number of jewels. There were three men behind them. One was unknown to -the poet, the other two were Moraines and Desforges. The unhappy lover -gazed upon the trio before him—the woman sold to this aged libertine, -and the husband who profited by the bargain. At least, René believed -that it was so. This picture of infamy changed his feelings of sadness -into fury. All combined to madden him—indignation at finding such -ideal grace in Suzanne's face when but that afternoon she had hurried home -from her disgusting amours, physical jealousy wrought to its highest -pitch by the presence of the more fortunate rival, lastly a kind of -helpless humiliation at beholding this perfidious mistress happy and -admired, in all the glamour of her queenly beauty, whilst he, her -victim, was almost dying of grief and unavenged. -</p> - -<p> -By the time that the ballet was over René had lashed himself into that -state of fury which in every day language is expressively styled a cool -rage. At such moments, by a contrast similar to that observed in certain -stages of madness, the frenzy of the soul is accompanied by complete -control of the nerves. The individual may come and go, laugh and talk; -he preserves a perfectly calm exterior, and yet inside him there is a -whirlwind of murderous ideas. The most unheard-of proceedings then seem -quite natural as well as the most pronounced cruelties. The poet had -been struck with a sudden idea—to go into Madame Moraines' box and -express to her his contempt! How? That did not trouble him much. All he -knew was that he must ease his mind, whatever the result might be. As he -made his way along the corridor, just then filled with the gilded youth -of Paris, he was so beside himself that he came into collision with -several people, but strode on unheedingly and without proffering a word -of excuse. On reaching the <i>ouvreuse</i>, he asked her to show him the -sixth box from the stage on the right. -</p> - -<p> -'The box belonging to Monsieur le Baron Desforges?' said the woman. -</p> - -<p> -'Quite right,' replied René. 'He pays for the theatre, too,' he -thought; 'that's only as it should be.' The door was opened, and in a -trice he had passed through the small ante-room that leads to the box -itself. Moraines turned round and smiled at him in his frank and simple -way. The next moment he was shaking hands with René in English fashion -and saying, 'How d'you do?' as though they were accustomed to meet every -day. -</p> - -<p> -Then, turning to his wife, who had witnessed René's entrance without -betraying the slightest surprise, he said, 'My darling, this is Monsieur -Vincy.' -</p> - -<p> -'I haven't forgotten Monsieur Vincy,' replied Suzanne, receiving her -visitor with a graceful inclination of her head, 'although he seems to -have forgotten me.' -</p> - -<p> -The perfect ease with which she uttered this phrase, the smile that -accompanied it, the painful necessity of shaking hands with this husband -whom he regarded as an accessory to his wife's guilt, and of bowing to -Baron Desforges as well as to the other persons present in the -box—all these details were so strangely out of keeping with the -fever consuming the poet that for a few moments he was quite taken -aback. Such is life in the world of fashion. Tragedies are played in -silence, and amidst an interchange of false compliments, an assumption -of meaningless manners, and an empty show of pleasure. Moraines had -offered René a seat behind Suzanne, and she sat talking to him about -his musical tastes with as much apparent indifference as if this visit -were not of terrible significance for her. -</p> - -<p> -Desforges and Moraines were talking with the other lady, and René could -hear them making remarks concerning the composition of the audience. He -was not accustomed to impose upon himself that self-control which -permits women of fashion to talk of dress or music whilst their hearts -are being torn with anxiety. He stammered forth replies to Suzanne's -words without the least idea of what he was saying. As she bent slightly -forward he inhaled the heliotrope perfume she generally used. It -awakened tender memories within him, and at last he dared to look at -her. He saw her mobile lips, her fair, rose-like complexion, her blue -eyes, her golden hair, her snow-white neck and shoulders over which his -lips had often strayed. In his eyes there was a kind of savage delirium -that almost frightened Madame Moraines. His bare coming had told her -that something extraordinary was taking place, but she was under the -watchful eye of Desforges, and she could not afford to make a single -mistake. On the other hand, the least imprudence on René's part might -ruin her. Her whole life depended upon a word or gesture of the young -poet, and she knew how easily such word or gesture might escape him. She -took up her fan and the lace handkerchief she had laid on the ledge of -the box, and rose. -</p> - -<p> -'It is too warm here,' she said, passing her hand over her eyes and -addressing René, who had risen at the same time. Will you come into the -ante-room? It will be cooler there.' -</p> - -<p> -As soon as they were both seated on the sofa she said aloud, 'Is it long -since you last saw our friend Madame Komof?' Then, in an undertone, -'What is the matter, love? What does this mean?' -</p> - -<p> -'It means,' replied René, in a suppressed voice, 'that I know all, and -that I am come to tell you what I think of you. You need not trouble to -answer. I know all, I tell you—I know at what time you went into the -house in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, at what time you left it, and whom you -met there. Don't lie; I was there—I saw you. This is the last time I -shall ever speak to you, but you understand—you are a wretch, a -miserable wretch!' -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne was fanning herself whilst he flung these terrible phrases at -her. The emotions they aroused did not prevent her from perceiving that -this scene with her enraged lover, who was evidently beside himself, -must be cut short at any price. Bending forward, she called her husband -from the box. -</p> - -<p> -'Paul,' she said, 'have the carriage called. I don't know whether it's -the heat in the house, but I feel quite faint. You will excuse me, -Monsieur Vincy?' -</p> - -<p> -'It's strange,' said Moraines to the poet, who was obliged to leave the -box with the husband, 'she had been so bright all the evening. But these -theatres are very badly ventilated. I am sure she is sorry at being -unable to talk to you, for she is such an admirer of your talent. Come -and see us soon—good-bye!' -</p> - -<p> -And with his usual energy he again shook hands with René, who saw him -disappear towards that part of the vestibule where the footmen stand in -waiting. The orchestra was just attacking the first bars of the fifth -act of 'Faust.' A fresh fit of rage seized the poet, and found vent in -the words which he almost shouted in the now deserted corridor: 'I will -be revenged!' -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap18"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XVIII -<br /><br /> -THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR</h4> - -<p> -Suzanne knew the Baron's eagle eye too well to imagine that the scene in -the box had entirely escaped him. How much had he seen? What did he -think? These two questions were of capital importance to her. It was -impossible to formulate any reply to them during the few minutes -occupied—she leaning on his arm and he supporting her as though he -really believed her to be ill—in passing from the box to the entrance -reserved for carriages. The Baron's face remained impenetrable and she -herself felt unable to exercise her usual faculties of observation. -René's sudden onslaught had inspired her with such terror and pain that -her indisposition had been a sham only to a certain extent. She had been -afraid that the poet, evidently beside himself, might create a scene and -ruin her for ever. At the same time her sincere and deep-rooted passion -had received a severe blow in this terrible insult and still more -terrible discovery. As she lifted up the train of her dress and -descended the steps in her blue satin shoes she shuddered as we -sometimes do when we escape from a danger which we have had the courage -to brave. A faint smile hovered upon her quivering lips, but her face -was ashy pale, and it was a real relief to her when she sat down in the -corner of her carriage with her husband by her side. Before him, at -least, there was no necessity to control herself. As the horses started -she bent forward to bow her adieux. A gas-lamp shed its light full upon -the Baron's face, which now betrayed his real thoughts. Suzanne read -them in a second. -</p> - -<p> -'He knows all,' she thought. 'What is to be done?' -</p> - -<p> -For a few moments after the carriage had gone Desforges still stood -there twirling his moustache—with him a sign of extraordinary -preoccupation. It being a fine night, he had not ordered his brougham. -It was his custom, when the weather was dry, to walk to his favourite -club in the Rue Boissy-d'Anglas from any place in which he had been -spending the evening—even if such place was some small theatre -situated at the other end of the boulevards. Whilst smoking his third -cigar—Doctor Noirot only allowed him three a day—he loved to -stroll through the streets of that Paris which he justly prided himself -upon knowing and enjoying as well as anyone. Desforges was no -cosmopolitan, and had a horror of travelling, which he called 'a life of -luggage.' This promenade in the evening was his delight. He utilised it -for 'making up his balance'—that was his expression—for -going over the different events of the day, placing his receipts in one -column and his expenses in another. 'Massage, fencing, and morning -ride,' were put down in the column of receipts to the credit of his -health. 'Drinking burgundy or port'—his pet sin—'or eating -truffles or seeing Suzanne' went into the column of expenditure. When he -had indulged in some trifling excess that contravened his well-regulated -lines of conduct he would carefully weigh the pros and cons, and -conclude by pronouncing with the solemnity of a judge whether 'it was -worth it' or 'not worth it.' -</p> - -<p> -This Paris, too, in which he had dwelt since his earliest youth, always -awakened in him memories of the past. His cynicism went hand in hand -with cunning, and he practised only the Epicureanism of the senses. He -was a master in the art of enjoying happy hours long after they had -passed. In such a house, for instance, he had had appointments with a -charming mistress; another recalled to his mind exquisite dinners in -good company. 'We ought to make ourselves four stomachs, like oxen, to -ruminate,' he used to say; 'that is their only good point, and I have -taken it them.' -</p> - -<p> -But when the Moraines had driven away in their brougham on this mild and -balmy May evening he began his walk, a prey to most sad and bitter -impressions, although the day had been a particularly pleasant one until -René Vincy's entry in the box. Suzanne had not been mistaken. He knew -all. The poet's visit had struck him all the more forcibly since, that -very afternoon, on leaving the house in the Rue de Rivoli, he had found -himself face to face with the young man, who stared hard at him. 'Where -the deuce have I seen that fellow before?' he had asked himself in vain. -'Where could my senses have been?' he said, when Paul Moraines mentioned -René's name to Suzanne. The expression on the visitor's face had -immediately aroused his suspicions; when Suzanne went into the ante-room -he had placed himself so as to follow the interview from the corner of -his eye. Without hearing what the poet said, he had guessed by the look -in his eyes, the frown on his brow, and the gestures of his hands that -he was taking Suzanne to task. The feigned indisposition of the latter -had not deceived him for a single moment. He was one of those who only -believe in women's headaches when there is nothing to be gained by them. -The manner in which his mistress's hand trembled on his arm as they -descended the staircase had strengthened his convictions, and now, as he -crossed the Place de l'Opéra, he told himself the most mortifying -truths instead of going into his usual raptures before the vast -perspective of the avenue, but lately lighted by electricity, or before -the façade of the Opera, which he declared to be finer than Notre Dame. -</p> - -<p> -'I have been let in,' he said, 'and at my age, too! It's rather too -bad—and for whom?' All combined to render his humiliation more -complete—the absolute secresy with which Suzanne had deceived him, -and without arousing the slightest suspicion; the startling suddenness of -the discovery; lastly, the quality of his rival, a bit of a boy, a -scribbling poet! A score of details, one more exasperating than the -other, crowded in upon him. The forlorn and bashful look on the poet's -face when he had seen him on the day after Madame Komof's <i>soirée</i>; -Suzanne's inexplicable fits of abstraction, which he had scarcely -noticed at the time and her allusions to matutinal visits to the -dentist's, the Louvre, or the Bon Marché. And he had swallowed it -all—he, Baron Desforges! -</p> - -<p> -'I have been an ass!' he repeated aloud. 'But how did she manage it?' It -was this that completely floored him; he could not understand how she -had gone about it, even when René's attitude in the box left him no -doubt as to their relations. No, there was no possibility of doubt. -</p> - -<p> -Had Suzanne not been his mistress he would never have dared to speak to -her as he did, nor would she have allowed it. 'But how?' he asked -himself; 'she never received him at home, or I should have known it -through Paul. She did not see him out; he goes nowhere.' Once more he -repeated, 'I have been an ass!' and felt really angry with the woman who -was the cause of his perturbation. He had just passed the Café de la -Paix and had to brush aside two women who accosted him in their usual -shameless manner. 'Bah!' he exclaimed; 'they are all alike.' He walked -on for a few paces and saw that he had let his cigar go out. He threw it -away with a gesture of impatience. 'And cigars are like women.' Then he -shrugged his shoulders as it occurred to him how childishly he was -behaving. 'Frédéric, my dear fellow,' whispered an inner voice, 'you -have been an ass, and you are continuing the <i>rôle.</i>' He took a fresh -cigar from his case, held it to his ear as he cracked it, and went into -a cigar-shop for a light. The havana proved to be delicious, and the -Baron, a connoisseur, thoroughly enjoyed it. 