cynicism, who had so crudely broached the chapter about the love of
middle-aged women to him, who the evening before had abandoned himself to
all the furies of a long-repressed passion, in the arms of a debauched old
maid-servant.
At the same he felt that his brain was confused and that he was gradually
losing the exact idea of things. The wine he had drunk was more than he was
accustomed to; it was rising to his head and he was becoming intoxicated.
--Well, said Ridoux, you give me no answer and you stare at me like an
earthen-ware dog.
--What answer do you wish me to give you? except that I believe I am
dreaming; in truth, I believe I am dreaming.
--Be more sincere. I do not like hypocrisy.
--You talk of a giddy little thing; I know no giddy thing. As to the rest,
I have not quite made out what it is you wanted to tell me. I think that
you have intended to make a joke about your old women.
--Ah, you, you never understand anything. Where did you come from?
--Why, from your school, from the seminary, and neither you nor my masters
taught me that there.
--To me! to me! to me! you speak in such a manner to me? Oh clever fox!
_Alopex, alopex_. Well, you are sharper than I am, cried the old Curé,
striking the table and looking at Marcel with astonishment mingled with
admiration. Why should I concern myself about your future? You will
succeed, my dear fellow, you will succeed. Oh, oh, you are a master. A
gray-beard like I cannot teach you anything. Jesus, Mary, Joseph! That is
my nephew! My dear old Ridoux, Curé of St. Nicholas, allow me to
congratulate you. Monsieur le Curé of Althausen, I swear you will become a
bishop. Monseigneur, I drink your health!
LXVII.
IN A GLASS.
"The fumes of the wine were working
in my veins; it was one of those
moments of intoxication when everything
one sees, everything one hears,
speaks to us of the beloved."
A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_).
They conversed for a long time still, and they drank too, so much so that
Marcel went to his room with his brain charged with the fumes of the wine.
He opened his window and breathed with delight the fresh air of night.
While he gazed on the stars which were rising slowly in the sky, he tried
to analyze the new sensation which he experienced. "How a few mouthfuls of
liquor alter a man," he said to himself.
He felt himself to be totally different, and he allowed his thoughts to
wander in an ocean of delights. His ardent and ecstatic imagination
launched itself into space. Bright unknown worlds rose before him with
their atmosphere saturated with warmth, with caresses, and with perfumes.
He saw the future, and it appeared to him radiant. There were sons without
number and feasts without end; the entire universe belonged to him. He flew
from planet to planet without effort or fatigue, borne by a mysterious wing
into the fields of the Infinite.
He discovered an unknown audacity, and all obstacles subsided before his
powerful will. No more barriers, no more bolts, no more doors, no more
pretences, no more social chains, no more terrible father, no more
servant-mistress; Suzanne alone remained in all her youthful grace and her
chaste nudity. For, after having wandered in boundless space, it was
towards her that his hopes, his desires, his aspirations inclined. There
was the soul and the body; happiness and life, sacred symbolical wedlock,
the chosen vessel, the nubile maid ready for the husband. And he murmured
the Song of Songs:
"Let her kiss me with kisses of her mouth,
For her teats are better than wine."
And it was at the very moment when he was about perhaps to be able to taste
this exquisite cup, that he must go away. Go away! that is to say, leave
her, she who had just cast a ray into his life. Go away, to obey a culpable
ambition; to lose for ever this ravishing young girl! And the promises
which he had made to himself; and the unsatisfied desires, and the
boundless joys, the delicious troubles, the sweet evening talks, the hand
sometimes squeezed in a moment of audacity; of all that but the memory
would remain. Of all the intoxications of soul, of heart, of sense; of all
those joys which should repay him for his wasted youth, for his fair years
lost, he would preserve but remorse ... remorse for having so senselessly
let them go.
And all at once in the whirlwind of his ideas, he seized one as it passed
by. He noticed during the day the Captain entering the _diligence_ for Vic.
It was, in fact, the time at which he drew his pay. He could not return
till the following day. Suzanne then was alone with the old maid-servant.
She went to bed late, he knew; perhaps she was still awake. He looked at
his watch, it was not yet eleven o'clock; he still had a chance of seeing
her. He cherished this idea; it pleased him and he was surprised that he
had not thought of it before. Yes, certainly, he must see her, in order
that she might keep the remembrance of him, as he was bearing away the
memory of her.
