"WE ARE ROBBING LIFE"
Dechartre came to the carriage to salute the two travellers. Separated
from him, Therese felt what he was to her: he had given to her a new
taste of life, delicious and so vivid, so real, that she felt it on her
lips. She lived under a charm in the dream of seeing him again, and was
surprised when Madame Marmet, along the journey, said: "I think we are
passing the frontier," or "Rose-bushes are in bloom by the seaside."
She was joyful when, after a night at the hotel in Marseilles, she saw
the gray olive-trees in the stony fields, then the mulberry-trees and the
distant profile of Mount Pilate, and the Rhone, and Lyons, and then the
familiar landscapes, the trees raising their summits into bouquets
clothed in tender green, and the lines of poplars beside the rivers.
She enjoyed the plenitude of the hours she lived and the astonishment of
profound joys. And it was with the smile of a sleeper suddenly awakened
that, at the station in Paris, in the light of the station, she greeted
her husband, who was glad to see her. When she kissed Madame Marmet,
she told her that she thanked her with all her heart. And truly she was
grateful to all things, like M. Choulette's St. Francis.
In the coupe, which followed the quays in the luminous dust of the
setting sun, she listened without impatience to her husband confiding to
her his successes as an orator, the intentions of his parliamentary
groups, his projects, his hopes, and the necessity to give two or three
political dinners. She closed her eyes in order to think better. She
said to herself: "I shall have a letter to-morrow, and shall see him
again within eight days." When the coupe passed on the bridge, she
looked at the water, which seemed to roll flames; at the smoky arches;
at the rows of trees; at the heads of the chestnut-trees in bloom on the
Cours-la-Reine; all these familiar aspects seemed to be clothed for her
in novel magnificence. It seemed to her that her love had given a new
color to the universe. And she asked herself whether the trees and the
stones recognized her. She was thinking; "How is it that my silence, my
eyes, and heaven and earth do not tell my dear secret?"
M. Martin-Belleme, thinking she was a little tired, advised her to rest.
And at night, closeted in her room, in the silence wherein she heard the
palpitations of her heart, she wrote to the absent one a letter full of
these words, which are similar to flowers in their perpetual novelty:
"I love you. I am waiting for you. I am happy. I feel you are near me.
There is nobody except you and me in the world. I see from my window a
blue star which trembles, and I look at it, thinking that you see it in
Florence. I have put on my table the little red lily spoon. Come!
Come!" And she found thus, fresh in her mind, the eternal sensations and
images.
For a week she lived an inward life, feeling within her the soft warmth
which remained of the days passed in the Via Alfieri, breathing the
kisses which she had received, and loving herself for being loved. She
took delicate care and displayed attentive taste in new gowns. It was to
herself, too, that she was pleasing. Madly anxious when there was
nothing for her at the postoffice, trembling and joyful when she received
through the small window a letter wherein she recognized the large
handwriting of her beloved, she devoured her reminiscences, her desires,
and her hopes. Thus the hours passed quickly.
The morning of the day when he was to arrive seemed to her to be odiously
long. She was at the station before the train arrived. A delay had been
signalled. It weighed heavily upon her. Optimist in her projects, and
placing by force, like her father, faith on the side of her will, that
delay which she had not foreseen seemed to her to be treason. The gray
light, which the three-quarters of an hour filtered through the window-
panes of the station, fell on her like the rays of an immense hour-glass
which measured for her the minutes of happiness lost. She was lamenting
her fate, when, in the red light of the sun, she saw the locomotive of
the express stop, monstrous and docile, on the quay, and, in the crowd of
travellers coming out of the carriages, Jacques approached her. He was
looking at her with that sort of sombre and violent joy which she had
often observed in him. He said:
"At last, here you are. I feared to die before seeing you again. You do
not know, I did not know myself, what torture it is to live a week away
from you. I have returned to the little pavilion of the Via Alfieri. In
the room you know, in front of the old pastel, I have wept for love and
rage."
She looked at him tenderly.
"And I, do you not think that I called you, that I wanted you, that when
alone I extended my arms toward you? I had hidden your letters in the
chiffonier where my jewels are. I read them at night: it was delicious,
but it was imprudent. Your letters were yourself--too much and not
enough."
They traversed the court where fiacres rolled away loaded with boxes.
She asked whether they were to take a carriage.
He made no answer. He seemed not to hear. She said:
"I went to see your house; I did not dare go in. I looked through the
grille and saw windows hidden in rose-bushes in the rear of a yard,
behind a tree, and I said: 'It is there !' I never have been so moved."
He was not listening to her nor looking at her. He walked quickly with
her along the paved street, and through a narrow stairway reached a
deserted street near the station. There, between wood and coal yards,
was a hotel with a restaurant on the first floor and tables on the
sidewalk. Under the painted sign were white curtains at the windows.
Dechartre stopped before the small door and pushed Therese into the
obscure alley. She asked:
"Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half-
past seven. We are mad."
When they left the house, she said:
"Jacques, my darling, we are too happy; we are robbing life."