'I was wrong,' he thought; -'here is one that is not a fraud.' -</p> - -<p> -The soothing effect of the cigar changed the tenour of his ideas. -</p> - -<p> -He looked about him and saw that he had almost reached the end of the -boulevard. The pavement was as crowded as at midday, and the carriages -and cabs went hurrying by. The gas-lamps glinted upon the young foliage -of the trees in a fantastic manner, and on the right the dark mass of -the Madeleine stood out against the dark blue sky studded with stars. -This Parisian picture pleased the Baron, who continued his reflections -in a calmer frame of mind. 'Hang it all!' he cried; 'can it be that I am -jealous?' As a rule he shook his head whenever he was treated to an -example of that mournful passion, and would generally reply, 'They pay -your mistress attentions! But that is merely a compliment to your good -taste.' 'I, jealous! Well, that would be good!' -</p> - -<p> -When we have accustomed ourselves to play a certain part in the eyes of -the world for years together we continue to play it even when alone. -Desforges was ashamed of his weakness—like an officer who, sent out -on a night expedition, blushes to find himself afraid and refuses to admit -the presence of that feeling. 'It is not true,' he said to himself; 'I -am not jealous.' He conjured up a vision of Suzanne in René's arms, and -it tickled his vanity to feel that the picture, though not a pleasant -one, did not cause him one of those fits of intense pain that constitute -jealousy. By way of contrast, he recalled the poet's entry in the box, -his agitated manner, and the unconquerable frenzy that betrayed itself -in every lineament. There you had a really jealous man, exposed to the -full fury of that terrible mania. -</p> - -<p> -The antithesis between the relative calm he felt within him and his -rival's despair was so flattering to the Baron's vanity that for a -moment he was absolutely happy. He caught himself making use of his -customary expression, one he had inherited from his father, a clever -speculator, who had again had it from his mother, a fine Normandy woman -who had linked her fortunes with those of the first Baron Desforges, a -Prefect under the <i>grand empereur</i>, 'Gumption! Why should I be -jealous? In what has Suzanne deceived me? Did I expect her to love me -with a love such as this fool of a poet no doubt dreamt of? What could a -man of more than fifty ask of her? To be kind and amiable? That she has -been. To afford me an opportunity of spending my evenings agreeably? She -has done so. Well, what then? She has met a strapping youth, a bit wild, -with a fresh-looking complexion, and a fine pair of lips. As she -couldn't very well ask me to get him for her, she has indulged in a -little luxury on her own account. But, of the two of us, I should say -that he is the cuckold!' -</p> - -<p> -This reflection, so purely Gallic in form, occurred to him just as he -reached the door of his club. The plain language in which it had found -expression relieved him for a moment. 'That's all very well,' he -thought; 'but what would Crucé say?' The adroit collector had once sold -him a worthless daub at an exorbitant figure, and Desforges had ever -since entertained for him that mixture of respect and resentment felt by -very clever men for those who have duped them well. He drew a picture of -the small club-room and the cunning Crucé relating Suzanne's adventure -with René to two or three of his most envious colleagues. The idea was -so hateful to the Baron that it stopped him from entering the club, and -he walked away in the direction of the Champs-Elysées trying to shake -off its influence. 'Bah! Neither Crucé nor the others will know -anything of it. It's lucky after all that she didn't hit upon any of -these men about town.' He threw a glance at the club windows that looked -out upon the Place de la Concorde, and which were all lit up. 'Instead -of that she has taken some one who is not in Society, whom I never meet, -and whom she has neither patronised nor presented. I must do her the -justice to admit that she has been very considerate. Her trepidation, -too, just now, was entirely on my account. Poor little woman!' -</p> - -<p> -'Poor little woman!' he repeated, continuing his soliloquy under the -trees of the avenue. 'This beast is capable of making her repent her -caprice most bitterly. He seemed in a pretty rage to-night! What want of -taste and manners! In my box, too! What irony! If this good Paul were -not the husband I have made him, she would be a ruined woman. And then -he has discovered the secret of our meetings, and we shall have to leave -the Rue du Mont-Thabor. No—the fellow is impossible!' This was one -of his favourite expressions. A fresh fit of ill humour had seized him, -this time directed against the poet, but, as he prided himself upon -being a man of sense and upon his clear-sightedness, he suppressed it at -once. 'Am I going to be angry with him for being jealous of me? That -would be the height of folly! Let me rather think upon what he is likely -to do. Blackmail! No. He is too young for that. An article in some -paper? A poet with pretensions to sentiment—that won't be in his -line. I wonder whether his indignation will lead him to cast her off -altogether? That seems too good to be true. A young scribbler, as poor -as a church mouse, shall give up a beautiful and loving mistress, -surrounded by all the refinements of luxury, who costs him nothing! Get -out! But what if he asks her to break with me, and she is foolish enough -to yield?' He saw at once and clearly what disturbance such a rupture -would create in his life. 'Firstly, there would be the loss of Suzanne, -and where should I find another so charming, so sprightly, so accustomed -to my ways and habits? Then, again, I should have to find something to -do in the evenings, to say nothing of the fact that I have no better -friend in Paris than this excellent Paul.' To remove his fears -concerning these contingencies he was obliged to recapitulate the bonds -of interest that made him indispensable to the Moraines. 'No,' he -concluded, as he reached the door of his mansion in the Cours-la-Reine, -'he will not let her go, she will not give me up, and everything will -come right. Everything always comes right in the end.' -</p> - -<p> -This assurance and philosophy were probably not so sincere as the Baron's -vanity—his only weakness—would have him believe, and for the -first time in his life he got out of patience with his valet, a pupil of -his who for years had helped him to undress. Though he was still anxious -about the future, and more inwardly upset than he cared to admit, this -easy-going egoist nevertheless slept right off for seven hours, -according to his wont. Thanks to a life of moderate and continual -activity, to a careful system of diet, to absolute regularity in rising -and retiring, and, above all, to the care he took to rid his brain at -midnight of all troublesome thoughts, he had acquired such a fixed habit -of dropping off to sleep at the same hour that nothing less than the -announcement of another Commune—the most terrible calamity he could -think of—would have kept him awake. On opening his eyes in the -morning, his mind refreshed by his recuperative slumbers, all irritation -was so completely dispelled that he recalled the events of the preceding -night with a smile. -</p> - -<p> -'I am sure that <i>he</i> has not done as much,' he said to himself, -thinking of the sleepless hours that René must have spent, 'nor Suzanne -either'—she had been so agitated—'nor Moraines.' An -indisposition of his wife's always turned that poor fellow upside down. -'What a fine title for a play—"The happiest of the four!" I must -take credit for its invention.' His joke pleased him immensely, and when -Doctor Noirot, during the process of massage, had said to him, 'Monsieur -le Baron's muscles are in excellent condition this morning; they are as -healthy, supple, and firm as those of a man of thirty,' the sensation of -well-being abolished the last traces of his ill humour. -</p> - -<p> -He had now but one idea—how to prevent last night's scene from -bringing any change into his comfortable existence, so well adapted to -his dear person. He thought of it as he drank his chocolate, a kind of -light and fragrant froth which his valet prepared according to the -precepts of a master of the culinary art. He thought of it as he -galloped through the Bois on this bright spring morning. He thought of -it as he sat down to luncheon about half-past twelve opposite the old -aunt whose duties consisted of looking after the linen, the silver, and -the servants' accounts, until such time as she should be called upon to -look after him. He decided to adopt the principle of every wise policy, -both public and private—to wait! 'Better give the young man time -to make a fool of himself and slip away of his own accord. I must be -very kind, and pretend I have seen nothing.' -</p> - -<p> -Turning this resolve over in his mind, he made his way on foot to the -Rue Murillo about two o'clock. He stopped before the shop window of an -art dealer whom he knew very well, and his eyes fell upon a Louis XVI. -watch, its chased gold case set in a wreath of roses and bearing a -charming miniature. 'An excellent means,' he thought, 'of proving to her -that I am for the <i>status quo.</i>' He bought the pretty toy at a -reasonable price, and congratulated himself upon its acquisition when, -on entering Suzanne's little <i>salon</i>, he saw how anxiously she had -awaited his coming. Her careworn look and her pallor told him that she -must have spent the night in concocting plans to get out of the dilemma -into which the scene with René had led her, and by the way in which she -eyed him the Baron saw that she knew she had not escaped his -perspicacity. This compliment was like balm to his wounded vanity, and -he felt real pleasure in handing her the case containing the little -bauble with the words, 'How do you like this?' -</p> - -<p> -'It is charming,' said Suzanne; 'the shepherd and shepherdess are most -life-like.' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes,' replied Desforges; 'they almost look as though they were singing -the romance of those days: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">'I gave up all for fickle Sylvia's sake,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">She leaves me now and takes another swain . . .'</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -His fine and well-trained tenor voice had once gained him some success -in the drawing-rooms, and he hummed the refrain of the well-known lament -with a variation of his own: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">'Love's pangs last but a moment,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Love's pleasures last for life . . .'</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -'If you will place this shepherd and shepherdess on a corner of your -table, they will be better than with me.' -</p> - -<p> -'How you spoil me!' said Suzanne, with some embarrassment. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' replied Desforges, 'I spoil myself. Am I not your friend before -all else?' Then, kissing her hand, he added in a serious tone that -contrasted with his usual bantering accents, 'And you will never have a -better.' -</p> - -<p> -That was all. One word more and he would have compromised his dignity. -One word less and Suzanne might have believed him her dupe. She felt -deeply grateful for the consideration with which he had treated -her—the more so since that consideration left her free to devote -her mind to René. All her thoughts had been concentrated during her -sleepless night upon this one question—how to manage the one while -keeping the other, now that the two men had seen and understood each -other? Break with the Baron? She had thought of it, but how could it be -done? She saw herself caught in the web of lies which she had spun for -her husband this many a year. Their mode of life could not be kept up -without the aid of her rich lover. To break with him was to condemn -herself to immediately seek a new relationship of the same kind. On the -other hand, to keep Desforges meant breaking with René. The Baron, she -had said to herself, would never understand that in loving another she -was not robbing him of a whit of affection. Do men ever admit such -truths? And now he was kind and considerate enough not even to mention -whatever he had noticed. Never, even when paying the heaviest bills, had -he appeared so generous as at that moment, when, by his attitude, he -allowed her to devote herself to the task of winning back her young -lover and the kisses she neither could nor would do without. -</p> - -<p> -'He is right,' she said to herself when Desforges had gone; 'he is my -best friend.' And immediately, with that marvellous facility women -possess for indulging in fresh hopes on the slightest provocation, she -was ready to believe that matters would arrange themselves as easily on -the other side. As she lay at full length on the sofa, her fingers idly -toying with the pretty little watch, her thoughts were busied with the -poet and with the means she should employ to win him back. She must -examine the situation carefully and look it full in the face. What did -René know? This first point had been already answered by himself; he -had seen both her and the Baron come out of the house in the Rue du -Mont-Thabor. Now Desforges, from motives of prudence, never went out the -same way as she did. René must therefore know of the existence of the -two exits. Had he seen her leave her carriage and walk as far as the -entrance in the Rue de Rivoli. It was very probable. If chance alone had -brought him into contact with her first, and then with the Baron, he -could have drawn no conclusions from the double meeting. No, he must -have watched her and followed her. But what had induced him to do so? At -their last interview at the beginning of the week she had left him so -reassured, so full of love and happiness! There was only one thing that -could possibly have caused a revival of suspicion so violent as to lead -him to watch her movements—Claude's return. Once more a feeling of -rage against that individual came over her. -</p> - -<p> -'If it is to him that I owe this fresh alarm, he shall pay for it,' she -thought. But she soon returned to the real danger, which, for the -moment, was of more importance to her than her rancour against the -imprudent Larcher. The fact remained that in some way or other René had -detected the secret of her meetings with Desforges, and this evidently -caused him such intense pain that he had been compelled to fling his -discovery at her as soon as it was made. His mad conduct at the Opera -was but a proof of love, though it had nearly ruined her, and, instead -of her being angry with him for it, she only cherished him the more. His -passion was a sign of her power over him, and she concluded that a lover -who loved so madly would not be difficult to win back. Only she must see -him, speak to him, and explain her visit to the Rue du Mont-Thabor with -her own lips. She could say that she had gone to see a sick friend who -was also a friend of the Baron's. But what of the carriage sent back -from Galignani's? She had wanted to walk a little way. But the two -entrances? So many houses are built like that. She had had too much -experience of René's confiding nature to doubt that she would convince -him somehow or other. He had simply been overwhelmed at the moment by -proofs that corroborated his suspicions, and was probably already -doubtful and pleading with himself the cause of his love. -</p> - -<p> -Her reflections had carried her as far as this when her carriage was -announced. The desire to get René back had taken such a hold upon her, -and she was, moreover, so convinced that her presence would overcome all -resistance, that a bold plan suddenly occurred to her. Why should she -not see the poet at once? Why not, now that she had nothing to fear from -Desforges? In love quarrels the quickest reconciliations are the best. -Would he have the courage to repulse her if she came to him in the -little room that had witnessed her first visit, bringing him a fresh and -indisputable proof of love? She would say, 'You have insulted, slandered, -and tortured me—yet I could not bear to think you in doubt -and pain—and I came!' No sooner had she grasped the possibility of -taking this decisive step than she clung to it as if it were a sure way -out of the anguish that had tortured her since the preceding evening. -She dressed so hurriedly that she quite astonished her maid, and yet she -had never looked prettier than in the light grey gown she had chosen. -Without a moment's hesitation, she told her coachman to drive to the Rue -Coëtlogon. To that point had this woman, generally so circumspect and -so careful of appearances, come. -</p> - -<p> -'Just for once!' she said to herself as her brougham rolled along; 'I -shall get there quicker.' The ideas of worldly prudence had soon made -way for others. 