that my teaching keeps them back; they want to go quicker than I do.
I’m losing them.... Everyone’s in a hurry nowadays.”
He added in a whisper so low that I could hardly hear him: “I’ve
scarcely any left.”
I felt that he was in such great distress that I didn’t dare question
him.
“Madame de La Pérouse won’t understand. She says I don’t set about it
in the right way--that I don’t do anything to keep them and still less
to get new ones.”
“The pupil you were expecting just now....” I asked awkwardly.
“Oh, she! I’m preparing her for the Conservatoire. She comes here to
practise every day.”
“Which means she doesn’t pay you.”
“Madame de La Pérouse is always reproaching me with it. She can’t
understand that those are the only lessons that interest me; yes, the
only lessons I really care about ... giving. I have taken to reflecting
a great deal lately. Here! there’s something I should like to ask you.
Why is it there is so little about old people in books?... I suppose
it’s because old people aren’t able to write themselves and young
ones don’t take any interest in them. No one’s interested in an old
man.... And yet there are a great many curious things that might be
said about them. For instance: there are certain acts in my past life
which I’m only just beginning to understand. Yes, I’m just beginning
to understand that they haven’t at all the meaning I attached to them
in the old days when I did them.... I’ve only just begun to understand
that I have been a dupe during the whole of my life. Madame de La
Pérouse has fooled me; my son has fooled me; everybody has fooled me;
God has fooled me....”
The evening was closing in. I could hardly make out my old master’s
features; but suddenly the light of the street lamp flashed out and
showed me his cheeks glittering with tears. I looked anxiously at first
at an odd mark on his temple, like a dint, like a hole; but as he moved
a little, the spot changed places and I saw that it was only a shadow
cast by a knob of the balustrade. I put my hand on his scraggy arm; he
shivered.
“You’ll catch cold,” I said. “Really, shan’t we light the fire?... Come
along.”
“No, no; one must harden oneself.”
“What? Stoicism?”
“Yes, a little. It’s because my throat was delicate that I never would
wear a scarf. I have always struggled with myself.”
“That’s all very well as long as one is victorious; but if one’s body
gives way....”
“That would be the real victory.”
He let go my hand and went on: “I was afraid you would go away without
coming to see me.”
“Go where?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You travel so much. There’s something I wanted to say to
you.... I expect to be going away myself soon.”
“What! are you thinking of travelling?” I asked clumsily, pretending
not to understand him, notwithstanding the mysterious solemnity of his
voice. He shook his head.
“You know very well what I mean.... Yes, yes. I know it will soon be
time. I am beginning to earn less than my keep; and I can’t endure it.
There’s a certain point beyond which I have promised myself not to go.”
He spoke in an emotional tone which alarmed me.
“Do you think it is wrong? I have never been able to understand why it
was forbidden by religion. I have reflected a great deal latterly. When
I was young, I led a very austere life; I used to congratulate myself
on my force of character every time I refused a solicitation in the
street. I didn’t understand, that when I thought I was freeing myself,
in reality I was becoming more and more the slave of my own pride.
Every one of these triumphs over myself was another turn of the key in
the door of my prison. That’s what I meant just now by saying that God
had fooled me. He made me take my pride for virtue. He was laughing at
me. It amuses him. I think he plays with us as a cat does with a mouse.
He sends us temptations which he knows we shan’t be able to resist; but
when we do resist he revenges himself still worse. Why does he hate us
so? And why.... But I’m boring you with these old man’s questions.”
He took his head in his hands like a moping child and remained
silent so long that I began to wonder whether he had not forgotten
my presence. I sat motionless in front of him, afraid of disturbing
his meditations. Notwithstanding the noise of the street which was
so close, the calm of the little room seemed to me extraordinary,
and notwithstanding the glimmer of the street lamp, which shed its
fantastic light upon us from down below, like footlights at the
theatre, the shadow on each side of the window seemed to broaden, and
the darkness round us to thicken, as in icy weather the water of a
quiet pool thickens into immobility--till my heart itself thickened
into ice too. At last, shaking myself free from the clutch that held
me, I breathed loudly and, preparatory to taking my leave, I asked out
of politeness and in order to break the spell:
“How is Madame de La Pérouse?”
