Certainly, although he had been engaged in the most extraordinary, most
unlikely, most extravagant, and funniest cases, and had won legal games
without a trump in his hand--although he had worked out the obscure law
of divorce, as if it had been a Californian gold mine, Maitre[1]
Garrulier, the celebrated, the only Garrulier, could not check a
movement of surprise, nor a disheartening shake of the head, nor a
smile, when the Countess de Baudemont explained her affairs to him for
the first time.
He had just opened his correspondence, and his slender hands, on which
he bestowed the greatest attention, buried themselves in a heap of
female letters, and one might have thought oneself in the confessional
of a fashionable preacher, so impregnated was the atmosphere with
delicate perfumes.
Immediately--even before she had said a word--with the sharp glance of
a practised man of the world, that look which made beautiful Madame de
Serpenoise say: "He strips your heart bare!" the lawyer had classed her
in the third category. Those who suffer came into his first category,
those who love, into the second, and those who are bored, into the
third--and she belonged to the latter.
She was a pretty windmill, whose sails turned and flew round, and
fretted the blue sky with a delicious shiver of joy, as it were, and
had the brain of a bird, in which four correct and healthy ideas cannot
exist side by side, and in which all dreams and every kind of folly are
engulfed, like a great kaleidoscope.
Incapable of hurting a fly, emotional, charitable, with a feeling of
tenderness for the street girl who sells bunches of violets for a
penny, for a cab horse which a driver is ill-using, for a melancholy
pauper's funeral, when the body, without friends or relations to follow
it, is being conveyed to the common grave, doing anything that might
afford five minutes' amusement, not caring if she made men miserable
for the rest of their days, and taking pleasure in kindling passions
which consumed men's whole being, looking upon life as too short to be
anything else than one uninterrupted round of gaiety and enjoyment, she
thought that people might find plenty of time for being serious and
reasonable in the evening of life, when they are at the bottom of the
hill, and their looking-glasses reveal a wrinkled face, surrounded with
white hair.
A thorough-bred Parisian, whom one would follow to the end of the
world, like a poodle; a woman whom one adores with the head, the heart,
and the senses until one is nearly driven mad, as soon as one has
inhaled the delicate perfume that emanates from her dress and hair, or
touched her skin, and heard her laugh; a woman for whom one would fight
a duel and risk one's life without a thought; for whom a man would
remove mountains, and sell his soul to the devil several times over, if
the devil were still in the habit of frequenting the places of bad
repute on this earth.
She had perhaps come to see this Garrulier, whom she had so often heard
mentioned at five o'clock teas, so as to be able to describe him to her
female friends subsequently in droll phrases, imitating his gestures
and the unctuous inflections of his voice, in order, perhaps, to
experience some new sensation, or, perhaps, for the sake of dressing
like a woman who was going to try for a divorce; and, certainly, the
whole effect was perfect. She wore a splendid cloak embroidered with
jet--which gave an almost serious effect to her golden hair, to her
small slightly turned-up nose, with its quivering nostrils, and to her
large eyes, full of enigma and fun--over a dark stuff dress, which was
fastened at the neck by a sapphire and a diamond pin.
The barrister did not interrupt her, but allowed her to get excited and
to chatter; to enumerate her causes for complaint against poor Count de
Baudemont, who certainly had no suspicion of his wife's escapade, and
who would have been very much surprised if anyone had told him of it at
that moment, when he was taking his fencing lesson at the club.
When she had quite finished, he said coolly, as if he were throwing a
pail of water on some burning straw:
"But, Madame, there is not the slightest pretext for a divorce in
anything that you have told me here. The judges would ask me whether I
took the Law Courts for a theater, and intended to make fun of them."
And seeing how disheartened she was,--that she looked like a child
whose favorite toy had been broken, that she was so pretty that he
would have liked to kiss her hands in his devotion, and as she seemed
to be witty, and very amusing, and as, moreover, he had no objection to
such visits being prolonged, when papers had to be looked over, while
sitting close together,--Maitre Garrulier appeared to be considering.
Taking his chin in his hand, he said:
"However, I will think it over; there is sure to be some dark spot that
can be made out worse. Write to me, and come and see me again."
In the course of her visits, that black spot had increased so much and
Madame de Baudemont had followed her lawyer's advice so punctually, and
had played on the various strings so skillfully that a few months
later, after a lawsuit, which is still spoken of in the Courts of
Justice, and during the course of which the President had to take off
his spectacles, and to use his pocket-handkerchief noisily, the divorce
was pronounced in favor of the Countess Marie Anne Nicole Bournet de
Baudemont, nee de Tanchart de Peothus.
The Count, who was nonplussed at such an adventure turning out so
seriously, first of all flew into a terrible rage, rushed off to the
lawyer's office and threatened to cut off his knavish ears for him. But
when his access of fury was over, and he thought of it, he shrugged his
shoulders and said:
"All the better for her, if it amuses her!"
Then he bought Baron Silberstein's yacht, and with some friends, got up
a cruise to Ceylon and India.