'I wonder whether René is at home? Of course he is. He -is waiting for a letter from me, or for some sign of my existence.' It -was almost the same question she had asked herself and the same answer -she had given on the occasion of her first visit in March, two months -and a half before. By the difference in her feelings she could measure -the progress she had made since that time. Then, she had hastened to the -poet's dwelling in obedience to a violent caprice—but still only a -caprice. Now, it was love that coursed through her veins, the love that -thirsts for love in return, that sees nought else in the world but the -object it desires, and that would unflinchingly make for its goal under -the cannon's mouth. She loved now with all her body and soul; she had -proofs of it in her unreasonable impatience to get along still faster -and in her fears that the step she had taken might be in vain. Her -agitation was intense when the carriage stopped at the gate that barred -the entrance to the street. The latter, thanks to the trees whose -foliage overtopped the garden wall on the right, looked fresh and green -in the soft sunlight of this bright May afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -She had undoubtedly been less moved on the former occasion when asking -the <i>concierge</i> whether M. Vincy was at home. The man told her that -he was in. She rang the bell, and, as before, the sound of it caused a -thrill to run through her from head to foot. She heard a door open and -light footsteps approaching. Remembering the heavy tread she had once -heard in the same place, she concluded that the person now coming to the -door was neither the maid nor René; the footfall of the latter she knew -too well. She had a presentiment that she was about to face her lover's -sister—the woman whose absence had favoured her former visit. She -had no time to think of the drawbacks of this unexpected incident, for -Madame Fresneau had already opened the door. Her face left Suzanne no -doubt as to her identity, so great was the resemblance between the -brother and sister. Neither had Emilie any hesitation in deciding who -the visitor was. The sight of René's fresh sufferings during the past -few days, added to the information she had gleaned from Claude, had -intensified her hatred towards Madame Moraines, and as she replied to -Suzanne's question she could not help giving her words a tone of bitter -and unconcealed hostility. -</p> - -<p> -'No, madame, my brother is not in.' Then, her sisterly affection -suggesting a way to avoid all further questions as to the time of -René's return, she added: 'He left town this morning.' -</p> - -<p> -The reply given her by the <i>concierge</i> told Suzanne that this was a -lie, but she had no reason for believing the lie to be an invention of -Emilie's. She was obliged to believe, and did believe, that Madame -Fresneau was obeying the orders given her by her brother. She tried to -learn nothing further, a graceful inclination of her head in the very -best form being the only revenge she took for the almost rude manners of -the <i>bourgeoise.</i> Her outward calm, however, hid a great deal of -disappointment and real pain. She did not stop to ask herself whether -Emilie's strange behaviour was due to René's indiscreet confidences or -not. She merely said to herself, 'He does not wish to see me again,' and -that idea hurt her deeply. On reaching the street she turned to cast a -glance at the window of the room into which she had once made her way, -and remembered how, on that occasion, she had also looked round on -leaving, and had seen the poet standing behind the half-drawn blinds. -Would he not take up the same position to see her go when his sister -told him who had called? She stood waiting for five minutes, and the -fact of the blinds remaining down was a source of fresh grief to her. As -she got into her brougham she was as agitated as only a woman can be who -loves sincerely and who is obliged to be incessantly changing her plans. -After turning the matter over again and again, she, who never wrote, -decided to send the following letter: -</p> - -<blockquote> -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">Saturday, 5 o'clock.</p> - -<p> -'Dear René,—I called at your house, and your sister told me you had -left town. But I know that is not true. You were there, only a few yards -away from me, in that room where every object must have reminded you of -my former visit, and yet you would not see me. You can surely have no -doubts of my sincerity on that occasion? Why should I have acted a lie? -I entreat you to let me see you, if it be only for a minute. Come and read -in my eyes what you swore never to doubt—that you are my all, my -life, my heaven. Since last night I am as one dead. Your horrible words -are continually in my ears. It cannot be you who spoke them. Where could -you have got that bitterness, almost akin to hatred? How can you condemn -me unheard on a suspicion for which you will blush when I have proved to -you how false it is? I ought, it is true, to be indignant and angry with -you, but my heart, dear René, contains only love for you, and a desire -to efface from your soul all that the enemies of our happiness have -engraved there. The step I took this morning, though contrary to all -that a woman owes herself, I took so cheerfully that, had you seen me, -you could have had no doubt respecting the sentiments that animate me. -Send me no answer. I feel even as I write how powerless a letter is to -describe the feelings of the heart. I shall expect you on Monday at -eleven in <i>our sanctuary.</i> It should be my right to tell you I demand -to see you there, for those accused have always the right to defend -themselves. I will only say, Come, if you ever loved, even for a day, -the woman who has never told you and never will tell you aught but the -truth. I swear it, my only love.' -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -When Suzanne had finished her letter she read it over. A lingering -instinct of prudence made her hesitate before signing it, but the -sincerity of her passion caused her to blush for her momentary weakness, -and, taking up her pen, she wrote her name at the bottom of this -faithful description of the strange moral condition into which she had -drifted. She lied once more in swearing that she spoke the truth, and -yet nothing was truer, more spontaneous, and less artificial than the -feelings which dictated the supreme deception that capped all the rest. -She summoned her footman, and, again scorning all ideas of prudence, -told him to give the letter—any single sentence in which would have -ruined her—to a commissionaire for immediate delivery. During the -thirty-six hours that separated her from the rendez-vous she had fixed -she lived in a state of nervous excitement of which she would never have -deemed herself capable. -</p> - -<p> -This woman, who had such perfect control over herself, and who had -entered upon this adventure with the same Machiavelian <i>sangfroid</i> -she had maintained in all her Society relations for years, now felt -powerless to follow, or even to form, any kind of plan respecting the -attitude to be assumed towards her lover. She was to dine out that -night, but she went through the process of dressing in an absolutely -listless way—an unusual thing for her—and without even looking -in the glass. During the whole of the dinner she found not a word to say -to her neighbour, the ubiquitous Crucé, and her brougham had been ordered -for ten o'clock on the plea that she was still suffering from her -indisposition of the preceding evening. On her way home she paid not the -slightest attention to her husband's words; his very presence was -intolerable to her, for it was on his account, remaining at home as he -did on Sundays, that she had been obliged to put off her meeting with -René until Monday. Would the poet consent to come? How anxiously, as -the servant helped her off with her cloak, did she scan the tray on -which were placed the letters that had come by the evening post! The -poet's writing was not to be seen on any envelope. She spent the whole -of Sunday in bed, under pretext of a bad headache, but in reality trying -to think out some plan in case René refused to believe her story of a -sick friend as an explanation of her visit to the Rue du Mont-Thabor. -</p> - -<p> -But he would believe it. She could not admit to herself that he would -not; the supposition was too painful. Her fever of longing and suspense, -of hope and fear, reached its climax on Monday morning as she ascended -the stairs of the house in the Rue des Dames. If René were waiting for -her, hidden, as usual, behind the half-open door, it would prove that -her letter had conquered him, and in that case she was saved. But -no—the door was closed. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key in -the lock. She entered the first room and found it empty and the blinds -drawn. She sat down in the semi-darkness and gazed upon the objects that -recalled a happiness so recent and yet already so far away. There was just -the ordinary furniture of a modest drawing-room—a few arm-chairs -and a sofa in blue velvet, with antimacassars carefully hung at the -proper height. The handful of books René had brought were ranged in -perfect order on a well-dusted shelf, and the worthy landlady had even -taken care that the gilt clock, with its figure of Penelope, had been -kept going. -</p> - -<p> -Suzanne listened to the swing of the pendulum as it broke the silence in -the apartment. Seconds passed, then minutes, then quarters, and still -René did not come. He would not come now. As this fact dawned upon her -Madame Moraines, accustomed from her earliest youth to having all her -wishes gratified, was seized with a fit of real despair. She began to -weep like a child, and her tears fell faster and faster, unaccompanied -now by any thoughts of simulation. She felt a desire to write, but no -sooner had she found some paper in the blotting-book left by her lover -and dipped the pen in the ink than she pushed the things away, -exclaiming, 'What is the good of it?' To show that she had been there in -case René should come after she was gone she left behind her the -scented handkerchief with which she had dried her bitter tears. She -murmured to herself, 'He used to like this scent!' and by the side of -the handkerchief she laid the gloves that he had always buttoned for her -as she was going. Then, with a heavy heart, she left the room in which -she had been so happy. Could it be possible that those happy hours had -gone—and for ever? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap19"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XIX -<br /><br /> -ALL OR NOTHING</h4> - -<p> -The Fresneau family were at dinner when the commissionaire delivered -Suzanne's letter. Françoise entered, holding the dainty envelope in her -great red hand, and the expression on René's face as he tore it open -sufficed to tell Emilie from whom the missive came. She trembled. The -sight of her brother's wild despair had emboldened her to refuse -admission to the unknown visitor whom she had instinctively recognised -as its undoubted cause, the dangerous woman Claude Larcher had spoken of -as the most wanton creature living. But to face René's anger and tell -him what she had done was beyond her strength, and she postponed the -unpleasant step from hour to hour. The look her brother gave her after -reading the letter made her drop her eyes and colour to the roots of her -hair. Fresneau, who was carving a fowl with rare ability—he had -learnt the art, a strange one for him, at his father's table in days gone -by—was so struck by the expression on his brother-in-law's face that -he sat staring at him with a wing stuck on the point of his fork. Then, -being afraid that his wife had noticed his surprise, he broke out into a -laugh and tried to excuse his momentary abstraction by saying, 'This -knife will cut butter.' -</p> - -<p> -His jocular remark was followed by a silence that lasted until dinner was -over—a silence threatening to Emilie, inexplicable to Fresneau, and -unperceived by René, who was almost choking and did not eat a mouthful. -Hardly had Françoise removed the cloth and placed the tobacco bowl and -the decanter of brandy on the table when the poet went off to his room, -after having asked the maid to light him a lamp. -</p> - -<p> -'He looks annoyed, doesn't he?' observed the professor. -</p> - -<p> -'Annoyed?' replied Emilie. 