The old man seemed to wake up out of a dream. He repeated:
“Madame de La Pérouse...?” interrogatively, as if the words were
syllables which had lost all meaning for him; then he suddenly leant
towards me:
“Madame de La Pérouse is in a terrible state ... most painful to me.”
“What kind of state?” I asked.
“Oh, no kind,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, as if there were
nothing to explain. “She is completely out of her mind. She doesn’t
know what to be up to next.”
I had long suspected that the old couple were in profound disagreement,
but without any hope of knowing anything more definite.
“My poor friend,” I said pityingly, “and since when?”
He reflected a moment, as if he had not understood my question.
“Oh, for a long time ... ever since I’ve known her.” Then, correcting
himself almost immediately: “No; in reality it was over my son’s
bringing up that things went wrong.”
I made a gesture of surprise, for I had always thought that the La
Pérouses had no children. He raised his head, which he had been holding
in his hands, and went on more calmly:
“I never mentioned my son to you, eh?... Well, I’ll tell you
everything. You must know all about it now. There’s no one else I can
tell.... Yes, it was over my son’s bringing up. As you see, it’s a long
time ago. The first years of our married life had been delightful. I
was very pure when I married Madame de La Pérouse. I loved her with
innocence ... yes, that’s the best word for it, and I refused to allow
that she had any faults. But we hadn’t the same ideas about bringing
up children. Every time that I wanted to reprove my son, Madame de
La Pérouse took his side against me; according to her, he was to be
allowed to do anything he liked. They were in league together against
me. She taught him to lie.... When he was barely twenty he took a
mistress. She was a pupil of mine--a Russian girl, with a great talent
for music, to whom I was very much attached. Madame de La Pérouse knew
all about it; but of course, as usual, everything was kept from me. And
of course I didn’t notice she was going to have a baby. Not a thing--I
tell you; I never suspected a thing. One fine day, I am informed that
my pupil is unwell, that she won’t be able to come for some time. When
I speak about going to see her, I am told that she has changed her
address--that she is travelling.... It was not till long after that I
learnt that she had gone to Poland for her confinement. My son joined
her there.... They lived together for several years, but he died before
marrying her.”
“And ... she? did you ever see her again?”
He seemed to be butting with his head against some obstacle:
“I couldn’t forgive her for deceiving me. Madame de La Pérouse still
corresponds with her. When I learnt she was in great poverty, I sent
her some money for the child’s sake. But Madame de La Pérouse knows
nothing about that. No more does she ... she doesn’t know the money
came from me.”
“And your grandson?”
A strange smile flitted over his face; he got up.
“Wait a moment. I’ll show you his photograph.” And again he trotted
quickly out of the room, poking his head out in front of him. When he
came back, his fingers trembled as he looked for the picture in a large
letter-case. He held it towards me and, bending forward, whispered in a
low voice:
“I took it from Madame de La Pérouse without her noticing. She thinks
she has lost it.”
“How old is he?” I asked.
“Thirteen. He looks older, doesn’t he? He is very delicate.”
His eyes filled with tears once more; he held out his hand for the
photograph, as if he were anxious to get it back again as quickly as
possible. I leant forward to look at it in the dim light of the street
lamp; I thought the child was like him; I recognized old La Pérouse’s
high, prominent forehead and dreamy eyes. I thought I should please him
by saying so; he protested:
“No, no; it’s my brother he’s like--a brother I lost....”
The child was oddly dressed in a Russian embroidered blouse.
“Where does he live?”
“How can I tell?” cried La Pérouse, in a kind of despair. “They keep
everything from me, I tell you.”
He had taken the photograph, and after having looked at it a moment, he
put it back in the letter-case, which he slipped into his pocket.
“When his mother comes to Paris, she only sees Madame de La Pérouse; if
I question her, she always answers: ‘You had better ask her yourself.’
She says that, but at heart she would hate me to see her. She has
always been jealous. She has always tried to take away everything I
care for.... Little Boris is being educated in Poland--at Warsaw,
I believe. But he often travels with his mother.” Then, in great
excitement: “Oh, would you have thought it possible to love someone
one has never seen?... Well, this child is what I care for most in the
world.... And he doesn’t know!”
His words were broken by great sobs. He rose from his chair and threw
himself--fell almost--into my arms. I would have done anything to give
him some comfort--but what could I do? I got up, for I felt his poor
shrunken form slipping to the ground and I thought he was going to fall
on his knees. I held him up, embraced him, rocked him like a child. He
mastered himself. Madame de La Pérouse was calling in the next room.
