AN UNWELCOME APPARITION
A pale winter sun piercing the mists of the Seine, illuminated the dogs
painted by Oudry on the doors of the dining room.
Madame Martin had at her right Garain the Deputy, formerly Chancellor,
also President of the Council, and at her left Senator Loyer. At Count
Martin-Belleme's right was Monsieur Berthier-d'Eyzelles. It was an
intimate and serious business gathering. In conformity with Montessuy's
prediction, the Cabinet had fallen four days before. Called to the
Elysee the same morning, Garain had accepted the task of forming a
cabinet. He was preparing, while taking breakfast, the combination which
was to be submitted in the evening to the President. And, while they
were discussing names, Therese was reviewing within herself the images of
her intimate life.
She had returned to Paris with Count Martin at the opening of the
parliamentary session, and since that moment had led an enchanted life.
Jacques loved her; he loved her with a delicious mingling of passion and
tenderness, of learned experience and curious ingenuity. He was nervous,
irritable, anxious. But the uncertainty of his humor made his gayety
more charming. That artistic gayety, bursting out suddenly like a flame,
caressed love without offending it. And the playful wit of her lover
made Therese marvel. She never could have imagined the infallible taste
which he exercised naturally in joyful caprice and in familiar fantasy.
At first he had displayed only the monotony of passionate ardor. That
alone had captured her. But since then she had discovered in him a gay
mind, well stored and diverse, as well as the gift of agreeable flattery.
"To assemble a homogeneous ministry," exclaimed Garain, "is easily said.
Yet one must be guided by the tendencies of the various factions of the
Chamber."
He was uneasy. He saw himself surrounded by as many snares as those
which he had laid. Even his collaborators became hostile to him.
Count Martin wished the new ministry to satisfy the aspirations of the
new men.
"Your list is formed of personalities essentially different in origin and
in tendency," he said. "Yet the most important fact in the political
history of recent years is the possibility, I should say the necessity,
to introduce unity of views in the government of the republic. These are
ideas which you, my dear Garin, have expressed with rare eloquence."
M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles kept silence.
Senator Loyer rolled crumbs with his fingers. He had been formerly a
frequenter of beer-halls, and while moulding crumbs or cutting corks he
found ideas. He raised his red face. And, looking at Garain with
wrinkled eyes wherein red fire sparkled, he said:
"I said it, and nobody would believe it. The annihilation of the
monarchical Right was for the chiefs of the Republican party an
irreparable misfortune. We governed formerly against it. The real
support of a government is the Opposition. The Empire governed against
the Orleanists and against us; MacMahon governed against the Republicans.
More fortunate, we governed against the Right. The Right--what a
magnificent Opposition it was! It threatened, was candid, powerless,
great, honest, unpopular! We should have nursed it. We did not know how
to do that. And then, of course, everything wears out. Yet it is always
necessary to govern against something. There are to-day only Socialists
to give us the support which the Right lent us fifteen years ago with so
constant a generosity. But they are too weak. We should reenforce them,
make of them a political party. To do this at the present hour is the
first duty of a State minister."
Garain, who was not cynical, made no answer.
"Garain, do you not yet know," asked Count Martin, "whether with the
Premiership you are to take the Seals or the Interior?"
Garain replied that his decision would depend on the choice which some
one else would make. The presence of that personage in the Cabinet was
necessary, and he hesitated between two portfolios. Garain sacrificed
his personal convenience to superior interests.
Senator Loyer made a wry face. He wanted the Seals. It was a long-
cherished desire. A teacher of law under the Empire, he gave, in cafes,
lessons that were appreciated. He had the sense of chicanery. Having
begun his political fortune with articles skilfully written in order to
attract to himself prosecution, suits, and several weeks of imprisonment,
he had considered the press as a weapon of opposition which every good
government should break. Since September 4, 1870, he had had the
ambition to become Keeper of the Seals, so that everybody might see how
the old Bohemian who formerly explained the code while dining on
sauerkraut, would appear as supreme chief of the magistracy.
Idiots by the dozen had climbed over his back. Now having become aged in
the ordinary honors of the Senate, unpolished, married to a brewery girl,
poor, lazy, disillusioned, his old Jacobin spirit and his sincere
contempt for the people surviving his ambition, made of him a good man
for the Government. This time, as a part of the Garain combination, he
imagined he held the Department of Justice. And his protector, who would
not give it to him, was an unfortunate rival. He laughed, while moulding
a dog from a piece of bread.
M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles, calm and grave, caressed his handsome white
beard.
"Do you not think, Monsieur Garain, that it would be well to give a place
in the Cabinet to the men who have followed from the beginning the
political principles toward which we are directing ourselves to-day?"
"They lost themselves in doing it," replied Garam, impatiently. "The
politician never should be in advance of circumstances. It is an error
to be in the right too soon. Thinkers are not men of business. And
then--let us talk frankly--if you want a Ministry of the Left Centre
variety, say so: I will retire. But I warn you that neither the Chamber
nor the country will sustain you."
"It is evident," said Count Martin, "that we must be sure of a majority."