'Some idea for his play has probably occurred -to him, and he wants to put it into writing at once. But it's a bad -thing to work immediately after dinner—I'll go and tell him so.' -</p> - -<p> -Glad to have found some excuse, Emilie went into her brother's room. She -found him scribbling a reply to Suzanne's note in the twilight, without -even waiting for the lamp. He was no doubt expecting his sister to come -in, for he said roughly and in an angry tone; 'Oh, there you are! Some -one called to see me to-day, and you said I was out of town?' -</p> - -<p> -'René,' said Emilie, joining her hands, 'forgive me; I thought I was -doing right. I was afraid of your seeing this woman in your present -state.' Then, finding strength in the ardour of her affection to bare -her inmost thoughts, she went on, 'This woman is your evil -genius——' -</p> - -<p> -'It seems,' cried the poet, with suppressed rage, 'that you still take -me for a child of fifteen. Am I at home here—yes or no?' he shouted, -bursting out. 'If I cannot do as I like, say so, and I'll go and live -elsewhere. I have had enough of this coddling, you understand. Look -after your son and your husband, and let me do as I like.' -</p> - -<p> -He saw his sister standing there before him pale and overcome by the -harsh words he had used. He was himself ashamed of his outburst. It was -so unjust to make poor Emilie atone for the pain that was gnawing at his -heart. But he was not in a mood just then for acknowledging himself in -the wrong, and, instead of taking in his arms the woman he had so -cruelly wounded in her most sensitive parts, he left the room, closing -the door behind him with a bang. He snatched up his hat in the -ante-room, and from the place where he had left her, trembling with -agitation, Emilie could hear him leave the house. -</p> - -<p> -The worthy Fresneau, who, after listening in amazement to René's -excited accents, had also heard the noise of his departure, now entered -the room to learn what had happened. He saw his wife standing there in -the semi-darkness like one dead. Seizing her hands, he cried, 'What's -the matter?' in such an affectionate tone that she flung her arms round -his neck and cried out amidst her sobs: -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Mon ami</i>—I have no one but you in the world!' -</p> - -<p> -She lay there weeping, with her head on her husband's shoulder, whilst -the poor fellow scarcely knew whether to curse or bless his -brother-in-law, his despair at his wife's grief and his joy at seeing -her fly to him for comfort being equally great. -</p> - -<p> -'Come, come,' he said, 'don't be silly. Tell me what has taken place -between you.' -</p> - -<p> -'He has no heart, he has no heart,' was all the answer he could get. -</p> - -<p> -'Nonsense, nonsense!' he replied, adding, with that clear-sightedness -which true affection brings to the dullest, 'He knows how much you love -him, and he abuses his knowledge—that's all!' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst Fresneau was consoling Emilie as well as he could, though without -getting her to divulge the secret of her quarrel with the poet, the -latter was striding along the streets a prey to a fresh attack of that -grief which had tortured his soul for the past twenty-four hours. -Suzanne had been right in thinking that a voice within him would plead -against what he knew—against what he had seen. Who that has loved -and been betrayed has not heard that voice which reasons against all -reason and bids us hope against all hope? Faith has gone for ever, but how -pleased we should be to find ourselves again at the stage of doubt! How -regretfully we then recall as some happy period the cruel days when -suspicion had not yet grown into horrible and unbearable certainty! -</p> - -<p> -René would have purchased with his blood the shadow of the shadow of a -doubt, but the more he dwelt upon all the details that had led to his -conviction the more firmly did that conviction take root in his heart. -'But if she had been paying a harmless visit?' hazarded the voice of -love. Harmless? Would she have concealed her destination from her -coachman? Would she have gone out by the other door, thickly veiled, -walking straight before her, but looking furtively about her just as she -did on leaving him? And then the appearance of Desforges almost -immediately after at the other entrance! . . . All the proofs brought -forward by Claude occurred to him one after another—the Society -rumours, the recent ruin of the Moraines, the post obtained for the -husband, the suggestion made to him by Suzanne for purchasing shares, -and her lies, now proved to be such. 'What more positive proofs can I -have,' he asked himself, 'except one?' And as the terrible vision of -Suzanne in the arms of her aged lover rose up before him he closed his -eyes in pain. Then came thoughts of her visit to the Rue Coëtlogon and -of the letter he had in his pocket. 'And she dares ask to see me? What -can she have to say? I will go, as she asks, and take my revenge by -insulting her as Claude insults Colette. . . . No,' he continued, 'that -would be degrading myself to her level; true revenge consists in -ignoring her. I shall not go.' -</p> - -<p> -He wavered between these two decisions, feeling quite powerless to make -up his mind, so intense was his longing to see Suzanne once more and so -sincere his resolution not to be duped again by her lies. His perplexity -became so great that he resolved to go and ask Claude's advice. Now only -did he begin to feel some surprise that this faithful friend had not -sent to inquire about him in the morning, as he had promised to do. -</p> - -<p> -'I'll go and call on him, although he'll probably not be in,' said René -as he bent his steps towards the Rue de Varenne. It was about half-past -ten when he rang the ponderous bell of the Sainte-Euverte mansion. There -was a light burning in one of the apartments occupied by Claude, who, -contrary to René's expectations, was not out. The poet found him in the -smoking-room, the first of the small set at the top of the stairs. A -lamp with a pink globe shed a soft light round the apartment, the walls -of which were adorned with a large piece of tapestry and a copy of the -'Triumph of Death' attributed to Orcagna. In a corner of the room the -bluish flame of a spirit lamp was burning under a small tea kettle; -this, with the two cups, a decanter of sherry, and some <i>bouchées au -foie gras</i> on a china dish were proofs that the occupant of this quiet -abode expected a visitor. A bundle of small Russian cigarettes with long -mouthpieces—Colette's favourites—plainly revealed to René who -that visitor was. He would still have hesitated to believe his own eyes had -not Claude, in evident embarrassment, said, with a shamefaced smile: -</p> - -<p> -'After all, it's as well that you should know it—<i>canis reversus -ad vomitum suum.</i> Yes, I am expecting Colette. She is coming here -after the theatre. Do you object to meeting her?' -</p> - -<p> -'Candidly,' replied René, 'I prefer not to see her.' -</p> - -<p> -'And how do matters stand with you?' asked Claude. -</p> - -<p> -After the poet had briefly acquainted him with the present position, the -scene at the Opera, Suzanne's visit, and her request for a meeting, -Larcher rejoined: 'What can I say to you? Have I the right to advise -you, weak as I am myself? But does that really matter? I can see my own -follies clearly enough, although I am continually stumbling like a blind -man. Why, then, should I not see clearly for you, who have perhaps more -energy than I? You are younger, and have never stumbled yet. . . . It -comes to this. Have you resolved to become, like me, an erotic maniac, a -madman ruled only by sexual passion, and—worse than all—a -wretch sensible of his own degradation? Then keep this appointment. -Suzanne will give you no reasons, not one. Don't you see that if she -were innocent the very sight of you would be hateful to her after what -you have said? She came to your house. Why? To blind you once more with -her beauty. Now she summons you to the very place where you will be -least able to resist that beauty. She will say what women always say in -these cases. Words—and words—and words again. But you will -see her, you will hear the rustle of her skirts. And, believe me, there -is no love-potion so powerful as treachery! You will feel the truth of -this when you stifle her with savage and brutish embraces—and -then, good-bye to reproaches! Everything is forgotten. But what follows? -You saw how brave I was yesterday. See what a coward I am to-day, and -say to yourself, like the workman who sees his drunken comrade -staggering helplessly along, "That's how I shall be on Sunday!" If, -after all, you feel unable to do without her—if you must have her, -as the drunkard must have his wine—you will find solace in this -cowardice, even though it kill you. That solace I have found. Glut -yourself with this woman's love. It will rid you either of your love for -her or of your self-respect. You will learn to treat Suzanne exactly as -I treat Colette. But remember what I have told you to-night—it is -the end of all. Talent I no longer possess. Honour! What should I do -with it, having forgiven what I have forgiven? My poor boy,' he -concluded in tones of entreaty, 'you can still save yourself. You are at -the top of the ladder that leads down to the sewer—listen to the -cry of an unhappy wretch who is up to his neck in filth at the bottom. -And now, good-bye, if you don't want to see Colette. Why did she tell -you what she did? You knew nothing, and where ignorance is -bliss—— Good-bye once more, old man. Think of me and pity -me!' -</p> - -<p> -'No,' said the poet, as he made his way home, 'I will not descend to -such depths.' For the first time perhaps since witnessing Claude's -unhappy passion he really understood the nature of his wretched friend's -malady. He had just discovered in himself feelings identical to those -which had made such an abject slave of Colette's lover—a mingling of -utter contempt and ardent physical longing for a woman justly tried and -condemned. Yes, in spite of all he had learnt he still desired -Suzanne—still desired those lips kissed by Desforges and all that -beauty which the hoary libertine had stained but not destroyed. It was -that fair white flesh that troubled his senses now—nought but that -flesh! To this had come his noble love, his worship of her whom he had -once called his Madonna. Claude was right: if he yielded to this base -longing but once, all would be lost. His loathing for the slough of -corruption in which his friend was helplessly struggling was so intense -that it gave him strength to say, 'I pledge myself not to go to the Rue -des Dames on Monday,' and he knew he would keep his word. -</p> - -<p> -Whilst Suzanne was undergoing the tortures of hope and despair in the -little blue <i>salon</i> on the appointed morning René too was suffering -intensely, but it was in his own room. 'I won't go—I won't go!' he -muttered repeatedly. Then he thought of his friend, and he sighed 'Poor -Claude!' as he fully realised the position of the man who had been -beaten in the struggle in which he himself was now engaged. He pitied -himself whilst pitying Colette's victim, and this pity, as well as his -old and long-continued religious habits, aided his courage. For some -time now he had refrained from all observances, and had surrendered -himself to those doubts which all modern writers entertain more or less -before returning to Christianity as the sole source of spiritual life. -But even during the period of doubt the moral muscle, developed by -exercise in childhood and youth, continues to put forth its strength. In -his resistance to the most pressing calls of passion, the nephew and -pupil of the Abbé Taconet once more found this power at his service. -When the last stroke of twelve had died away he said to himself, -'Suzanne has gone home—I am saved.' -</p> - -<p> -Saved he was not, and his inability to follow Claude's advice to the -letter ought to have convinced him of this. Neither on the Monday nor -the following days could he summon up sufficient courage to leave the -city that contained the woman from whom he now both wished and thought -himself freed. He invented all kinds of shallow pretexts for remaining -in Paris. 'I am as far from her in this room as I should be in Rome or -Venice; I shall not go to her, and she will not come here.' In reality, -he was expecting—he scarce knew what. He only knew that his passion -was too intense to die in this way. A meeting would take place between -Suzanne and himself. How or where mattered little, but it would -certainly take place. He would not confess to this cowardly and secret -hope, but it had taken such hold upon him that he remained a prisoner in -the Rue Coëtlogon in hourly expectation of receiving another letter or -of finding himself the object of some last attempt. No letter came, no -attempt was made, and his heart grew heavier within him. -</p> - -<p> -At times this desire to see Suzanne once more—a desire he felt, but -would not admit—drove him to his writing-table, where he would sit -and indite page after page of the wildest sentiment to the abandoned -creature. His pent-up rage found vent in the mad lines in which he both -insulted and idolised her, and in which terms of endearment mingled with -words of hatred. Then Claude's piteous laments would re-echo in his -ears, and he would tear up the paper as he stifled an answering wail -that rose within him. He lay down at night with despair in his heart, -thinking of death as the only thing to be desired. He rose, and his -thoughts were unchanged. The bright days, so glorious in the budding -time of Nature, were to him intolerable, and his poetic soul longed for -the twilight hour and the darkness that matched so well the black night -in his heart. In the gloaming, too, he could find sweet solace in tears. -It was the hour that his poor sister feared most for him. They had -become reconciled on the very next day after their quarrel. -</p> - -<p> -'Are you still angry with me?' she had asked him, with that gentleness -of voice that betokens true affection. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' he replied; 'I was entirely in the wrong; but, unless you wish to -see me act so unjustly again, I entreat you never to re-open that -subject.' -</p> - -<p> -'Never,' she said, and she kept her word. Meanwhile she saw her brother -wasting away, his cheeks growing still thinner and a fierce light that -frightened her burning in his sunken eyes. It was for this reason, then, -that she generally chose the dangerous hour of twilight to come and sit -with him. One day Fresneau had gone to take Constant for a walk in the -Luxembourg; she herself had found some pretext for staying at home. She -took her darling brother's hand in hers, and this dumb caress made the -unhappy fellow feel inexpressibly sad. He returned her pressure without -a word, her benign and soothing influence controlling him until thoughts -of Desforges suddenly flashed across his brain. 