What would be more delightful than to say to himself: "I hold the thoughts
of a beautiful young girl, I hold her simple confidences; I possess the
treasure of her sweet secrets."
And although there would never be between her and him but the pure and
chaste sympathy of two souls, was not that enough, was not that a
compensation, sufficient for the step which he was venturing?
And with the audacity of conception and the temerity of conduct of a man on
the border of intoxication, he determined to put his fine project into
execution immediately. His sense became inflamed the more he thought of it,
and what had at first presented itself to him as a vague desire, soon
became firmly fixed in his brain, and, in less than ten seconds, he had
conceived the plan and weighed all the chances.
He decided that nothing was more simple, and that the only serious
difficulty was to get out of the house without being heard. He still felt a
few scruples; he poured himself out a glass of brandy.
--Let me swallow some courage, he said. What a singular piece of machinery
is man, who imbibes in a few drops of liquid the dose of bravery which he
lacks, and spirit which he needs.
And, in fact, he soon felt a generous warmth which ascended to his head;
and his heart became anew surrounded little by little with that triple
breast plate of brass, _robur triplex_, without which there is no hero.
He listened inside and out. All sounds were hushed; in the parsonage as in
the village, everybody was asleep. He heard only the croaking of a legion
of frogs which were sporting in the neighbouring marsh, and, far away, the
bark of some farm-dog.
The night was splendid. The moon was rising behind the woods. That was a
serious obstacle; but are there any serious obstacles for a man
over-excited by drink? He did not even think of it; his mind was cheerful
and content. If anyone encountered him in the night, wandering along the
roads, what could they say? Had he not a perfect right like anybody else to
take, the fresh air of evening? And, besides, might he not have been
summoned by a sick person?
On the other hand, no more favourable moment would ever present itself for
talking with Suzanne. His uncle was snoring in the next room, and his
servant, supposing she was still awake, would she dare, while there was a
guest at the parsonage, to come and assure herself if he was in his bed?
He took off his shoes, opened the door noiselessly and glided into the
street.
He rapidly went round the parsonage, and he put on his shoes again only
when he was at some distance, under the discreet shade of the limes.
Then he walked boldly on, keeping to the middle of the road, on the side,
however, where the houses cast their shadow, and advanced with the step of
a man who is going to accomplish a duty.
He arrived without any hindrance at the Captain's house. It was fully
lighted up by the pale moon-light, and all the shutters were closed.
Consequently, the side looking upon the garden was in the shadow, and there
was Suzanne's room, the room hung with rose.
So he pursued his way at a rapid pace, entered the little path, bordered
with hawthorn, and soon reached the clump of old chestnut-trees.
LXVIII.
THE ROSE CHAMBER.
"They are women already, they were
so when they were born, but one
guesses them so still, one reads it
in their little thought, one comes
across an end of thread here and
there, which is like a revelation ...
They are ... But forgive me, young
ladies, I am afraid of going too far."
G. DROZ (_Entre nous_).
What man is there who has not experienced a delicious emotion on entering
for the first time a young girl's room? Who has not breathed with
voluptuous delight its sweet and chaste perfumes, and felt his heart soften
in its fresh and fragrant atmosphere?
How pretty, neat, and harmonious is everything there. The most
insignificant objects, the most common articles of furniture, have a
mysterious and secret aspect there which makes one dream; one contemplates
with transport all those nothings, all those little trifles, all those
trinkets which young girls delight in, and because they have been touched
by a white hand, they appear clothed in enchanting colours.
The fairy who lodges in this place has left a _something_ of herself on all
which surrounds her, and _that something_ transforms all into jewels, even
the least pin.
But that which above all else arrests the gaze, that which drives the blood
to the head and causes the heart to beat, is the bed.
The young girl's bed, the sanctuary, the delicious nest of love.
There is the pillow on which her head reposes ... And then the question
comes: What passes in the young head when, softly leaning on the warm down,
she lets her thoughts travel into the land of dreams?
When slumber soft on all
Around thee is outpoured;
Oh Pepita, charming maid,
My love, of what think'st thou?