"With my list, we have a majority," said Garain. "It is the minority
which sustained the Ministry against us. Gentlemen, I appeal to your
devotion."
And the laborious distribution of the portfolios began again. Count
Martin received, in the first place, the Public Works, which he refused,
for lack of competency, and afterward the Foreign Affairs, which he
accepted without objection.
But M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles, to whom Garain offered Commerce and
Agriculture, reserved his decision.
Loyer got the Colonies. He seemed very busy trying to make his bread dog
stand on the cloth. Yet he was looking out of the corners of his little
wrinkled eyelids at the Countess Martin and thinking that she was
desirable. He vaguely thought of the pleasure of meeting her again.
Leaving Garain to his combination, he was preoccupied by his fair
hostess, trying to divine her tastes and her habits, asking her whether
she went to the theatre, and if she ever went at night to the coffee-
house with her husband. And Therese was beginning to think he was more
interesting than the others, with his apparent ignorance of her world and
his superb cynicism.
Gamin arose. He had to see several persons before submitting his list to
the President of the Republic. Count Martin offered his carriage, but
Garain had one.
"Do you not think," asked Count Martin, "that the President might object
to some names?"
"The President," replied Garain, "will be inspired by the necessities of
the situation."
He had already gone out of the door when he struck his forehead with his
hand.
"We have forgotten the Ministry of War."
"We shall easily find somebody for it among the generals," said Count
Martin.
"Ah," exclaimed Garain, "you believe the choice of a minister of war is
easy. It is clear you have not, like me, been a member of three cabinets
and President of the Council. In my cabinets, and during my presidency
the greatest difficulties came from the Ministry of War. Generals are
all alike. You know the one I chose for the cabinet that I formed. When
we took him, he knew nothing of affairs. He hardly knew there were two
Chambers. We had to explain to him all the wheels of parliamentary
machinery; we had to teach him that there were an army committee, finance
committee, subcommittees, presidents of committees, a budget. He asked
that all this information be written for him on a piece of paper. His
ignorance of men and of things amazed and alarmed us. In a fortnight he
knew the most subtle tricks of the trade; he knew personally all the
senators and all the deputies, and was intriguing with them against us.
If it had not been for President Grevy's help, he would have overthrown
us. And he was a very ordinary general, a general like any other. Oh,
no; do not think that the portfolio of war may be given hastily, without
reflection."
And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague.
Therese rose. Senator Loyer offered his arm to her, with the graceful
attitude that he had learned forty years before at Bullier's dancing-
hall. She left the politicians in the drawing-room, and hastened to meet
Dechartre.
A rosy mist covered the Seine, the stone quays, and the gilded trees.
The red sun threw into the cloudy sky the last glories of the year.
Therese, as she went out, relished the sharpness of the air and the dying
splendor of the day. Since her return to Paris, happy, she found
pleasure every morning in the changes of the weather. It seemed to her,
in her generous selfishness, that it was for her the wind blew in the
trees, or the fine, gray rain wet the horizon of the avenues; for her, so
that she might say, as she entered the little house of the Ternes, "It is
windy; it is raining; the weather is pleasant;" mingling thus the ocean
of things in the intimacy of her love. And every day was beautiful for
her, since each one brought her to the arms of her beloved.
While on her way that day to the little house of the Ternes she thought
of her unexpected happiness, so full and so secure. She walked in the
last glory of the sun already touched by winter, and said to herself:
"He loves me; I believe he loves me entirely. To love is easier and more
natural for him than for other men. They have in life ideas they think
superior to love--faith, habits, interests. They believe in God, or in
duties, or in themselves. He believes in me only. I am his God, his
duty, and his life."
Then she thought:
"It is true, too, that he needs nobody, not even me. His thoughts alone
are a magnificent world in which he could easily live by himself. But I
can not live without him. What would become of me if I did not have
him?"
She was not alarmed by the violent passion that he had for her. She
recalled that she had said to him one day: "Your love for me is only
sensual. I do not complain of it; it is perhaps the only true love."
And he had replied: "It is also the only grand and strong love. It has
its measure and its weapons. It is full of meaning and of images. It is
violent and mysterious. It attaches itself to the flesh and to the soul
of the flesh. The rest is only illusion and untruth." She was almost
tranquil in her joy. Suspicions and anxieties had fled like the mists of
a summer storm. The worst weather of their love had come when they had
been separated from each other. One should never leave the one whom one
loves.
At the corner of the Avenue Marceau and of the Rue Galilee, she divined
rather than recognized a shadow that had passed by her, a forgotten form.
She thought, she wished to think, she was mistaken. The one whom she
thought she had seen existed no longer, never had existed. It was a
spectre seen in the limbo of another world, in the darkness of a half
light. And she continued to walk, retaining of this ill-defined meeting
an impression of coldness, of vague embarrassment, and of pain in the
heart.
As she proceeded along the avenue she saw coming toward her newspaper
carriers holding the evening sheets announcing the new Cabinet. She
traversed the square; her steps followed the happy impatience of her
desire. She had visions of Jacques waiting for her at the foot of the
stairway, among the marble figures; taking her in his arms and carrying
her, trembling from kisses, to that room full of shadows and of delights,
where the sweetness of life made her forget life.