'Leave me,' he said to -Emilie, and she obeyed him in the hope of easing his pain. As soon as -she was gone he buried his head in the pillows of the bed whilst -jealousy gripped his heart with relentless claws. Ah! the agony of it! -</p> - -<p> -How many days had he spent in this fashion? Scarcely seven, but in his -present sufferings they appeared to him an eternity. Looking at the -almanac on the morning of the eighth day, he saw that May was drawing to -an end. Although the pilgrimage he contemplated inspired him with -horror, the bourgeois habits of regularity that had animated him -throughout his life induced him to turn his steps once more towards the -Rue des Dames. There was the landlady's bill to be paid and notice of -leaving to be given her. He chose the afternoon for his visit, so as to -be sure of not meeting Suzanne. 'Just as if she had not already -forgotten me,' he said to himself. What were his feelings on finding not -only her handkerchief and gloves, but next to them a note she had left -there on a second visit addressed to 'M. d'Albert!' He tore it open, but -his hands shook so terribly that it took him quite five minutes to read -the few sentences it contained, many of the words, too, being half -effaced by tears. -</p> - -<p> -'I came back once more, my love! From the shrine of our passion, and in -the name of the memories it must contain for you as well as for me, I -entreat you to see me once again. Darling—will you not think of me -here without those horrible flashes of hatred I have seen in your eyes? -Remember what proofs of affection I have given you on the spot where you -are reading these lines. No! I cannot live if you doubt what is the one, -the only great truth of my life. I repeat once more that I am not angry -nor indignant—I am in despair; if you do not believe me it is -because, with my heart full of love and pain, I cannot stoop to artifice -to make you believe anything. Good-bye, my love! How often have I -repeated these words on the threshold of this room! And then I would -add—<i>Au revoir!</i> But I suppose it must really be good-bye -now, both on my lips and in my heart—can it be good-bye for ever?' -</p> - -<p> -'Good-bye, my love!' repeated René, trying in vain to steel his heart. -The simple, loving words, the sight of the room, the thought that -Suzanne had come here without the hope of seeing him, and merely as a -pilgrim to the shrine of their past love—all contributed to work -him up to a pitch of frenzy, which he did his best to withstand. 'Her -love!' he cried, with a sudden outburst of fury, 'and she went to -another—for money! What a coward I am!' To escape the painful -feelings he could not banish he left the room hurriedly and rang Madame -Raulet's bell. The fair-spoken and accommodating landlady soon made her -appearance, and led the way into her own little parlour, furnished with -the remaining articles she could not get into the other. On his telling -her that he was giving up the apartments her face showed signs of real -annoyance. -</p> - -<p> -'The bill is not quite ready,' she said. -</p> - -<p> -'I am in no hurry,' replied René, and, fearing a fresh attack of -despair if he returned to the room he had left, he added, 'I'll wait -here, if you don't mind.' -</p> - -<p> -Although he was in no observant mood, he could not help noticing that in -the twenty minutes she kept him waiting Madame Raulet had found time to -change her dress. Instead of the striped cotton wrapper in which she had -received him, she now wore a becoming evening dress of black grenadine. -The corsage consisted of bands of stuff alternating with lace -insertions, through which might be seen the fair neck and shoulders of -the coquettish widow. There was a brighter look in her eyes and a more -vivid colour in her cheeks than usual, and, laying the bill on the -table, she said: -</p> - -<p> -'Excuse me for having kept you waiting. I didn't feel very well. I have -such palpitations of the heart—feel!' Taking René's hand with a -smile that would not have deceived the simplest soul living, she placed -it on the spot where her heart should have been. -</p> - -<p> -She had suspected the rupture between the pseudo-d'Albert and his -mistress by the two solitary visits of Madame Moraines. The fact of -René giving up the apartments proved her suspicions to be correct, and -an idea of taking advantage of the rupture had suddenly entered her -head, either because the poet with his manly beauty really pleased her -or because she had an eye to pecuniary considerations she could not -afford to despise. She was by no means old and thought herself very -attractive. But on looking at her lodger as she carried his hand to her -side she saw in his eyes a look of such cool contempt and disgust that -she immediately loosed her hold of his fingers. She took up the bill, -the writing in which showed that it had been prudently made out -beforehand, and tried to cover her confusion by entering into profuse -explanations of this or that item in a highly inflated account which the -poet did not even stoop to verify. He handed her the sum he owed her, -half in paper, half in gold. The humiliating defeat of her amorous -attempt had not deprived her wits of their sharpness, for she examined -the notes by holding each one up to the light, and looked closely at -each of the gold pieces as she counted them. She even sounded one of the -coins that seemed a little light in weight, and, after a moment's -hesitation, said: 'I must ask you to let me have another for this.' -</p> - -<p> -The impressions produced by this shamelessness and sordid greed were so -well in keeping with the rest of René's feelings that during the -quarter of an hour it took him to carry the few things he had in the -three rooms to his cab he—to use the apt and expressive words of a -humourist—'was as merry as a mute going to his own funeral.' As the -old 'growler' jolted along over the stones, carrying in its musty-smelling -interior the emblems of his happiness, his cruel merriment changed to a -fit of most abject melancholy. He recognised every inch of the way he -had so often trodden in the ecstasy of love, and which he would never -tread again. Dark and lowering clouds hung over the city. Since the -preceding evening there had been one of those unexpected returns of -winter to which Paris is frequently exposed about the middle of spring, -and which nip the young verdure with frost. As the cab crossed the -Seine, flowing darkly and drearily along, the unhappy man looked down -into the water and thought, 'How easy it would be to end it all!' -</p> - -<p> -After this movement of despair he felt in his pocket for Suzanne's letter, -as if to convince himself of the reality of his grief. He also took -out her handkerchief and inhaled its perfume—for some time; then -he gazed at her gloves, and saw in them the shape of the fingers he had -loved so well. He felt that he had exhausted all his energy in resisting -temptation, and as soon as he was alone in his room after this fresh and -painful crisis he cried aloud, 'I cannot bear it any longer!' -</p> - -<p> -Calmly, almost mechanically, he opened a drawer and took out of a -leather case a small revolver his sister had given him to carry in his -pocket when coming home late from the theatre. It was not loaded, and, -taking out a packet of cartridges, he weighed one in the palm of his -hand. Poor human machine, how little is required to bring you to a -standstill! He loaded the revolver and unbuttoned his shirt; then, -feeling for the place where his heart throbbed within him, he pressed -the barrel against it. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' he said, in a firm tone, 'not before I have tried.' -</p> - -<p> -These words were the outcome of an idea which had repeatedly entered his -mind, and which, repeatedly rejected as a crazy one, now took shape and -form with the precision our thoughts assume in moments of important -action. He put the revolver back in the drawer, and sitting down in his -arm-chair—Suzanne's arm-chair—he plunged into that abyss of -tragic thought in which visions stand out in bold relief, arguments follow -on each other with lightning rapidity, and desperate resolutions are -adopted. 'My love!' he repeated to himself, remembering the words of -Suzanne's letter. Yes, in spite of her lies, in spite of the play she -had acted—the innumerable scenes of which now passed through his -mind—in spite of her base connection with Desforges, she had truly -and passionately loved him. If that love were not sincere, then the story -of the past few months was perfectly unintelligible! What other motive -could have thrown her into his arms? It could not have been an -interested one. He was so poor, so humble, so utterly beneath her. -Neither was it the glory of enslaving a fashionable author, for she had -herself begged that their relations should be kept a secret. It could -not be vanity, for she had not stolen him from any rival, nor had she -held out long to give her conquest more value. No—monstrous as that -love might be, mingled as it was with corruption and deceit, there was -no doubt that she had loved him and that she loved him still. That soul -whose moral leprosy had struck him with horror was yet capable of some -kind of sincerity. There was still something within this woman better -than her life, better than her actions. René at length consented to -listen to the voice which pleaded for his mistress, and calmly and -dispassionately did he now weigh the crime of venality that had at first -so disgusted him. -</p> - -<p> -His visits to the Komof mansion and his intimate relations with Suzanne -had opened his eyes to a new world and initiated him into the mysteries -of the highest forms of luxury and refinement. The false notions of high -life which the unsophisticated <i>bourgeois</i> poet had at first -entertained were soon dispelled by a more correct idea of the frightful -extravagance which fashionable existence in Paris involves. Now, whilst -his love was struggling for life and attempting to justify Suzanne, or -at least to understand her, to discover in her something to save her -from utter contempt, he began to see, thanks to his truer knowledge of -the world, the tragedy in which this woman had played a leading part. -Claude had summed up the situation briefly in these words: 'Seven years -ago the Moraines were ruined.' Ruined! That word was now synonymous in -René's ears with all the privation and humiliation it generally brings. -Suzanne had been brought up in luxury to lead a life of luxury. It was -as necessary to her as the air she breathed. Her husband had no doubt -been the first to urge her to adopt her sinful expedient—so at -least did the poet continue to judge poor Paul. Desforges had presented -himself, and she had sinned, but not from love. When at length love did -come to her could she break her chains? Yes—she could, by -proposing to him, René, that each should give up all that bound them -here, and that they two should go and live together for ever! -</p> - -<p> -'Give up all! . . . They two! . . . Live together!' He caught himself -uttering these words as in a dream. Was it too late? What if he went to -Suzanne now and offered to sacrifice all to their love, to wipe out all -the past except that love, and to bind up and identify with it their -whole being, their whole present, their whole future? What if he said: -'You swear that you love me, that this love is the one and only truth in -your heart. Prove it. You have no children, you are free. Take my life -and give me yours. Go with me, and I will forgive you and believe in -you. . . . I am going mad,' he said, suddenly bringing his mind to a -standstill as this idea presented itself so clearly that he could -actually see Suzanne listening to him. Mad? But why? The stories he had -read in his youth about the redemption of fallen women by love—an -idea of such sublime conception that it has attracted the greatest -writers—came back to him. Balzac's Esther, the most divine -character of an amorous courtesan ever painted, had often figured in his -dreams of long ago, and natures like his, in which literary impressions -precede those of life itself, never altogether lose the impress of such -dreams. -</p> - -<p> -He loved Suzanne, and Suzanne loved him. Why should he not attempt to -save her, in the name of that sublime passion, from the infamy that -covered her, and try to drag himself away from the dark abyss of death -towards which he felt drawn? Why should he not offer her this unique -opportunity of repairing the hideous wretchedness of her fate? But -she—what answer would she make? 'I shall know then whether she -loves me,' continued René. 'Yes—if she loves me, how eagerly will -she seize this means of escaping from the horrible luxury to which she -is chained! And if she says no?' A thrill of terror shot through him at -the thought. 