I to go? Say something to me! Oh, speak to me!’... And she called him
again by his name, and went on repeating: ‘My lover! My lover!’ And her
voice became sadder and sadder and lower and lower. And then I heard
a noise (they must have been standing on the stairs), a noise like
something falling. I think she must have flung herself on her knees.”
“And didn’t he answer anything? Nothing at all?”
“He must have gone up the last steps; I heard the door of the flat
shut. And after that, she stayed a long time quite near--almost up
against my door. I heard her sobbing.”
“You should have opened the door.”
“I didn’t dare. Vincent would be furious if he thought I knew anything
about his affairs. And then I was afraid it might embarrass her to be
found crying. I don’t know what I could have said to her.”
Bernard had turned towards Olivier:
“In your place I should have opened.”
“Oh, you! You’re never afraid of anything. You do everything that comes
into your head.”
“Is that a reproach?”
“Oh, no. It’s envy.”
“Have you any idea who the woman is?”
“How on earth should I know? Good-night.”
“I say, are you sure George hasn’t heard us?” whispers Bernard in
Olivier’s ear. They listen a moment with bated breath.
“No,” Olivier goes on in his ordinary voice. “He’s asleep. And besides,
he wouldn’t understand. Do you know what he asked Papa the other
day...?”
At this, George can contain himself no longer. He sits up in his bed
and breaks into his brother’s sentence.
“You ass!” he cries. “Didn’t you see I was doing it on purpose?... Good
Lord, yes! I’ve heard every word you’ve been saying. But you needn’t
excite yourselves. I’ve known all about Vincent for ever so long.
And now, my young friends, talk a little lower please, because I’m
sleepy--or else hold your tongues.”
Olivier turns toward the wall. Bernard, who cannot sleep, looks out
into the room. It seems bigger in the moonlight. As a matter of fact,
he hardly knows it. Olivier was never there during the daytime; the few
times that Bernard had been to see him, it was in the flat upstairs.
But it was after school hours, when they came out of the _lycée_,
that the two friends usually met. The moonlight has reached the foot of
the bed in which George has at last gone to sleep; he has heard almost
everything that his brother has said. He has matter for his dreams.
Above George’s bed Bernard can just make out a little book-case with
two shelves full of school-books. On a table near Olivier’s bed, he
sees a larger sized book; he puts out his hand and takes it to look at
the title--Tocqueville; but as he is putting it back on the table, he
drops it and the noise wakes Olivier up.
“Are you reading Tocqueville now?”
“Dulac lent it me.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s rather boring, but some of it’s very good.”
“I say, what are you doing to-morrow?”
To-morrow is Thursday and there is no school. Bernard thinks he
may meet his friend somewhere. He does not mean to go back to the
_lycée_; he thinks he can do without the last lectures and finish
preparing for his examination by himself.
“To-morrow,” says Olivier, “I’m going to St. Lazare railway station at
11.30 to meet my Uncle Edouard, who is arriving from Le Havre, on his
way from England. In the afternoon, I’m engaged to go to the Louvre
with Dhurmer. The rest of the time I’ve got to work.”
“Your Uncle Edouard?”
“Yes. He’s a half brother of Mamma’s. He’s been away for six months and
I hardly know him; but I like him very much. He doesn’t know I’m going
to meet him and I’m rather afraid I mayn’t recognize him. He’s not in
the least like the rest of the family; he’s somebody quite out of the
common.”
“What does he do?”
“He writes. I’ve read nearly all his books; but he hasn’t published
anything for a long time.”
“Novels?”
“Yes; kind of novels.”
“Why have you never told me about them?”
“Because you’d have wanted to read them; and if you hadn’t liked
them....”
“Well, finish your sentence.”
“Well, I should have hated it. There!”
“What makes you say that he’s out of the common?”
“I don’t exactly know. I told you I hardly know him. It’s more of a
presentiment. I feel that he’s interested in all sorts of things that
don’t interest my parents and that there’s nothing that one couldn’t
talk to him about. One day--it was just before he went away--he had
been to lunch with us; all the time he was talking to Papa I felt he
kept looking at me and it began to make me uncomfortable; I was going
to leave the room--it was the dining-room--where we had stayed on after
coffee, but then he began to question Papa about me, which made me more
uncomfortable than ever; and suddenly Papa got up and went to fetch
some verses I had written and which I had been idiotic enough to show
him.”