“She’s coming.... You don’t want to see her, do you?... Besides, she’s
stone deaf. Go quickly.” And as he saw me out on to the landing:
“Don’t be too long without coming again.” (There was entreaty in his
voice.) “Good-bye; good-bye.”
_Nov. 9th._--There is a kind of tragedy, it seems to me, which has
hitherto almost entirely eluded literature. The novel has dealt with
the contrariness of fate, good or evil fortune, social relationships,
the conflicts of passions and of characters--but not with the very
essence of man’s being.
And yet, the whole effect of Christianity was to transfer the drama
on to the moral plane. But properly speaking there are no Christian
novels. There are novels whose purpose is edification; but that has
nothing to do with what I mean. Moral tragedy--the tragedy, for
instance, which gives such terrific meaning to the Gospel text: “If the
salt have lost his flavour wherewith shall it be salted?”--that is the
tragedy with which I am concerned.
_Nov. 10th._--Olivier’s examination is coming on shortly. Pauline
wants him to try for the _École Normale_ afterwards. His career is
all mapped out.... If only he had no parents, no connections! I would
have made him my secretary. But the thought of me never occurs to him;
he has not even noticed my interest in him, and I should embarrass him
if I showed it. It is because I don’t want to embarrass him that I
affect a kind of indifference in his presence, a kind of detachment.
It is only when he does not see me that I dare look my full at him.
Sometimes I follow him in the street without his knowing it. Yesterday
I was walking behind him in this way, when he turned suddenly round
before I had time to hide.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” I asked him.
“Oh, nowhere particular. I always seem most in a hurry when I have
nothing to do.”
We took a few steps together, but without finding anything to say to
each other. He was certainly put out at having been met.
_Nov. 12th._--He has parents, an elder brother, school friends....
I keep repeating this to myself all day long--and that there is no room
for me. I should no doubt be able to make up anything that might be
lacking to him, but nothing is. He needs nothing; and if his sweetness
delights me, there is nothing in it that allows me for a moment to
deceive myself.... Oh, foolish words, which I write in spite of myself
and which discover the duplicity of my heart.... I am leaving for
London to-morrow. I have suddenly made up my mind to go away. It is
time.
To go away because one is too anxious to stay!... A certain love of the
arduous--a horror of indulgence (towards oneself, I mean) is perhaps
the part of my Puritan up-bringing which I find it hardest to free
myself from.
Yesterday, at Smith’s, bought a copy-book (English already) in which
to continue my diary. I will write nothing more in this one. A new
copy-book!...
Ah! if it were myself I could leave behind!
XIV
BERNARD AND LAURA
_Il arrive quelquefois des accidents dans la vie, d’où il faut être
un peu fou pour se bien tirer._
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
IT WAS with Laura’s letter, which Edouard had inserted into his
journal, that Bernard’s reading came to an end. The truth flashed upon
him; it was impossible to doubt that the woman whose words rang so
beseechingly in this letter was the same despairing creature of whom
Olivier had told him the night before--Vincent Molinier’s discarded
mistress. And it became suddenly evident to Bernard that, thanks to
this two-fold confidence, Olivier’s, and Edouard’s in his journal, he
was as yet the only one to know the two sides of the intrigue. It was
an advantage he could not keep long; he must play his cards quickly
and skilfully. He made up his mind at once. Without forgetting, for
that matter, any of the other things he had read, Bernard now fixed his
attention upon Laura.
“This morning I was still uncertain as to what I ought to do; now I
have no longer any doubt,” he said to himself, as he darted out of the
room. “The imperative, as they say, is categorical. I must save Laura.
It was not perhaps my duty to take the suit-case, but having taken it,
I have certainly found in the suit-case a lively sense of my duty.