'It will be time enough to act then,' he concluded. -</p> - -<p> -The whirlwind of passion let loose by the sudden conception of this plan -raged for nearly three hours. As his thoughts swayed hither and thither -the poet seemed unconscious of the fact that his mind was already made -up, and that the fluctuations only served to disguise from him the one -feeling that dominated all the rest—a furious longing, amounting -almost to a necessity, to have his mistress back. Even had this plan of -elopement been more irrational, more impracticable, and less likely to -succeed, he would have taken it up as the most reasonable, the easiest, -and most certain of success, simply because it was the only one that -reconciled the irrepressible ardour of his love with that dignity his -still unsullied honour would never compromise. -</p> - -<p> -'To action,' he said at last. He sat down to his table and wrote Suzanne -a note in which he asked her to be at home the next day at two o'clock. -He took the letter to the post himself, and immediately experienced that -relief which invariably follows upon some definite resolve. He who for a -whole week, and ever since his first wild fit of grief, had felt himself -unable to put forth the least energy, and incapable even of opening the -manuscript of his 'Savonarola,' at once set about preparing everything, -as if there could be no doubt what Suzanne's reply would be. He counted -out the money he had in his drawer; there was a little over five -thousand francs. That would suffice for the initial expenses. And -afterwards? He made a calculation of the amount to which he was entitled -out of the patrimony that had never been divided between Emilie and -himself. The great thing was to get over the first two years, during -which he would finish his play and have it staged. Immediately after -that he would publish his novel, which the success of his piece would -help on, just as one wave sweeps on another, and then would come his -collection of poems. A boundless horizon of work and of triumph seemed -to lie before him. Of what efforts would he not be capable, sustained by -the divine elixir of happiness and by the desire to provide Suzanne with -that luxury she would have sacrificed for him? When his sister entered -his room she surprised him arranging his papers, putting his books in -order, and sorting some prints. -</p> - -<p> -'What are you doing?' she asked. -</p> - -<p> -'You can see that,' he replied, 'I'm getting ready to go.' -</p> - -<p> -'To go!' -</p> - -<p> -'Yes,' he rejoined; 'I think of going to Italy.' -</p> - -<p> -'When?' asked Emilie in astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -'Most probably the day after to-morrow.' -</p> - -<p> -He meant what he said. He had calculated that Suzanne would require -about twenty-four hours for her preparations if she decided to go. If -she decided to go! The mere possibility of his attempt failing caused -him such pain that he did not care to dwell upon it. Since the scene at -the Opera, when he had left her pale and crushed in the semi-darkness of -the private box, he had imposed almost superhuman restraint upon himself -by stemming the torrent of passionate longing within him. The hope so -suddenly conceived was a kind of breach through which the torrent swept -with such unrestrained and violent fury that it overturned and carried -away all before it. In his madness René even went so far as to look at -some trunks in two or three shops in the Rue de la Paix. Since the -departure from Vouziers no one in the Vincy family had left Paris, even -for twenty-four hours. The only articles in the Rue Coëtlogon that -could hold anything were two old worm-eaten coffers and three leather -portmanteaus falling to pieces from age. These preparations, which lent -an appearance of reality to the poet's dreams, cheated the fever of -suspense until the hour of his appointment. The illusion in which he had -indulged had been so strong that he did not realise his actual position -until he stood in the little <i>salon</i> in the Rue Murillo. Nothing had -yet been achieved. -</p> - -<p> -'Madame will be here in a moment,' the servant had said, leaving him -alone in the room. He had not been there since the day when he read his -choicest verses to her whom he then regarded as a Madonna. Why did she -keep him waiting for full five minutes in this place that must awaken in -him so many recollections? Was it yet another ruse on her part? -Recollections did indeed rise up before him, but produced an effect -totally different from that anticipated by Suzanne. The elegance of -these surroundings, once so much admired, now inspired him with horror. -An atmosphere of infamy seemed to hang over all these objects, many of -which had no doubt been paid for by Desforges. The horror he felt -intensified his desire to drag the woman he loved away from her misery, -and when she appeared on the threshold it was not love that she read in -his eyes, but a fixed and determined look of resolve. -</p> - -<p> -What resolve? Of the two she was undoubtedly the most agitated and least -under control. Her long white lace robe lent a sickly hue to her face, -already drawn and haggard by the trouble she had lately undergone. There -had been no necessity for her to pencil her eyes—a custom -practised by actresses of the drawing-room as well as by those of the -stage—nor of studying the movement with which, at sight of René, -she brought her hand to her heart and leant against the wall for -support. At the first glance she saw that she had a hard battle to -fight, and she feared the result. There fell upon the two lovers one of -those spells of silence so awful in their solemnity that in them we seem -to hear the flight of destiny! -</p> - -<p> -The silence became unbearable to the unhappy woman, and she broke it by -saying in a low tone, 'René, how you have made me suffer!' Then, -rushing forward in her mad state of agitation, she took hold of his two -hands, and, throwing herself upon him, sought his lips for a kiss. But -he had the strength to shake her off. -</p> - -<p> -'No,' he said, 'I won't.' -</p> - -<p> -Wringing her hands, she cried in distress, 'Then you still believe in -those vile suspicions! You did not come, and you condemned me unheard! -What proofs had you? That you saw me leave a certain house! Not a single -doubt in my favour—not one out of twenty suppositions that might -have pleaded for me! What if I tell you that a friend of mine living in -that house was ill, and that I had been to call on her? What if I tell -you that the presence of the other person whose sight drove you mad was -due to the same cause? Shall I swear it by all I hold most sacred, -by——' -</p> - -<p> -'Don't swear,' exclaimed René in harsh tones, 'I shouldn't believe -you—I don't believe you.' -</p> - -<p> -'He does not believe me even now—my God! What shall I do?' She paced -up and down the room, repeating, What shall I do? What shall I do?' -</p> - -<p> -During the whole of that week she had been tormented by the thought that -he might be so thoroughly exasperated as not to believe her. If but a -single suspicion were left him she was lost. He would follow her again -or have her watched. He would know that she met Desforges every time she -visited her imaginary friend, and the whole thing would begin over -again. What, then, was the use of going on with her lies? She had had -enough of it all. Now that her heart was stirred by the sincerest of -passions she felt a desire to tell her lover the truth—the whole -truth, and, while telling him, to convince him of the depth of her love. -He must be made to hear the cry that came from her heart, and made to -believe it. -</p> - -<p> -Almost beside herself, she commenced her story. -</p> - -<p> -'It is true—I lied to you. You want to know all—you shall know -all.' -</p> - -<p> -She stopped for a moment and passed her hands wildly over her face. No, -no! She felt incapable of making this confession. He would despise her; -and inventing, as she went on, a kind of incoherent compromise between -her desire to unbosom herself and the fear of repelling René, she began -again. -</p> - -<p> -'It is a horrible story. My father died. There were letters to get back -with which his enemies might have blackened his memory. This required -money—a good deal. I had none. My husband stood aloof. Then this man -came. I lost my head, and once he had me in his grasp he would not let -me go. Ah! can you not understand that I lied only to keep you?' -</p> - -<p> -René had been watching her as these hurried words fell from her lips. -The story of rescuing her father's honour he knew to be a fresh lie, but -her last cry, uttered with almost savage ardour, had the ring of truth -in it What mattered to him all the rest? He would know by her answer -whether this love, the only sincerity to which she now laid claim, was -strong enough to triumph over all else. -</p> - -<p> -'So much the better!' he replied. 'Yes, so much the better if you are -the slave of a wretched past that weighs you down! So much the better if -your subjection to this man causes you such horror! You say that you -have loved me—that you still love me, and that you lied only to keep -me? I now, offer you an opportunity of giving me such proofs of that -love as will put an end to all my doubts. -</p> - -<p> -'I ask you to efface the past for ever and with one stroke. I too love -you, Suzanne—ah! how tenderly! Do not ask me what my feelings were -on learning what I have learnt, on seeing what I have seen. If it has -not killed me, it is because we do not die of despair. I am ready to -forgive all, to forget all, provided I know of a certainty that you -really love me. I am free, and, since you have no children, you too are -free. I am ready to give up everything for you, and I have come to ask -you whether you are ready to do the same. We will go wherever you -like—to Italy, to England, to any country where we shall be sure -of finding no traces of your past life. That past I will blot out; my -belief in your love will give me strength to do this. I shall say to -myself: "She did not know me; but as soon as I bared my heart there was -nothing that could withstand her love." To accept the present horrible -state of things is impossible. To see you coming to me stained by this -man's caresses—or even, if you should break with him, to doubt the -reality of the rupture, and to reassume the degrading <i>rôle</i> of a -spy I have already played—no, Suzanne, do not ask it of me! We -have reached that point when we must be all or nothing to each -other—either absolute strangers or lovers who find in their love -compensation for the loss of family, country, and the whole world. It is -for you to choose.' -</p> - -<p> -He had spoken with the concentrated energy of a man who has sworn to -carry out what he has in his mind. Mad as the proposal seemed in the -eyes of a woman accustomed only to such forms of passion as are -compatible with the laws and usages of social life, Suzanne did not -hesitate for a moment. René had spoken in all sincerity, but in doing -so had given proofs of such deep-rooted affection that she had no doubt -as to her final triumph over the rebellious and mad schemes of the poet. -</p> - -<p> -'How good you are to talk to me like that!' she replied with a thrill of -joy. 'How you love me! How you love me!' In uttering these words she -hung her head a little, as if the happiness brought her by these proofs -were almost too much to bear. 'God! how sweet this is!' she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -Then, approaching him once more, she took his hand, almost timidly this -time, and held it tightly clasped in her own. -</p> - -<p> -'Child that you are, what is it you offer me? If it were only a question -touching myself, how gladly I would say, "Take all my life," and deserve -little praise for doing so! But how can I accept the sacrifice of yours? -You are twenty-five years old and I am more than thirty. Close your -eyes, and look at us in ten years' time. I shall be an old woman, whilst -you will still be a young man. What then? And what about your -work—that art to which you are so attached that it makes me quite -jealous? Why should I hide it from you now? You must be in Paris to be -able to write. I should see you pining away beside me. I should see you, -an unwilling slave, bestowing affection upon me out of pity and from a -sense of duty. No—I could not bear it! My love, lay aside this mad -plan and say that you forgive me without it—say it, René, I -implore you!' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst speaking she had nestled closer to the poet, and now hung her -arms about his neck, seeking his lips with hers. An intense desire to -fold her in his arms came over him, but it was drowned in the disgust he -felt at her lasciviousness. -</p> - -<p> -Seizing her by the wrist, he flung her from him, shouting in his fury, -'Then you refuse to come—tell me once more you refuse to come!' -</p> - -<p> -'René, I entreat you,' she went on, with tears in her voice and in her -eyes, 'do not cast me off! Since we love each other, let us be happy. -Take me as I am, with all the wretchedness of my life. It is true—I -love luxury, I love gaiety, I love the Paris you hate. I shall never -have the courage to break my bonds and give all this up. Take me for -what I am, now that you know all, now that you feel I am speaking the -truth when I swear I love you as I have never loved before. Keep me! I -will be your slave, your thing! When you call me, I will come. When you -drive me away, I will go. Do not look at me with such eyes, I implore -you—let your heart be softened! When you came to me, did I ask you -whether you had another mistress? No; I had but one wish—to make you -happy. Can you reproach me for having kept all the misery of my life -from you? Look at me—I kneel before you and beseech -you——' -</p> - -<p> -She had, indeed, thrown herself at his feet. She took no heed of -prudence now, nor of the possibility of a servant entering the room. -Clinging to his garments, she dragged herself about on her knees. Never -had she looked so beautiful as when, with eyes aglow and her face -burning with all the fire of passion, she at length laid aside the mask -and proclaimed herself the sublime courtesan she had always been. -René's senses were in a state of wild commotion, but a cruel -reminiscence flashed across his brain, and he flung his words at her -with an insulting sneer— -</p> - -<p> -'And what about Desforges?' -</p> - -<p> -'Don't speak of him,' she moaned, 'don't think of him! If I could get -rid of him or forbid him the house, do you think I should hesitate? -Don't you understand what a hold he has upon me? My God! My God! It is -not right to torture a woman like this! No,' she added, in a dull, -despairing tone, still on her knees, but now immovable and with hanging -head, 'no, I can bear it no longer!' -</p> - -<p> -'Then accept my offer,' said René; 'there is still time. Let us fly -together.' -</p> - -<p> -'No,' she replied, in accents of still greater despair, 'no; I can't do -that either. It would be so easy to make a promise and break it. But I -have already lied too much.' She rose. The crisis through which she had -passed was beginning to react upon her nerves, and she repeated wearily, -'I can't do that either—I can't.' -</p> - -<p> -'What, then, do you want?' he cried in tones of fury. 'Why were you on -your knees just now? A toy—a plaything—is that what you want me to be? -A young man whose caresses would compensate you for those of the -<i>other!</i>' His anger carried him away, and the brutal words almost led -to deeds. He strode towards her with uplifted fist and with an expression -so terrible that she thought he was going to kill her. She drew back, -pale with fear, and with outstretched hands. -</p> - -<p> -'Forgive me, forgive me!' she cried in her distraction. 