“Verses of yours?”
“Yes; you know--that poem you said you thought was like _Le
Balcon_. I knew it wasn’t any good--or hardly any--and I was furious
with Papa for bringing it out. For a minute or two, while Papa was
fetching the poem, we were alone together, Uncle Edouard and I, and I
felt myself blushing horribly. I couldn’t think of anything to say to
him. I looked away--so did he, for that matter; he began by rolling a
cigarette and lighting it and then to put me at my ease, no doubt, for
he certainly saw I was blushing, he got up and went and looked out of
the window. He was whistling. Then he suddenly said, ‘I feel far more
embarrassed than you do, you know.’ But I think it was just kindness.
At last Papa came back again; he handed my verses to Uncle Edouard,
and he began to read them. I was in such a state that I think if he
had paid me compliments, I should have insulted him. Evidently Papa
expected him to--pay me compliments--and as my uncle said nothing, he
asked him what he thought of them. But Uncle Edouard answered him,
laughing, ‘I can’t speak to him comfortably about them before you.’
Then Papa laughed too and went out. And when we were alone again, he
said he thought my verses were very bad, but I liked hearing him say
so; and what I liked still more was that suddenly he put his finger
down on two lines--the only two I cared for in the whole thing; he
looked at me and said, ‘That’s good!’ Wasn’t it nice? And if you only
knew the tone in which he said it! I could have hugged him. Then he
said my mistake was to start from an idea, and that I didn’t allow
myself to be guided sufficiently by the words. I didn’t understand very
well at first; but I think I see now what he meant--and that he was
right. I’ll explain it to you another time.”
“I understand now why you want to go and meet him.”
“Oh, all that’s nothing and I don’t know why I’ve told you about it. We
said a great deal more to one another.”
“At 11.30 did you say? How do you know he’s coming by that train?”
“Because he wrote and told Mamma on a post-card; and then I looked it
up in the time-table.”
“Will you have lunch with him?”
“Oh, no. I must be back here by twelve. I shall just have time to shake
hands with him. But that’s enough for me.... Oh, one thing more before
I go to sleep. When shall I see you again?”
“Not for some days. Not before I’ve got something fixed up.”
“All the same.... Couldn’t I help you somehow...?”
“You? Help me? No. It wouldn’t be fair play. I should feel as if I were
cheating. Good-night.”
IV
VINCENT AND THE COMTE DE PASSAVANT
_Mon père était une bête, mais ma mère avait de l’esprit; elle était
quiétiste; c’était une petite femme douce qui me disait souvent: Mon
fils, vous serez damné. Mais cela ne lui faisait pas de peine._
FONTENELLE.
No, it was not to see his mistress that Vincent Molinier went out every
evening. Quickly as he walks, let us follow him. He goes along the Rue
Notre Dame des Champs, at the further end of which he lives, until
he reaches the Rue Placide, which is its prolongation; then he turns
down the Rue du Bac, where there are still a few belated passers-by.
In the Rue de Babylone, he stops in front of a _porte-cochère_
which swings open to let him in. The Comte de Passavant lives here.
If Vincent were not in the habit of coming often, he would enter this
sumptuous mansion with a less confident air. The footman who comes to
the door knows well enough how much timidity this feigned assurance
hides. Vincent, with a touch of affectation, instead of handing him his
hat, tosses it on to an arm-chair.
It is only recently that Vincent has taken to coming here. Robert
de Passavant, who now calls himself his friend, is the friend of
a great many people. I am not very sure how he and Vincent became
acquainted. At the _lycée_, I expect--though Robert de Passavant
is perceptibly older than Vincent; they had lost sight of each other
for several years and then, quite lately, had met again one evening
when, by some unusual chance, Olivier had gone with his brother to the
theatre; during the _entr’acte_ Passavant had invited them both to
take an ice with him; he had learnt that Vincent had just finished his
last medical examinations and was undecided as to whether he should
take a place as house physician in a hospital; science attracted him
more than medicine, but the necessity of earning his living ... in
short, Vincent accepted with pleasure the very remunerative offer
Robert de Passavant had made him a little later of coming every
evening, to attend his old father, who had lately undergone a very
serious operation; it was a matter of bandages, of injections, of
soundings--in fact, of whatever delicate services you please, which
necessitate the ministrations of an expert hand.