The important thing is to come upon Laura before Edouard can get to
her; to introduce myself and offer my services in such a way that she
cannot take me for a swindler. The rest will be easy. At this moment
I have enough in my pocket-book to come to the rescue of misfortune
as magnificently as the most generous and the most compassionate of
Edouards. The only thing which bothers me is how to do it. For Laura
is a Vedel, and though she is about to become a mother in defiance of
the code, she is no doubt a sensitive creature. I imagine her the kind
of woman who stands on her dignity and flings her contempt in your
face, as she tears up the bank-notes you offer her--with benevolence,
but in too flimsy an envelope. How shall I present the notes? How
shall I present _myself_? That’s the rub! As soon as one leaves
the high road of legality, in what a tangle one finds oneself! I
really am rather young to mix myself up in an intrigue as stiff as
this. But, hang it all, youth’s my strong point. Let’s invent a candid
confession--a touching and interesting story. The trouble is that it’s
got to do for Edouard as well; the same one--and without giving myself
away. Oh! I shall think of something. Let’s trust to the inspiration of
the moment....”
He had reached the address given by Laura, in the Rue de Beaune. The
hotel was exceedingly modest, but clean and respectable looking.
Following the porter’s directions, he went up three floors. Outside
the door of No. 16 he stopped, tried to prepare his entry, to find
some words; he could think of nothing; then he made a dash for it and
knocked. A gentle, sister-like voice, with, he thought, a touch of fear
in it, answered:
“Come in!”
Laura was very simply dressed, all in black; she looked as if she
were in mourning. During the few days she had been in Paris, she had
been vaguely waiting for something or somebody to get her out of her
straits. She had taken the wrong road, not a doubt of it; she felt
completely lost. She had the unfortunate habit of counting on the event
rather than on herself. She was not without virtue, but now that she
had been abandoned she felt that all her strength had left her. At
Bernard’s entrance, she raised one hand to her face, like someone who
keeps back a cry or shades his eyes from too bright a light. She was
standing, and took a step backwards; then, finding herself close to
the window, with her other hand she caught hold of the curtain.
Bernard stopped, waiting for her to question him; but she too waited
for him to speak. He looked at her; with a beating heart, he tried in
vain to smile.
“Excuse me, Madame,” he said at last, “for disturbing you in this
manner. Edouard X., whom I believe you know, arrived in Paris this
morning. I have something urgent to say to him; I thought you might
be able to give me his address and ... forgive me for coming so
unceremoniously to ask for it.”
Had Bernard not been so young, Laura would doubtless have been
frightened. But he was still a child, with eyes so frank, so clear a
brow, so timid a bearing, a voice so ill-assured, that fear yielded to
curiosity, to interest, to that irresistible sympathy which a simple
and beautiful being always arouses. Bernard’s voice gathered a little
courage as he spoke.
“But I don’t know his address,” said Laura. “If he is in Paris, he will
come to see me without delay, I hope. Tell me who you are. I will tell
him.”
“Now’s the moment to risk everything,” thought Bernard. Something wild
flashed across his eyes. He looked Laura steadily in the face.
“Who I am?... Olivier Molinier’s friend....” He hesitated, still
uncertain; but seeing her turn pale at this name, he ventured further:
“Olivier, Vincent’s brother--the brother of your lover, who has so
vilely abandoned you....”
He had to stop. Laura was tottering. Her two hands, flung backwards,
were anxiously searching for some support. But what upset Bernard
more than anything was the moan she gave--a kind of wail which was
scarcely human, more like that of some hunted, wounded animal (and the
sportsman, suddenly filled with shame, feels himself an executioner);
so odd a cry it was, so different from anything that Bernard expected,
that he shuddered. He understood all of a sudden that this was a matter
of real life, of veritable pain, and everything he had felt up till
that moment seemed to him mere show and pretence. An emotion surged
up in him so unfamiliar that he was unable to master it. It rose to
his throat.... What! is he sobbing? Is it possible?... He, Bernard!...
He rushes forward to hold her up, and kneels before her, and murmurs
through his sobs:
“Oh, forgive me ... forgive; I have hurt you.... I knew that you were
in difficulties, and ... I wanted to help you.”
But Laura, gasping for breath, felt that she was fainting. She cast
round with her eyes for somewhere to sit down. Bernard, whose gaze
was fixed upon her, understood her look. He sprang towards a small
arm-chair at the foot of the bed, with a rapid movement pushed it
towards her, and she dropped heavily into it.
At this moment there occurred a grotesque incident which I hesitate to
relate, but it was decisive of Laura’s and Bernard’s relationship, by
unexpectedly relieving them of their embarrassment. I shall therefore
not attempt to embellish the scene by any artifices.
