"It depends on what?"
He hesitates to answer; then, in a mysterious and, at the same time,
somewhat excited tone, he says:
"On a certain matter; on a very important matter."
"But what matter?"
"Oh! on a certain matter, that's all."
This is uttered in a brusque voice,--a voice not of anger exactly, but
of impatience. He refuses to explain further.
He says nothing to me of myself. This astonishes me, and causes
me a painful disappointment. Can he have changed his mind? Has my
curiosity, my hesitation, wearied him? Yet it is very natural that I
should be interested in an event in the success or failure of which I
am to share. Can the suspicion that I have not been able to hide, my
suspicion of the outrage committed by him upon the little Claire, have
caused Joseph to reflect further, and brought about a rupture between
us? But I feel from the tremor of my heart that my resolution, deferred
out of coquetry, out of a disposition to tease, was well taken. To be
free, to be enthroned behind a bar, to command others, to know that one
is looked at, desired, adored by so many men! And that is not to be?
And this dream is to escape me, as all the others have? I do not wish
to seem to be throwing myself at Joseph's head, but I wish to know what
he has in his mind. I put on a sad face, and I sigh:
"When you have gone, Joseph, the house will no longer be endurable to
me. I have become so accustomed to you now, to our conversations."
"Oh! indeed!"
"I too shall go away."
Joseph says nothing.
He walks up and down the harness-room, with anxious brow and
preoccupied mind, his hands nervously twirling a pair of garden-shears
in the pocket of his blue apron. The expression of his face is
unpleasant. I repeat, as I watch him go back and forth:
"Yes, I shall go away; I shall return to Paris."
He utters not a word of protest, not a cry; not even an imploring
glance does he turn upon me. He puts a stick of wood in the stove, as
the fire is low, and then begins again his silent promenade up and down
the room. Why is he like this? Does he, then, accept this separation?
Does he want it? Has he, then, lost his confidence in me, the love
that he had for me? Or does he simply fear my imprudence, my eternal
questions?
Trembling a little, I ask him:
"Will it cause you no pain, Joseph, if we do not see each other again?"
Without halting in his walk, without even glancing at me out of the
corner of his eye, in the manner so characteristic of him, he says:
"Of course. But what can you expect? One cannot oblige people to do
what they refuse to do. A thing either pleases, or it does not please."
"What have I refused to do, Joseph?"
"And besides, you are always full of bad ideas about me," he continues,
without answering my question.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because...."
"No, no, Joseph; you no longer love me; you have something else in
mind now. I have refused nothing; I have reflected, that is all. It is
natural enough, isn't it? One does not make a life-contract without
reflection. My hesitation, on the contrary, ought to make you think
well of me. It proves that I am not light-headed,--that I am a serious
woman."
"You are a good woman, Célestine, an orderly woman."
"Well, then?"
At last Joseph stops walking, and, gazing at me with profound and still
suspicious, but yet tenderer, eyes, he says, slowly:
"It is not that, Célestine. There is no question of that. I do not
prevent you from reflecting. Reflect all you like. There is plenty of
time, and we will talk again on my return. But what I do not like, you
see, is so much curiosity. There are things that do not concern women;
there are things...."
And he finishes his phrase with a shake of his head.
After a moment's silence he resumes:
"I have nothing else in mind, Célestine. I dream of you; I am crazy
over you. As true as the good God exists, what I have said once I say
always. We will talk it over again. But you must not be curious. You
do what you do; I do what I do. In that way there is no mistake, no
surprise."
Approaching me, he grasps my hands.
"I have a hard head, Célestine; yes, indeed! But what is in it stays in
it, and cannot be gotten out of it. I dream of you, Célestine, of you
... in the little café."