But, added to this, the Vicomte had secret reasons for wishing a
nearer acquaintance with Vincent; and Vincent had still others for
consenting. Robert’s secret reason we shall try to discover later on.
As for Vincent’s--it was this: he was urgently in need of money. When
your heart is in the right place and a wholesome education has early
instilled into you a sense of your responsibilities, you don’t get
a woman with child, without feeling yourself more or less bound to
her--especially when the woman has left her husband to follow you.
Up till then, Vincent had lived on the whole virtuously. His adventure
with Laura appeared to him alternately, according to the moment of
the day in which he thought of it, as either monstrous or perfectly
natural. It very often suffices to add together a quantity of little
facts which, taken separately, are very simple and very natural, to
arrive at a sum which is monstrous. He said all this to himself over
and over again as he walked along, but it didn’t get him out of his
difficulties. No doubt, he had never thought of taking this woman
permanently under his protection--of marrying her after a divorce,
or of living with her without marrying; he was obliged to confess to
himself that he had no very violent passion for her; but he knew she
was in Paris without means of subsistence; he was the cause of her
distress; at the very least he owed her that first precarious aid
which he felt himself less and less able to give her--less to-day
than yesterday. For last week he still possessed the five thousand
francs which his mother had patiently and laboriously saved to give
him a start in his profession; those five thousand francs would have
sufficed, no doubt, to pay for his mistress’s confinement, for her stay
in a nursing home, for the child’s first necessaries. To what demon’s
advice then had he listened? What demon had hinted to him one evening
that this sum which he had as good as given to Laura, which he had laid
by for her, pledged to her--that this sum would be insufficient? No,
it was not Robert de Passavant; Robert had never said anything of the
kind; but his proposal to take Vincent with him to a gambling club fell
out precisely the same evening. And Vincent had accepted.
The hell in question was a particularly treacherous one, inasmuch as
the habitués were all people in society and the whole thing took place
on a friendly footing. Robert introduced his friend Vincent to one and
another. Vincent, who was taken unawares, was not able to play high
that first evening. He had hardly anything on him and refused the notes
which the Vicomte offered to advance him. But as he began by winning,
he regretted not being able to stake more and promised to go back the
next night.
“Everybody knows you now; there’s no need for me to come with you
again,” said Robert.
These meetings took place at Pierre de Brouville’s, commonly known as
Pedro. After this first evening Robert de Passavant had put his car at
his friend’s disposal. Vincent used to look in about eleven o’clock,
smoke a cigarette with Robert, and after chatting for ten minutes or
so, go upstairs. His stay there was more or less lengthy according to
the Count’s patience, temper or requirements; after this he drove in
the car to Pedro’s in the Rue St. Florentin, whence about an hour later
the car took him back--not actually to his own door, for he was afraid
of attracting attention, but to the nearest corner.
The night before last, Laura Douviers, seated on the steps which led to
the Moliniers’ flat, had waited for Vincent till three o’clock in the
morning; it was not till then that he had come in. As a matter of fact,
Vincent had not been at Pedro’s that night. Two days had gone by since
he had lost every penny of the five thousand francs. He had informed
Laura of this; he had written that he could do nothing more for her;
that he advised her to go back to her husband or her father--to confess
everything. But things had gone so far, that confession seemed
impossible to Laura and she could not contemplate it with any sort of
calm. Her lover’s objurgations merely aroused indignation in her--an
indignation which only subsided to leave her a prey to despair. This
was the state in which Vincent had found her. She had tried to keep
him; he had torn himself from her grasp. Doubtless, he had to steel
himself to do it, for he had a tender heart; but he was more of a
pleasure-seeker than a lover and he had easily persuaded himself that
duty itself demanded harshness. He had answered nothing to all her
entreaties and lamentations, and as Olivier, who had heard them, told
Bernard afterwards, when Vincent shut the door against her, she had
sunk down on the steps and remained for a long time sobbing in the dark.
More than forty hours had gone by since that night. The day before,
Vincent had not gone to Robert de Passavant’s, whose father seemed to
be recovering; but that evening a telegram had summoned him. Robert
wished to see him. When Vincent entered the room in which Robert
usually sat--a room which he used as his study and smoking-room and
which he had been at some pains to decorate and fit up in his own
fashion--Robert carelessly held out his hand to him over his shoulder,
without rising.
Robert is writing. He is sitting at a bureau littered with books.
Facing him the French window which gives on to the garden, stands wide
open in the moonlight. He speaks without turning round.