Here is the place of her body. Yes, it is there, beneath the discreet
eider-down, that she hides her naked charms. And we begin to dream as well,
and we say to ourselves that we would give much to be able to penetrate
into this sanctuary at the hour when the divinity is going to bed.
Happy Gyges, lend me your ring that I may assist mutely and invisibly at
the sweet mysteries of the night toilette.
She is here! She has given and received the evening kiss. "Sleep well," her
father and mother have said, and the child replies: "Oh, yes, I am very
sleepy."
Then she quickly shuts the door and breathes a sigh of satisfaction. She is
in her own room, she is alone!
Alone! do you believe it? If so, you would be greatly mistaken, for this is
the time when she receives her own visitors, and often there is a numerous
company.
Oh, be reassured: these guests will not be able to compromise her; they are
secret, silent and invisible for all else but her; she alone sees them,
talks to them and listens to them.
It is at the summons of her thought that they hasten there, passive and
obedient. Then she passes them in review one by one; she examines them from
head to foot, she clothes and unclothes them at her will; never has a
Captain of infantry, under orders for parade, made a more minute inspection
of his conscripts.
Sometimes they come all in a crowd, giving themselves up with her, in the
mysterious comers of her imagination, to the wildest frolics. Young people
with a stiff collar, beardless sublieutenants, coxcombs with red hands,
swells with white cuffs, little heads of wax and little souls of cardboard,
run up, ran up, ye pretty puppets.
Dance my loves
You are but dolls.
And she makes them dance on every cord and every tune.
But soon the figures are effaced and blend into one. The pomatumed band
disappear into space, whence there rises clearly the image of the chosen
one.
He is young, he is dark or fair: she has seen him to-day; she looked at
him, he smiled at her, he thinks her pretty.
Is she then always pretty? And quickly she goes to her mirror. Heavens! how
badly her hair is done. How badly that ribbon sets! If she had put it in
another place? And that little wandering lock; decidedly it must set off
that. "Perhaps he would like me better if, instead of plaits, I had curls,
and if instead of the brown dress, I put on the blue?"
He. Who is he? He is the imaginary lover, the handsome young man whom she
has met in the street, he who turned round to look at her, or the one who
was so charming at the last ball, or again the one who has just passed the
window.
Who is he? Does she know? It is the one she is waiting for. The first who
presents himself who is _handsome, young, intelligent and rich_. What does
the rest matter provided he possesses all these qualities, and all these
qualities he must possess.
Often she has never even seen him, but he is charming, and she feels that
she loves him already.
And there are the brilliant displays of the future appearing, the enchanted
palaces which are built out of the chapters of novels which never will be
finished.
And thus every evening--wild adventures in the young brain, intrigues in
embryo, meetings full of mystery, delightful terrors with phantom lovers,
until at length a very palpable one presents himself, and comes and knocks
at the door of reality.
Sometimes he is very far from the cherished dream. He is neither young, nor
handsome, nor rich, nor intelligent. She rather makes a face, but she ends
by taking him. It is a man.
And meanwhile mamma has said as she kisses her daughter's forehead, "Sleep
well, my daughter," and she murmurs to papa, "What an angel of candour!"
LXIX.
THE GUST OF WIND.
"I turned my eyes instinctively towards
the lighted window, and through
the curtains which were drawn, I
distinctly caught sight of a woman,
dressed in white, with her hair undone,
and moving like one who knows that
she is alone."
G. DROZ (_Monsieur, Madame, et Bébe_).
Suzanne's room ... but why should I describe the room?... let me describe
Suzanne to you at this secret hour: I am sure that you would prefer me to
do so.
The young people who read this, will do well to skip this chapter, it
interests the men alone. Like the preacher who one day turned the women out
of church, as he wanted to keep the men only, I warn over-chaste young
ladies that these lines may shock....
Suzanne was preparing to go to bed.
To go to bed! That is not done quickly. You have, Mesdames, so many little
things to do before going to bed. So Suzanne was going to and fro in her
small room, attending to all these little details.
She was in a short petticoat, with her legs and arms bare and her little
feet in slippers. I warned you that I had borrowed the ring of Gyges and I
can tell you that I saw her calf and right above the knee, and all was like
a sculptor's model. Beneath the thin, partly-open cambric her budding bosom
rose and fell, marking a voluptuous valley on which, like the Shulamite's
lover, one would never be weary to let one's kisses wander.