'Don't hurt me!' -</p> - -<p> -She had taken shelter behind a table upon which, amongst other trifles, -there stood the photograph of the Baron in a plush frame. In struggling -with the horrible temptation to strike this defenceless woman René had -turned his eyes from her. As they fell upon the portrait he broke out -into a hideous laugh. Taking up the frame, he seized Suzanne by the hair -and rubbed the portrait violently over her lips and face, at the risk of -cutting her, continuing his frantic laughter all the time. -</p> - -<p> -'Here,' he cried, 'here is your lover! Look at him—your lover!' -</p> - -<p> -He threw the frame upon the floor, and crushed it with his heel. But no -sooner had he committed this mad action than he was ashamed of it. For -the last time he looked at Suzanne as, with dishevelled hair and staring -eyes, she stood in a corner overcome with fear—then without a word -he left the room, and she had not the strength to utter a syllable to -retain him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap20"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XX -<br /><br /> -THE ABBÉ TACONET</h4> - -<p> -Two days after this terrible scene Claude Larcher was standing on the -balcony of Colette's rooms, which overlooked the Tuileries gardens. It -was about two in the afternoon, and there had been a return of glorious -spring weather, bringing a bright blue sky and warm May breezes. Claude -had spent several days with Colette. The two lovers had been seized with -one of those revivals of passion which are all the more ardent and -vehement on account of the memories of past quarrels and the certainty -of others to come. Larcher was reflecting upon this curious law of love -as he watched the smoke of his cigar curling up in thin blue wreaths in -the sunshine. Then he looked down upon the line of carriages in the -street and the crowd of promenaders under the scanty foliage of the -gardens. -</p> - -<p> -He was astonished at the state of perfect felicity into which these few -days of indulgence had plunged him. His painful jealousy, his legitimate -anger, his feelings of degradation—all had passed away since Colette -had acted in accordance with his wishes and closed her door to Salvaney. -This would not last, he knew full well, but the presence of this woman -was to him such complete happiness that it allayed his fears for the -future as it effaced his rancour for the past. He smoked his cigar -slowly and peacefully, turning round every now and then to look at -Colette through the open window as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, -dressed in a Chinese gown of pink satin embroidered with gold—a -duplicate of the one in her dressing-room at the theatre. Swinging -herself to and fro, she slipped her dainty feet in and out of her -embroidered morocco leather slippers, displaying, as she did so, a pair -of pink silk stockings to match her dress. -</p> - -<p> -The room in which she sat was filled with flowers. The walls were -covered with souvenirs of an artist's life—water-colour drawings of -scenes in the green-room, tambourines won in cotillons, photographs, and -wreaths. A small white Angora kitten, with one eye blue and the other -black, was lying on its back playing with a ball whilst Colette -continued rocking herself—now smiling at Claude between the puffs at -her Russian cigarette, now reading a newspaper she held in her hand, and -all the time humming a charming ballad of Richepin's recently set to -music by a foreign composer named Cabaner. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">'One month flies by, another comes,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And time runs like a hare——'</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -'<i>Mon Dieu!</i>' murmured the writer as he listened to the couplets of -the only poet of our time who has been able to compete successfully with -the divine <i>Chansons populaires</i>—'these lines are very fine, -the sky is very blue, my mistress is very pretty. To the deuce with -analysis!' -</p> - -<p> -The actress interrupted this placid soliloquy of her contented lover -with a cry of alarm. She had risen from her chair and was holding the -paper with a trembling hand. After having, according to her wont, looked -over the contents of the third page, where the theatrical news are -chronicled, she had turned to the second and then to the first. It was -there she had just read what had so upset her, for she stammered, as she -handed Claude the paper— -</p> - -<p> -'It is horrible!' -</p> - -<p> -Claude, terrified by her sudden and intense agitation, took the paper -and read the following lines under the heading, 'Echos de Paris:' -</p> - -<p> -'As we go to press we hear of an event that will cause much grief and -consternation in the literary world. M. René Vincy, the successful -author of the "Sigisbée," has made an attempt to commit suicide in his -rooms in the Rue Coëtlogon by discharging a revolver in the region of -his heart. In order to remove the fears of M. Vincy's numerous admirers, -we hasten to add that the attempt will have no fatal results. Our -sympathetic <i>confrère</i> is indeed grievously wounded, but the ball has -been extracted, and the latest news are most reassuring. Much -speculation is indulged in concerning the motive of this desperate act.' -</p> - -<p> -'Colette!' cried Claude, 'it is you who killed him!' -</p> - -<p> -'No, no!' moaned the actress wildly; 'it can't be. He won't die. You -see, the paper says he is better. Don't say that! I should never forgive -myself. How was I to know? I was so mad with you—you had behaved so -cruelly that I would have done anything to be revenged. But you must go -to him—run! Here is your hat, your gloves, your stick. Poor little -René! I will send him some flowers; he was so fond of them. And do you -think it is on account of that woman?' -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke—her incoherent sentences betraying both her customary -puerility and the real good feeling she possessed in spite of -all—she had dressed Larcher and pushed him towards the door. -</p> - -<p> -'And where shall I find you?' he asked. -</p> - -<p> -'Fetch me here at six o'clock to go and dine in the Bois. <i>Mon -Dieu!</i>' she added, 'if I hadn't these two appointments with the -milliner and the dressmaker, I would go with you. But I must see them.' -</p> - -<p> -'Do you still want to go and dine in the Bois?' said Claude. -</p> - -<p> -'Don't be unkind,' she replied, giving him a kiss; 'it is such fine -weather, and I do so want to dine out in the open.' With these words -closed a scene which described the actress to a nicety, with her sudden -transitions from sincerest grief to a most passionate love of pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -Larcher kissed her in return, though despising himself in a vague kind -of way for being so indulgent to her least whims even now after hearing -of a catastrophe that touched him so closely. Rushing out of the room, -he flew down the stairs four at a time, jumped into a cab, and at the -end of fifteen minutes found himself before the gate in the Rue -Coëtlogon through which he had passed but a few months since. -</p> - -<p> -All that had struck him so forcibly then suddenly came back to him -now—the frowning sky, the pale moon sailing amid the swift-scudding -clouds, and the strange presentiment that had chilled his heart. Now the -bright May sunshine filled the heavens with light, and the narrow strip -of garden in front of the house was decked with green. The air of spring -that hung over the peaceful abode was an excellent presentment of what -René's life had long been, and what it would have remained if he had -never met Suzanne. Who had been the indirect author of that meeting? In -vain did Claude try to shake off his remorse by saying, 'Could I foresee -this catastrophe?' He had foreseen it. Nothing but evil could result -from the poet's sudden transplantation to a world of luxury in which -both his vanity and sensuality had been drawn to the surface. The worst -had come to pass—by a terrible run of ill luck, it is true. But who -had provoked that ill luck? The answer to that question was a cruel one -for a true friend, and it was with a heavy heart that Claude walked up to -the house in which formerly there had dwelt naught but simplicity, -honest labour, and a pure and noble love. -</p> - -<p> -How many deadly stings had entered it since then, and what an infinity -of grief! This came home to him once more on seeing the maid's agitated -face and on hearing the sobs which burst from her as she opened the door -and recognised the visitor. Wiping her eyes with the corner of her blue -apron, she let loose a flow of words thickly sprinkled with her own -<i>patois.</i> -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Ah! l'la faut-i! Mon bon monsieur!</i> To try and kill himself like -that—a child I've known as tender and as gentle as a girl! <i>Jésus, -Marie, Joseph!</i> Come in, Monsieur Claude, you will find Madame Fresneau -and Mademoiselle Rosalie in the <i>salle-à-manger.</i> Monsieur l'Abbé -Taconet is with <i>him!</i> -</p> - -<p> -Emilie and Rosalie were together in the room in which Claude had so -often been welcomed by a charming family picture. The doctor had -evidently just gone, for there was a strong smell of carbolic acid, like -that left by rebandaging. A bottle bearing a red label was standing on -the table with a saucer beside it, and close by lay a small heap of -square pieces of cotton. A packet of linen bandages, some strips of -plaster, a pot of ointment labelled red like the bottle and covered with -tinfoil, some nursery pins, and a stamped prescription gave the room the -appearance of a hospital ward. Emilie's pallor revealed more than words -what she had gone through during the past forty-eight hours. The sight -of Claude produced the same effect upon her as upon Françoise. His mere -presence recalled to her the old days when she had been so proud of her -René. -</p> - -<p> -She burst into tears, and, giving him her hand, said: 'You were right!' -</p> - -<p> -Rosalie had darted a look at the visitor charging him as plainly as -possible with René's attempted suicide. Her eyes expressed such deep -hatred and their meaning was so fully in keeping with Claude's secret -remorse that he turned his own eyes away, and asked, after a moment's -silence, 'Can I see him?' -</p> - -<p> -'Not to-day,' replied Emilie, 'he is so weak. The doctor fears the least -excitement.' She added, 'My uncle will tell you how he is now.' -</p> - -<p> -'When did this happen? I only heard of it from the papers.' -</p> - -<p> -'Has it got into the papers?' said Emilie. 'I tried so hard that it -should not.' -</p> - -<p> -'A few lines of no importance,' replied Claude, guessing the truth from -Rosalie's sudden change of colour. Old Offarel had a young man under him -in the War Office who was connected with the Press, and whom Larcher knew. -The <i>sous-chef</i> had no doubt been gossiping, and his daughter had -already got to hear of it. Larcher made an attempt to gain fresh favour -in Rosalie's eyes by allaying Madame Fresneau's suspicions. 'The -reporters ferret out everything,' he said; 'no one who is the least bit -known can escape them. But,' he continued, 'what are the details?' -</p> - -<p> -'He came home the day before yesterday about four o'clock, and I saw at -once by his face that there was something wrong with him. I had, -however, been so accustomed to see him look sad of late that it did not -strike me very much. He had told me that he was going to Italy on a long -tour. I said to him: "Do you still intend going to-morrow?" "No," he -replied, and, taking me in his arms, held me there for some time, whilst -he sobbed like a child. I asked him what was the matter. "Nothing," he -said; "where is Constant?" His question surprised me. He knew that the -boy never comes home from school before six o'clock. "And Fresneau?" he -added. Then he drew a deep sigh and went into his room. I stood there -for five minutes debating with myself—I thought that perhaps I ought -not to leave him alone. At last I began to get frightened—he is so -easily led away in his fits of despair. And then I heard the -report—I shall hear it all my life!' -</p> - -<p> -She stopped, too agitated to go on, and, after another storm of tears -had spent itself, Claude asked, 'What does the doctor say?' -</p> - -<p> -'That he is out of danger, unless some unforeseen complication sets in,' -replied Emilie; 'he has explained to us that the trigger of the -revolver—it was I who gave it him!—was somewhat hard to -pull. The pressure that he brought to bear upon it must have altered the -direction of the ball; it passed through the lung without touching the -heart, and came out on the other side. At twenty-five! <i>Mon Dieu! Mon -Dieu!</i> What a terrible thing! No—he does not love us; he has -never loved us!' -</p> - -<p> -Whilst she was thus lamenting and laying bare a heart suffering from -those pangs of unrequited affection that mothers know so well the Abbé -Taconet appeared on the threshold of the sick-room. He shook hands with -Claude, whom he had long since forgiven for having run away from the -Ecole Saint-André, and replied to the inquiring looks of his niece and -Rosalie: -</p> - -<p> -'He is going to sleep, and I must get back to my school.' -</p> - -<p> -'Will you allow me to walk with you?' said Claude. -</p> - -<p> -'I was going to ask you to do so,' replied the priest. -</p> - -<p> -For some minutes the two men walked side by side in silence. The Abbé -Taconet had always inspired Larcher with respect. His was one of those -spotless natures which form such a contrast to the ordinary low standard -of morality that their mere existence is a standing reproach to a man of -the period like the writer, given up to vice though craving for the -ideal. Even now, as the Abbé walked beside him with his somewhat heavy -tread, Claude looked at him and thought of the moral gulf that separated -them. The director of the Ecole Saint-André was a tall, strong-looking -man of about fifty. At first sight there was nothing in his robust -corpulence to betray the asceticism of his life. His rounded cheeks and -ruddy complexion might even have lent him an air of joviality had not -the serious lines of his mouth and the usually serene look in his eyes -corrected this impression. The sort of imagination found in true -artists, and which, elaborated by heredity, had produced the morbid -melancholy of René's mother, the poet's own talent, his delight in all -things brilliant, and even Emilie's inordinate affection for her -brother—that imagination which will not allow the mind to be -satisfied with the present and the positive, but which paints all -objects in too bright or too dark a colour—this dangerous yet -all-powerful faculty had also its reflex in the eyes of the priest. But -Catholic discipline had corrected its excesses as deep faith had -sanctified its use. The serenity of his piercing glance was that of a -man who has lain down at night and risen each morning for years together -with but one idea, and that—of self-sacrifice. -</p> - -<p> -Claude was well acquainted with the precise terms in which this idea was -couched, and to which the Abbé Taconet always reverted in his -conversation—the salvation of France by the aid of Christianity. -Such was, according to this robust worker in moral spheres, the task laid -down in our day for all Frenchmen who were willing to undertake it. -Claude was also aware of the hopes this truly eminent priest had -cherished concerning his nephew. How often had he heard him say 'France -has need of Christian talent'! He therefore looked at him with -particular curiosity, discovering in his usually calm face a trace of -anxiety—he would almost have called it an expression of doubt. They -were walking along the Rue d'Assas, and were just about to cross the Rue -de Rennes, when the Abbé stopped and turned to his companion. -</p> - -<p> -'My niece tells me you know the woman who has driven my nephew to this -desperate act. God has not permitted the poor boy to disappear in this -fashion. The body will be healed, but the soul must not be allowed to -relapse. What is she?' -</p> - -<p> -'What all women are,' replied the writer, unable to resist the pleasure -of displaying before the priest his pretended knowledge of the human -heart. -</p> - -<p> -'If you had ever sat in the confessional you would not say all women,' -remarked the Abbé. 