“Do you know what I am writing? But you won’t mention it, will you? You
promise, eh?--a manifesto for the opening number of Dhurmer’s review.
I shan’t sign it, of course--especially as I puff myself in it.... And
then as it’ll certainly come out in the long run that I’m financing it,
I don’t want it known too soon that I write for it. So mum’s the word!
But it’s just occurred to me--didn’t you say that young brother of
yours wrote? What’s his name again?”
“Olivier,” says Vincent.
“Olivier! Yes; I had forgotten. Don’t stay standing there like
that! Sit down in that arm-chair. You’re not cold? Shall I shut the
window?... It’s poetry he writes, isn’t it? He ought to bring me
something to see. Of course, I don’t promise to take it.... But, all
the same, I should be surprised if it were bad. He looks an intelligent
boy. And then he’s obviously _au courant_. I should like to
talk to him. Tell him to come and see me, eh? Mind, I count on it. A
cigarette?” And he holds out his silver cigarette-case.
“With pleasure.”
“Now then, Vincent, listen to me. I must speak to you very seriously.
You behaved like a child the other evening ... so did I, for that
matter. I don’t say it was wrong of me to take you to Pedro’s, but I
feel responsible, a little, for the money you’ve lost. I don’t know
if that’s what’s meant by remorse, but, upon my word, it’s beginning
to disturb my sleep and my digestion. And then, when I think of that
unhappy woman you told me about.... But that’s another story. We
won’t speak of that. It’s sacred. What I want to say is this--that I
wish--yes, I’m absolutely determined to put at your disposal a sum of
money equivalent to what you’ve lost. It was five thousand francs,
wasn’t it? And you’re to risk it again. Once more, I repeat, I consider
myself the cause of your losing this money--I owe it to you--there’s no
need to thank me. You’ll pay me back if you win. If not--worse luck!
We shall be quits. Go back to Pedro’s this evening, as if nothing had
happened. The car will take you there; then it’ll come back here to
take me to Lady Griffith’s, where I’ll ask you to join me later on. I
count upon it, eh? The car will fetch you from Pedro’s.”
He opens a drawer and takes out five notes which he hands to Vincent.
“Be off with you, now.”
“But your father?”
“Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you: he died about....” He pulls out his
watch and exclaims: “By Jove! how late it is! Nearly midnight.... You
must make haste. Yes, about four hours ago.”
All this is said without any quickening of his voice, on the contrary
with a kind of nonchalance.
“And aren’t you going to stay to....”
“To watch by the body?” interrupts Robert. “No, that’s my young
brother’s business. He is up there with his old nurse, who was on
better terms with the deceased than I was.”
Then as Vincent remains motionless, he goes on:
“Look here, my dear fellow, I don’t want to appear cynical, but I
have a horror of reach-me-down sentiments. In my early days I cut
out my filial love according to the pattern I had in my heart; but I
soon saw that my measurements had been too ample, and I was obliged
to take it in. The old man never in his life occasioned me anything
but trouble and vexation and constraint. If he had any tenderness
left, it was certainly not to me that he showed it. My first impulses
of affection towards him, in the days before I knew how to behave,
brought me nothing but snubs--and I learnt my lesson. You must have
seen for yourself when you were attending him.... Did he ever thank
you? Did you ever get the slightest look, the smallest smile from him?
He always thought everything his due. Oh, he was what people call a
_character_! I think he must have made my mother very unhappy,
and yet he loved her--that is, if he ever really loved anyone. I think
he made everyone who came near him suffer--his servants, his dogs, his
horses, his mistresses; not his friends, for he had none. A general
sigh of relief will go up at his death. He was, I believe, a man of
great distinction in ‘his line,’ as people say; but I have never been
able to discover what it was. He was very intelligent, undoubtedly.
At heart, I had--I still have--a certain admiration for him--but as
for making play with a handkerchief--as for wringing tears out ... no,
thank you, I’m no longer child enough for that. Be off with you now!
And join me in an hour’s time at Lilian’s. What! you’re not dressed?
Absurd! What does it matter? But if it’ll make you more comfortable,
I’ll promise not to change either. Agreed! Light a cigar before you go
and send the car back quickly--it’ll fetch you again afterwards.”
He watched Vincent go out, shrugged his shoulders, then went into his
dressing-room to change into his dress suit, which was ready laid out
for him on a sofa.