But in the solitude of the Avenue MacMahon, the shadow which she had seen
at the corner of the Rue Galilee came near her with a directness that was
unmistakable.
She recognized Robert Le Menil, who, having followed her from the quay,
was stopping her at the most quiet and secure place.
His air, his attitude, expressed the simplicity of motive which had
formerly pleased Therese. His face, naturally harsh, darkened by
sunburn, somewhat hollowed, but calm, expressed profound suffering.
"I must speak to you."
She slackened her pace. He walked by her side.
"I have tried to forget you. After what had happened it was natural, was
it not? I have done all I could. It was better to forget you, surely;
but I could not. So I bought a boat, and I have been travelling for six
months. You know, perhaps?"
She made a sign that she knew.
He continued:
"The Rosebud, a beautiful yacht. There were six men in the crew.
I manoeuvred with them. It was a pastime."
He paused. She was walking slowly, saddened, and, above all, annoyed.
It seemed to her an absurd and painful thing, beyond all expression, to
have to listen to such words from a stranger.
He continued:
"What I suffered on that boat I should be ashamed to tell you."
She felt he spoke the truth.
"Oh, I forgive you--I have reflected alone a great deal. I passed many
nights and days on the divan of the deckhouse, turning always the same
ideas in my mind. For six months I have thought more than I ever did in
my life. Do not laugh. There is nothing like suffering to enlarge the
mind. I understand that if I have lost you the fault is mine. I should
have known how to keep you. And I said to myself: 'I did not know. Oh;
if I could only begin again!' By dint of thinking and of suffering, I
understand. I know now that I did not sufficiently share your tastes and
your ideas. You are a superior woman. I did not notice it before,
because it was not for that that I loved you. Without suspecting it, I
irritated you."
She shook her head. He insisted.
"Yes, yes, I often wounded your feelings. I did not consider your
delicacy. There were misunderstandings between us. The reason was, we
have not the same temperament. And then, I did not know how to amuse
you. I did not know how to give you the amusement you need. I did not
procure for you the pleasures that a woman as intelligent as you
requires."
So simple and so true was he in his regrets and in his pain, she found
him worthy of sympathy. She said to him, softly:
"My friend, I never had reason to complain of you."
He continued:
"All I have said to you is true. I understood this when I was alone in
my boat. I have spent hours on it to which I would not condemn my worst
enemy. Often I felt like throwing myself into the water. I did not do
it. Was it because I have religious principles or family sentiments, or
because I have no courage? I do not know. The reason is, perhaps, that
from a distance you held me to life. I was attracted by you, since I am
here. For two days I have been watching you. I did not wish to reappear
at your house. I should not have found you alone; I should not have been
able to talk to you. And then you would have been forced to receive me.
I thought it better to speak to you in the street. The idea came to me
on the boat. I said to myself: 'In the street she will listen to me only
if she wishes, as she wished four years ago in the park of Joinville, you
know, under the statues, near the crown.'"
He continued, with a sigh:
"Yes, as at Joinville, since all is to be begun again. For two days I
have been watching you. Yesterday it was raining; you went out in a
carriage. I might have followed you and learned where you were going if
I wished to do it. I did not do it. I do not wish to do what would
displease you."
She extended her hand to him.
"I thank you. I knew I should not regret the trust I have placed in
you."
Alarmed, impatient, fearing what more he might say, she tried to escape
him.
"Farewell! You have all life before you. You should be happy.
Appreciate it, and do not torment yourself about things that are not
worth the trouble."
He stopped her with a look. His face had changed to the violent and
resolute expression which she knew.
"I have told you I must speak to you. Listen to me for a minute."
She was thinking of Jacques, who was waiting for her. An occasional
passer-by looked at her and went on his way. She stopped under the black
branches of a tree, and waited with pity and fright in her soul.
He said:
"I forgive you and forget everything. Take me back. I will promise
never to say a word of the past."
She shuddered, and made a movement of surprise and distaste so natural
that he stopped. Then, after a moment of reflection:
"My proposition to you is not an ordinary one, I know it well. But I
have reflected. I have thought of everything. It is the only possible
thing. Think of it, Therese, and do not reply at once."
"It would be wrong to deceive you. I can not, I will not do what you
say; and you know the reason why."
A cab was passing slowly near them. She made a sign to the coachman to
stop. Le Menil kept her a moment longer.
"I knew you would say this to me, and that is the reason why I say to
you, do not reply at once."
Her fingers on the handle of the door, she turned on him the glance of
her gray eyes.
It was a painful moment for him. He recalled the time when he saw those
charming gray eyes gleam under half-closed lids. He smothered a sob, and
murmured:
"Listen; I can not live without you. I love you. It is now that I love
you. Formerly I did not know."
And while she gave to the coachman, haphazard, the address of a tailor,
Le Menil went away.
The meeting gave her much uneasiness and anxiety. Since she was forced
to meet him again, she would have preferred to see him violent and
brutal, as he had been at Florence. At the corner of the avenue she said
to the coachman:
"To the Ternes."