But on seeing the white plump shoulders, the graceful throat, and the neck
on which was twisted a mass of little brown curls, and the back of velvet
which had no other covering than the thick rolls of half-loosed hair, and
the delicate hips which the little half-revealing petticoat closely
pressed, one asked oneself where the kisses would run on for the longest
time.
She was delicious like this and under every aspect, and undoubtedly she
knew it, for every time she passed before the large glass of her wardrobe,
she looked at herself in it and smiled. And she was quite right, for it was
indeed the sweetest of sights.
A pretty woman is never insensible to the sight of her own charms. See
therefore, what a love they have for mirrors. Habit, which palls in so many
things, never palls in this; for her it is a sight always charming and
always fresh. Very different to the forgetful lover or the sated husband,
whose eyes and senses are so quickly habituated, she never grows weary of
finding out that she is pretty, and making herself so; in truth a constant
homage, earnest and conscientious.
Suzanne then examined herself full face, in profile, in three-quarters
view, and behind, attentively and conscientiously, like an amateur judging
a work of art, who cries at length, "Yes, it is all good, it is all
perfect, there is nothing amiss." One could have believed that she saw
herself again for the first time after many years.
At length, when the survey was completed, and the toilette finished, she
let her petticoat slip down, opened her bed, put one knee upon it, and, the
upper part of her body leaning forward on her hands, prepared to get in.
The lamp on the night-table, close beside her, threw its light no longer on
her face.
But at the same instant a little zephyr taking her astern, caused the white
tissue which English-women never mention, to gently undulate.
She noticed then that she had forgotten to shut her window.
"Heavens," cried Marcel to himself, for it was he, who perched on the rise
of the road and armed with his good opera-glass, had just been witness of
what I have narrated.
LXX.
THE AMBUSCADE.
"Be not discouraged either before
obstacles, or before ill-will. Wait
patiently. The sacred hour will sound
for you and all the ways will be
made smooth."
(_Charge of Mgr. de Nancy_).
Drawing near to the window, Suzanne distinguished in front of her, behind
the open-work palisade, a dark motionless figure.
She immediately recognized the Curé.
Alarmed and trembling, she hastily drew back; but she heard a gentle cough,
as if someone was calling and was afraid of being surprised.
"What is happening?" she said to herself, "what is he doing there?"
She covered herself hurriedly with a dressing-gown and drew near the
casement again. Marcel, with his hat in his hand, bowed to her, and
appeared to invite her by a sign to come down.
Again she drew back. She knew not what to think or what to do. She
hesitated to comply with the priest's desire, and, on the other hand, she
was afraid lest Marianne, or some neighbour, should happen to wake and
catch the Curé of the village making signs, at that unseasonable hour,
before her door, during her father's absence. God only knew what a scandal
there would be then! and as tongues would wag, her father perhaps might
hear of it, and what explanation could she give? already they were
beginning to chatter about her absence from the services and their meetings
on the road.
She was seized with terror and ran to put out the lamp, calculating that
the Curé would withdraw.
But the Curé of Althausen had not undertaken this adventurous expedition to
abandon it at the moment when he was attaining his object. Excited by the
alcohol, by the dishabille of the charming young girl, and by all that he
had just caught a sight of, emboldened by the night and the solitary place,
he was waiting with impatience.
Therefore when Suzanne, trembling all over, drew near a second time to see
if he was gone, he was at the same place, still bowing to her and calling
her by signs. He was not tired, and with perfectly clerical obstinacy,
multiplied his salutes and his signs.
She said to herself that there was doubtless some important motive for him
to have decided, in spite of dangers and the proprieties, to require an
interview with her in the middle of the night "Good God! could some
misfortune have happened to my father?" The thought oppressed her mind. She
hesitated no longer, put on a light petticoat, threw a shawl over her
shoulders, and went downstairs.
LXXI.
THE BREACH.
"Who art thou, who knockest so
loudly. Art thou Great Love, to whom
all must yield, for whom heroes sacrificed
(more than life) their very heart ...
Ah, if thou art he, let the door be
opened wide."
MICHELET (_L'Amour_).