In a room on the first floor, the old count is lying on his death-bed.
Someone has placed a crucifix on his breast, but has omitted to fold
his hands over it. A beard of some days’ growth softens the stubborn
angle of his chin. Beneath his grey hair, which is brushed up _en
brosse_, the wrinkles that line his forehead seem less deeply
graven, as though they were relaxed. His eye is sunk beneath the arch
of the brow and the shaggy growth of the eyebrow. I know that we shall
never see him again, and that is the reason that I take a long look at
him. Beside the head of the bed is an arm-chair, in which is seated the
old nurse Séraphine. But she has risen. She goes up to a table where an
old-fashioned lamp is dimly lighting the room; it needs turning up. A
lamp-shade casts the light on to the book young Gontran is reading....
“You’re tired, Master Gontran. You had better go to bed.”
The glance that Gontran raises from his book to rest upon Séraphine is
very gentle. His fair hair, a lock of which he pushes back from his
forehead, waves loosely over his temples. He is fifteen years old, and
his face, which is still almost girlish, expresses nothing as yet but
tenderness and love.
“And you?” he says. “It is you who ought to go to bed, you poor old
Fine. Last night, you were on your feet nearly the whole time.”
“Oh, I’m accustomed to sitting up. And besides I slept during the
daytime--but you....”
“No, I’m all right. I don’t feel tired; and it does me good to stay
here thinking and reading. I knew Papa so little; I think I should
forget him altogether if I didn’t take a good look at him now. I will
sit beside him till daylight. How long is it, Fine, since you came to
us?”
“I came the year before you were born, and you’re nearly sixteen.”
“Do you remember Mamma quite well?”
“Do I remember your Mamma? What a question! You might as well ask me if
I remember my own name. To be sure, I remember your Mamma.”
“I remember her too--a little.... But not very well.... I was only five
when she died. Used Papa to talk to her much?”
“It depended on his mood. Your Papa was never a one to talk much, and
he didn’t care to be spoken to first. All the same in those days he
was a little more talkative than he has been of late.... But there now!
What’s past is past, and it’s better not to stir it up again. There’s
One above who’s a better judge of these things than we are.”
“Do you really think that He concerns Himself about such things, dear
Fine?”
“Why, if He doesn’t, who should then?”
Gontran puts his lips on Séraphine’s red, roughened hand. “You really
ought to go to bed now. I promise to wake you as soon as it is light,
and then I’ll take my turn to rest. Please!”
As soon as Séraphine has left him, Gontran falls upon his knees at
the foot of the bed; he buries his head in the sheets, but he cannot
succeed in weeping. No emotion stirs his heart; his eyes remain
despairingly dry. Then he gets up and looks at the impassive face
on the bed. At this solemn moment, he would like to have some rare,
sublime experience--hear a message from the world beyond--send his
thought flying into ethereal regions, inaccessible to mortal senses.
But no! his thought remains obstinately grovelling on the earth; he
looks at the dead man’s bloodless hands and wonders for how much longer
the nails will go on growing. The sight of the unclasped hands grates
on him. He would like to join them, to make them hold the crucifix.
What a good idea! He thinks of Séraphine’s astonishment when she sees
the dead hands folded together; the thought of Séraphine’s astonishment
amuses him; and then he despises himself for being amused. Nevertheless
he stoops over the bed. He seizes the arm which is farthest from him.
The arm is stiff and will not bend. Gontran tries to force it, but the
whole body moves with it. He seizes the other arm, which seems a little
less rigid. Gontran almost succeeds in putting the hand in the proper
place. He takes the crucifix and tries to slip it between the fingers
and the thumb, but the contact of the cold flesh turns him sick. He
thinks he is going to faint. He has a mind to call Séraphine back. He
gives up everything--the crucifix, which drops aslant on the tumbled
sheet, and the lifeless arm, which falls back again into its first
position; then, through the depths of the funereal silence, he suddenly
hears a rough and brutal “God damn!” which fills him with terror, as
if someone else.... He turns round--but no! he is alone. It was from
his own lips, from his own heart, that that resounding curse broke
forth--his, who until to-day has never uttered an oath! Then he sits
down and plunges again into his reading.
V
VINCENT MEETS PASSAVANT AT LADY GRIFFITH’S
_C’était une âme et un corps où n’entrait jamais l’aiguillon._
SAINTE-BEUVE.