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!