Marie Anne began by triumphing, and felt as happy as a schoolgirl going
home for the holidays; she committed every possible folly, and soon,
tired, satiated, and disgusted, began to yawn, cried, and found out
that she had sacrificed her happiness, like a millionaire who has gone
mad and has cast his banknotes and shares into the river, and that she
was nothing more than a disabled waif and stray. Consequently, she now
married again, as the solitude of her home made her morose from morning
till night; and then, besides, she found a woman requires a mansion
when she goes into society, to race meetings, or to the theater.
And so, while she became a marchioness, and pronounced her second
"Yes," before a very few friends, at the office of the mayor of the
English urban district, malicious people in the Faubourg were making
fun of the whole affair, and affirming this and that, whether rightly
or wrongly, and comparing the present husband to the former one, even
declaring that he had partially been the cause of the former divorce.
Meanwhile Monsieur de Baudemont was wandering over the four quarters of
the globe trying to overcome his homesickness, and to deaden his
longing for love, which had taken possession of his heart and of his
body, like a slow poison.
He traveled through the most out-of-the-way places, and the most lovely
countries, and spent months and months at sea, and plunged into every
kind of dissipation and debauchery. But neither the supple forms nor
the luxurious gestures of the bayaderes, nor the large passive eyes of
the Creoles, nor flirtations with English girls with hair the color of
new cider, nor nights of waking dreams, when he saw new constellations
in the sky, nor dangers during which a man thinks it is all over with
him, and mutters a few words of prayer in spite of himself, when the
waves are high, and the sky black, nothing was able to make him forget
that little Parisian woman who smelled so sweet that she might have
been taken for a bouquet of rare flowers; who was so coaxing, so
curious, so funny; who never had the same caprice, the same smile, or
the same look twice, and who, at bottom, was worth more than many
others, either saints or sinners.
He thought of her constantly, during long hours of sleeplessness. He
carried her portrait about with him in the breast pocket of his
pea-jacket--a charming portrait in which she was smiling, and showing
her white teeth between her half-open lips. Her gentle eyes with their
magnetic look had a happy, frank expression, and from the mere
arrangement of her hair, one could see that she was fair among the fair.
He used to kiss that portrait of the woman who had been his wife as if
he wished to efface it, would look at it for hours, and then throw
himself down on the netting and sob like a child as he looked at the
infinite expanse before him, seeming to see their lost happiness, the
joys of their perished affections, and the divine remembrance of their
love, in the monotonous waste of green waters. And he tried to accuse
himself for all that had occurred, and not to be angry with her, to
think that his grievances were imaginary, and to adore her in spite of
everything and always.
And so he roamed about the world, tossed to and fro, suffering and
hoping he knew not what. He ventured into the greatest dangers, and
sought for death just as a man seeks for his mistress, and death passed
close to him without touching him, perhaps amused at his grief and
misery.
For he was as wretched as a stone-breaker, as one of those poor devils
who work and nearly break their backs over the hard flints the whole
day long, under the scorching sun or the cold rain; and Marie Anne
herself was not happy, for she was pining for the past and remembered
their former love.
At last, however, he returned to France, changed, tanned by exposure,
sun, and rain, and transformed as if by some witch's philter.
Nobody would have recognized the elegant and effeminate clubman, in
this corsair with broad shoulders, a skin the color of tan, with very
red lips, who rolled a little in his walk; who seemed to be stifled in
his black dress-coat, but who still retained the distinguished manners
and bearing of a nobleman of the last century, one of those who, when
he was ruined, fitted out a privateer, and fell upon the English
wherever he met them, from St. Malo to Calcutta. And wherever he showed
himself his friends exclaimed:
"Why! Is that you? I should never have known you again!"
He was very nearly starting off again immediately; he even telegraphed
orders to Havre to get the steam-yacht ready for sea directly, when he
heard that Marie Anne had married again.
He saw her in the distance, at the Theatre Francais one Tuesday, and
when he noticed how pretty, how fair, how desirable she was,--looking
so melancholy, with all the appearance of an unhappy soul that regrets
something,--his determination grew weaker, and he delayed his departure
from week to week, and waited, without knowing why, until, at last,
worn out with the struggle, watching her wherever she went, more in
love with her than he had ever been before, he wrote her long, mad,
ardent letters in which his passion overflowed like a stream of lava.
He altered his handwriting, as he remembered her restless brain, and
her many whims. He sent her the flowers which he knew she liked best,
and told her that she was his life, that he was dying of waiting for
her, of longing for her, for her his idol.
At last, very much puzzled and surprised, guessing--who knows?--from
the instinctive beating of her heart, and her general emotion, that it
must be he this time, he whose soul she had tortured with such cold
cruelty, and knowing that she could make amends for the past and bring
back their former love, she replied to him, and granted him the meeting
that he asked for. She fell into his arms, and they both sobbed with
joy and ecstasy. Their kisses were those which lips give only when they
have lost each other and found each other again at last, when they meet
and exhaust themselves in each other's looks, thirsting for tenderness,
love, and enjoyment.
* * * * *
Last week Count de Baudemont carried off Marie Anne quietly and coolly,
just like one resumes possession of one's house on returning from a
journey, and drives out the intruders. And when Maitre Garrulier was
told of this unheard of scandal, he rubbed his hands--the long,
delicate hands of a sensual prelate--and exclaimed:
"That is absolutely logical, and I should like to be in their place."
[1] Title given to advocates in France.