She saw at once that he was all in a fever.
--What has happened? she said. You have seen my father?
--Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle; as to your father, I saw him this
morning getting into a carriage: I believe that he is well.
--But what is it then? what is it? do not hide anything from me.
--I am hiding nothing from you, Mademoiselle, nothing grievous has
happened. Be comforted. I was passing by in my walk, I saw the light, I
observed you, your window was partly open. I stopped and said to myself:
Perhaps I can make a sign to Mademoiselle Durand that I am going away.
--Oh, Heavens, I am trembling all over.... What! you are going away? And
where? And when?
--To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle, after Mass.
--For ever?
--Perhaps.
--You are leaving Althausen so, without saying good-bye to your
parishioners, to your friends!
--I have no friends, Mademoiselle, I have only you, who are willing to hear
me some ... friendship; only you, who have sometimes thought of the poor
solitary at the parsonage, therefore I thank you for it from the bottom of
my heart, and I wanted to bid you ... farewell.
--But why this sudden and unexpected departure?
--A more important cure is offered me, Mademoiselle, and I have, like
others, a little grain of ambition.
--Oh, I understand, Monsieur, and let me congratulate you on this change in
your fortune. Is it far?
--Nancy, Mademoiselle.
--Nancy! I am glad of it on your account. You will have distractions there
which you have not here. I almost envy you.
--Do not envy me, Mademoiselle, for I carry away death in my soul. I am
sorrowful as Christ at Golgotha. I spoke to you of ambition. It is false, I
have no ambition. Other motives than miserable calculations compel me to
depart.
--Motives ... serious?
--You will understand them, Mademoiselle, for I must confess it to you, and
that I should not do if I was to remain in this parish. But from the day I
saw you, I have felt myself drawn towards you by an invincible sympathy.
Oh, be not disturbed. Let not my words offend you; it is the fondness which
I should have felt for a dearly-loved sister, if God had given me one.
Believe it truly, Mademoiselle, the spotless calyx of the lily, the emblem
of purity, is not more chaste than my thoughts when they fly towards you,
for when I think of you, I think of the queen of angels; that is why I
wished to see you again and bid you farewell.
--I thank you, sir.
--I wished to say to you: Farewell! I go away, but tell me, not if I may
ask to see you sometimes again--I dare not ask so great a favour--but if I
shall have the right to mingle my memory with yours, my thought with your
thought; tell me if you wish me to remain your friend though far away. We
leave one another, we separate, but is that a reason why all should end?
May we not write, give one another advice, follow one another from afar on
the arduous road of life?
It is so sweet, when we are alone, when the heart is sad, when the heaven
is dark and the tears come slowly to the eyes, to dream that away there, in
a little corner behind the horizon, there is a sister-soul to our soul,
which perhaps, at that very moment, leaps towards us also and murmurs
across space: "Friend, I think of you." We feel less abandoned and less
alone.
--Yes, that is true, I understand you.
--It is the communion of souls, dear Suzanne, sweeter than all the
pleasures of the body, because it is holy and pure, it is the Ark of the
Covenant, the gate of Heaven. Tell me, will you? Are you willing that we
should follow one another thus in life? You do not answer....
--Listen, sir, listen, there is someone in the road.
--There are footsteps, said Marcel, after he had listened. Yes, there are
footsteps. Someone comes. I must not be seen here.... Farewell,
Mademoiselle, farewell.
--Do not go away. That would be the means of compromising us both, for they
must have heard our voices, and your departure would attract suspicions.
--What shall I do? I cannot remain here.
--They cannot have seen us yet: Come in. Under this arbour you will be safe
from any gaze.
--What! said Marcel, you wish...?
--I beseech you, come. This village is full of evil-minded people. It is
more prudent for both of us.
She turned the key, and Marcel glided like a shadow through the half-open
gate, quickly crossed the borders, and threw himself under the arbour.
Suzanne closed the gate again and rejoined him.
LXXII.
THE ASSAULT.
"Be mine, be my sister, for I am all thine,
And well I deserve thee, for long have I loved."
A. DE VIGNY (_Eloa_).
They were standing up under the dark arbour. One close to the other,
excited, panting: they could scarce get their breath again. Does their
heart beat so hard because there is someone in the path? Silence!