For the price which Laura paid for her room (I mean, which the
hotel-keeper asked her) one could not have expected the furniture to
be elegant, but one might have hoped it would be solid. Now the small
arm-chair, which Bernard pushed towards Laura, was somewhat unsteady on
its feet; that is to say, it had a great propensity to fold back one
of its legs, as a bird does under its wing--which is natural enough
in a bird, but unusual and regrettable in an arm-chair; this one,
moreover, hid its infirmity as best it could beneath a thick fringe.
Laura was well acquainted with her arm-chair, and knew that it must be
handled with extreme precaution; but in her agitation she forgot this
and only remembered it when she felt the chair giving way beneath her.
She suddenly gave a little cry--quite different from the long moan she
had uttered just before, slipped to one side, and a moment later found
herself sitting on the floor, between the arms of Bernard, who had
hurried to the rescue. Bashful, but amused, he had been obliged to put
one knee on the ground. Laura’s face therefore happened to be quite
close to his; he watched her blush. She made an effort to get up; he
helped her.
“You’ve not hurt yourself?”
“No; thanks to you. This arm-chair is ridiculous; it has been mended
once already.... I think if the leg is put quite straight, it will
hold.”
“I’ll arrange it,” said Bernard. “There!... Will you try it?” Then,
thinking better of it: “No; allow me. It would be safer for me to try
it first. Look! It’s all right now. I can move my legs” (which he did,
laughing). Then, as he rose: “Sit down now, and if you’ll allow me
to stay a moment or two longer, I’ll take this chair. I’ll sit near
you, so that I shall be able to prevent you from falling. Don’t be
frightened.... I wish I could do more for you.”
There was so much ardour in his voice, so much reserve in his manners,
and in his movements so much grace, that Laura could not forbear a
smile.
“You haven’t told me your name yet.”
“Bernard.”
“Yes. But your family name?”
“I have no family.”
“Well, your parents’ name.”
“I have no parents. That is, I am what the child you are expecting will
be--a bastard.”
The smile vanished from Laura’s face; she was outraged by this
insistent determination to force an entrance into her intimacy and to
violate the secret of her life.
“But how do you know?... Who told you?... You have no right to know....”
Bernard was launched now; he spoke loudly and boldly:
“I know both what my friend Olivier knows and what your friend Edouard
knows. Only each of them as yet knows only half your secret. I am
probably the only person besides yourself to know the whole of it....
So you see,” he added more gently, “it’s essential that I should be
your friend.”
“Oh, how can people be so indiscreet?” murmured Laura sadly. “But
... if you haven’t seen Edouard, he can’t have spoken to you. Has he
written to you?... Is it he who has sent you?”...
Bernard had given himself away; he had spoken too quickly and had not
been able to resist bragging a little. He shook his head. Laura’s face
grew still darker. At that moment a knock was heard at the door.
Whether they will or no, a link is created between two creatures who
experience a common emotion. Bernard felt himself trapped; Laura was
vexed at being surprised in company. They looked at each other like two
accomplices. Another knock was heard. Both together said:
“Come in.”
For some minutes Edouard had been listening outside the door,
astonished at hearing voices in Laura’s room. Bernard’s last sentences
had explained everything. He could not doubt their meaning; he could
not doubt that the speaker was the stealer of his suit-case. His mind
was immediately made up. For Edouard is one of those beings whose
faculties, which seem benumbed in the ordinary routine of daily life,
spring into activity at the call of the unexpected. He opened the
door therefore, but remained on the threshold, smiling and looking
alternately at Laura and Bernard, who had both risen.
“Allow me, my dear Laura,” said he, with a gesture as though to put
off any effusions till later. “I must first say a word or two to this
gentleman, if he will be so good as to step into the passage for a
moment.”
His smile became more ironical when Bernard joined him.
“I thought I should find you here.”
Bernard understood that the game was up. There was nothing for him to
do but to put a bold face on it, which he did with the feeling that he
was playing his last card:
“I hoped I should meet you.”
“In the first place--if you haven’t done so already (for I’ll do you
the credit of believing that that is what you came for), you will go
downstairs to the bureau and settle Madame Douviers’ bill with the
money you found in my suit-case and which you must have on you. Don’t
come up again for ten minutes.”
All this was said gravely but with nothing comminatory in the tone. In
the mean time Bernard had recovered his self-possession.