'You do not know what a Christian woman is, and of -what sacrifices she is capable.' -</p> - -<p> -'What almost all women are,' repeated Claude, with a touch of irony, and -began to relate what he knew of René's story, drawing a fairly exact -portrait of Suzanne with the aid of many psychological expressions, and -speaking of the multiplicity of her person—of a first and a second -condition of her 'I.' 'There is in her,' he said, 'a woman who is fond -of luxury, and she therefore keeps a lover who can give it her; then -there is a woman who is fond of love, and so she takes a young lover; a -woman who is fond of respect, and so she lives with a husband whom she -treats with consideration. And I will wager that she loves all -three—the paying lover, the loving lover, and the protecting -husband—but in a different way. Certain natures are so constructed, -like the Chinese boxes which contain six or seven others. She is a very -complicated animal!' -</p> - -<p> -'Complicated?' said the Abbé, throwing back his head. 'I know you use -these words to avoid uttering more simple ones. She is merely an unhappy -woman who allows herself to be governed by her senses. All this is -filth.' -</p> - -<p> -There was a look of profound disgust on his noble face as he uttered -these words of brutal simplicity. It was plain that the thought of -matters concerning the flesh provoked in him that peculiar repugnance -found in priests who have had to struggle hard against a natural -inclination for love. His disgust soon made way for a deep melancholy, -and he continued his remarks. -</p> - -<p> -'It is not this woman who causes me alarm in René's case. According to -what you tell me, she would have left him when once her whim was -gratified. In his present state she will not give him a thought. It is -the moral condition of the poor lad, as shown by this affair, which -troubles me. Here is a young man of twenty-five, brought up as he has -been, knowing how indispensable he is to the best of sisters, possessing -that divine and incomparable gift called talent—a gift which, if -properly directed, can produce such great things—and possessing -it, too, at a tragic moment in the history of our country; here is one, -I say, who knows that to-morrow his country may be lost for ever in -another hurricane, that its safety is entrusted to every one of -us—to you and me and each of these passers-by—and yet all -this does not outweight the grief of being deceived by a wretched woman! -But,' he continued, as if his remarks applied to Claude as much as to -the wounded man he had just quitted, 'what is it you hope to find in -that troubled sea of sensuality into which you plunge on a pretext of -love, except sin with its endless misery? You speak of complication. -Human life is very simple. It is all comprised in God's Ten -Commandments. Find me a case, a single one, which is not provided for -there. Has a blindness fallen upon the men of this generation that a -lad, whom I knew to be pure, has sunk so low in so short a time, and -only through breathing the vapours of the age? Ah, sir,' he added in the -accents of a father deceived in his son, 'I was so proud of him! I -expected so much of him!' -</p> - -<p> -'You talk as if he were dead,' said Claude, feeling both moved and -irritated by the Abbé's words. On the one hand, he pitied him for his -evident distress; but, on the other hand, he could not bear to hear the -priest enunciate such ideas, although they were also his own in his fits -of remorse. Like many modern sceptics, he was incessantly sighing for a -simpler faith, and yet his taste for intellectual or sentimental -complexities was incessantly leading him to look upon any and every -faith he examined as a mutilation. There suddenly came over him an -irresistible desire to contradict the Abbé Taconet and to defend the -very youth whose fate he had himself so bewailed on reaching the Rue -Coëtlogon that afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -'Do you think,' he said, 'that René will not be all the stronger for -this trial—more able to exercise and to develop that talent in which -you at least believe, Monsieur l'Abbé? If we writers could evolve our -ideas as easily as a mathematician solves his problems on the -black-board, and enunciate them, coolly and calmly, in well-chosen and -precise terms—why, every one would set up as an author instead of -turning engineer or lawyer. They would only require patience, method, -and leisure. But writing is a different thing altogether.' He was -getting more excited as he went on. 'To begin with, one must live, and, -to know life, in every one of its peculiar phases, become acquainted -with every possible sensation. We must experiment upon ourselves. What -Claude Bernard used to do with his dogs, what Pasteur does with his -rabbits, we must do with our heart, inoculating it with every form of -virus that attacks humanity. We must have felt, if only for an hour, -each of the thousand emotions of which our fellow-man is capable, and -all in order that some obscure reader in ten, a hundred, or two hundred -years' time may stop at some phrase in one of our books and, recognising -the disease from which he is suffering, say, 'This is true.' It is -indeed a terrible game, and we run a terrible risk in playing it. -Greater even than that incurred by doctors, for they run no risk of -cutting themselves with the dissecting knife nor of being struck down -when visiting a cholera hospital. It was nearly all over with poor -René, but when he next writes of love, jealousy, or woman's treachery, -his words will be tinged with blood—the red blood that has coursed -through his veins—and not with ink borrowed from another's pen. And -it will make a fine page, too, one that will swell the literary treasures -of that France you accuse us of forgetting. We serve our country in our -own fashion. That fashion may not be yours, but it has its greatness. Do -you know what a martyrdom of suffering has to be endured before an -<i>Adolphe</i> or a <i>Manon</i> can be dragged from the soul?' -</p> - -<p> -'<i>Beati pauperes spirtu</i>,' replied the priest. 'I remember having -heard something of the kind in the Ecole Normale thirty years ago as I -walked in the courtyard with some of my comrades who have since -distinguished themselves. They possessed fewer metaphors, but greater -powers of abstraction than you have, and they called it the antinomy of -art and morality. Words are but words, and facts remain facts. Since you -talk of science, what would you think of a physician who, under pretence -of studying an infectious disease, gave it to himself and so to all the -town? Do you ever think of the terrible responsibility that rests upon -those great writers whom you envy for having been able to give the world -their own wretched experiences? I have not read the two novels you -mention, but I well remember Goethe's "Werther" and de Musset's "Rolla." -Don't you think that the pistol-shot René fired at himself was somewhat -influenced by these two apologies of suicide? Do you know that it is -awful to think that both Goethe and de Musset are dead, but that their -work can still place a weapon in the hand of a heart-broken lad? The -sufferings of the soul should be laid bare only to be relieved, and a -cold, pitiless interest in human woe inspires me with horror whenever I -meet with it. Believe me,' he added, pointing to the crucifix that -adorned the gateway of the Couvent des Carmes, 'no one can say more than -He has said about sufferings and passions, and you will find a remedy -nowhere else.' -</p> - -<p> -Irritated by the priest's air of conviction, Claude replied, 'You -brought René up in His name, and you yourself admit that your hopes -have been deceived.' -</p> - -<p> -'The ways of God are inscrutable,' replied the Abbé, with a look of -mute reproach that made Claude blush. In attacking René's uncle in a -painful spot, simply because the argument was going against him, he had -yielded to an evil impulse of which he was now ashamed. The two men -passed the corner of the Rue de Vaugirard and the Rue Cassette in -silence, and reached the door of the Ecole Saint-André just as a class -of boys was entering. There were about forty of them—lads of about -fifteen or sixteen years old, all looking very well and happy. As they -passed the <i>Directeur</i> they saluted him so deferentially and with -such evident heartiness that this act alone would have shown what rare -influence their excellent instructor possessed. Claude, however, also -knew from experience how conscientiously the Abbé discharged his duty; -he knew that each of these boys was followed daily, almost hourly, by -the serene but vigilant eyes of the worthy priest. -</p> - -<p> -A sudden rush of feeling prompted him to seize the latter by the hand -and to exclaim, 'You are an upright man, Monsieur l'Abbé, and that is -the best and finest talent one can have!' -</p> - -<p> -'He will save René,' he said, as he saw the good Christian's robe -disappear across the threshold that he had himself so often crossed in -less happy days. His thoughts became singularly serious and sad, and as -his steps wandered almost mechanically towards his rooms in the Rue de -Varenne, where he had not put in an appearance for several days, he -allowed his mind to dwell upon the ideas awakened by the conversation -and the life of the priest. The feeling of physical beatitude -experienced two hours ago on Colette's balcony had fled. All the -wretchedness of the undignified life he had been leading for the past -two years came home to him, and looked still more wretched when compared -with the hidden glory of the perfect life of duty he had been privileged -to behold. -</p> - -<p> -His disgust grew stronger when he found himself in his own rooms, -recalling, as they did, the memories of so many hours of shame and pain. -A score of visions rose up before him illustrating the drama in which he -had played a part—René reading the manuscript of the 'Sigisbée,' the -first performance at the Comédie Française, the <i>soirée</i> at Madame -Komof's, Suzanne's appearance in her red gown, and Colette in his rooms -on the day after the <i>soirée</i>; then René telling him of his visit to -Madame Moraines, his own departure for Venice, his return, the scenes to -which it had led, and the two parallel passions that had sprung up in -his heart and René's, ending with the attempted suicide of the one and -the abasement of the other. 'The Abbé is right,' he thought; 'all this -is filth.' He went on with his soliloquy. 'Yes, the Abbé will save -René; he will compel him to go for a tour of six months or a year as -soon as he is better, and he will come back rid of this horrible -nightmare. He is young—a heart of twenty-five is such a vigorous and -hardy plant. Who knows? He may perhaps be moved by Rosalie's love and -marry her. Anyhow, he will triumph. He has suffered, but he has not -debased himself. But I?' -</p> - -<p> -In a few moments he had drawn up a statement of his actual -position—well over thirty-five years of age, not a single reason for -remaining alive, disorder within and disorder without, in his health and -in his thoughts, in his money matters and in his love affairs, an -absolute conviction of the emptiness of literature and the degrading -power of passion, coupled with sheer inability to turn aside from the -profession of letters or to give up his libertine life. -</p> - -<p> -'Is it really too late?' he asked himself, as he paced up and down his -room. He could see, like a port in the distance, the country home of his -old aunt, his father's sister, to whom he wrote two or three times a -year, and nearly always to ask for money. He saw before him the little -room that awaited his coming, its window looking out upon a meadow. The -meadow, through which ran a stream bordered with willows, was closed in -by some rising ground. Why not take refuge there and try to commence -over again? Why not make one more attempt to escape the misery of an -existence in which there was not a single illusion left? Why not go at -once, without again beholding the woman who had exercised a more baneful -influence upon him than Suzanne had had upon René? -</p> - -<p> -The agitation brought on by this sudden prospect of a still possible -salvation drove him from his rooms, but not before he had told Ferdinand -to pack his trunk. He went out and wandered aimlessly as far as the -entrance to the Champs-Elysées. On this bright May evening the roadway -was crowded with an interminable line of carriages. The contrast between -the moving panorama of Paris at its gayest, once his delight, and the -quiet scene he had evoked for his complete reform, charmed his artistic -soul. He sat down upon a chair and watched the string of vehicles, -recognising a face here and there, and recalling the rumours, true or -false, he had heard about each. Suddenly a carriage came in view that -attracted his particular attention—no, he was not mistaken! It was -an elegant victoria, in which sat Madame Moraines with Desforges by her -side, and Paul Moraines facing them. Suzanne was smiling at the Baron, -who was evidently taking his mistress and her husband to the -Bois—probably to dine there. She did not see René's friend, who -gazed after her shapely blonde head, half turned to her protector, until -it was lost to view. -</p> - -<p> -He laughed. -</p> - -<p> -'What a comedy life is, and how silly we are to turn it into a drama!' -</p> - -<p> -He took out his watch and rose hurriedly. -</p> - -<p> -'Half-past six—I shall be late for Colette.' And he hailed a passing -cab in order to get to the Rue de Rivoli—five minutes sooner! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END.</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIVING LIE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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