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.'