As the days passed on, Claude's friends were astonished that they saw
so little of him. Of course he was working at his painting for the
"Salon," but that was no reason for his staying at home all the time.
Before, as well as since his marriage, Claude always went out every
evening, either into society or to some of his friends' studios. As
artists can only work by daylight, they usually retire early, and are
ready for work in the morning before the rest of the world is awake.
But Claude was an exception, as he had always gone much into society.
So it was a great change for him to pass his evenings quietly at home,
and when a month had thus elapsed, the astonishment of his friends
bordered on consternation.
At first Claude did not understand himself; but gradually, he was
forced to acknowledge the complete surrender of his heart to Odette.
The magic charm in her every movement, the tender grace of her face and
figure; all seemed to change his very being.
His happiest hours were when he could sit and watch her quietly as
she leaned back in her arm-chair, gazing into the fire. He had never
dreamed it possible that, as his step-daughter, he could look upon her
with anything more than a fatherly interest; so he was not watching
his heart at all, until suddenly he found himself bound hand and foot,
like an eagle caught in a net. He was frightened and dismayed when he
realized the extent and depth of his passionate admiration. He tried
to forget himself in his work, but his thoughts were always with her,
working or idle. One morning he commenced painting quite early, and
worked busily for two or three hours at his great Danae painting;
suddenly he rose and stepped back a few feet to judge of the effect.
With horror, he saw that his Danae was an exact portrait of Odette.
Seizing a cloth, he hastily rubbed out the whole morning's work, and
patiently recommenced to sketch Danae's head. Again, after hours of
labor, did the golden hair and glorious dark eyes smile at him from
the canvas. This time he erased the paint with his pen-knife, as if no
trace should remain of his insane infatuation. He threw his brush into
a corner of the studio, and as Grenoble happened to enter just then, he
said "Come, I will sit for you to-day, I can not paint;" and taking off
some wet cloths wound around a bust, in the center of the room, he sat
down opposite it.
Grenoble had been working at this portrait bust of his friend for
some months, and every one said it was the finest work he had ever
accomplished. It was Claude Sirvin, the man and the artist, human and
inspired. Before answering, Grenoble stopped in front of the Danae.
"Splendid!" he said. "Your Jupiter is perfect! and this drapery is
marvelous. But, your Danae seems to bother you. Why don't you take my
advice and take your daughter-in-law for your model?" and, without
noticing Claude's agitation, he quietly sat down on his camp-stool and
said, "As you are kind enough to sit, I will see what I can accomplish
to-day."
Grenoble repeated his advice about the Danae at breakfast and dinner,
again and again, until all had become so accustomed to the idea, that
Odette's disinclination seemed almost childish. Claude sincerely
thought (he was always sincere), that perhaps he could get free from
her haunting image, if he could once get it fairly on the canvas.
So Claude yielded, Odette yielded, and the result was, that one
pleasant afternoon in April, they were sitting alone in the studio.
It was quite warm in the room. On a table near by, some pastilles were
burning to perfume the smoke-laden air. Buried in an arm-chair, her
head posed according to directions, Odette lay lost in thought, her eye
gazing at vacancy. Around her the thousand and one curious objects to
be found in all studios--here a pile of armor glistening in the sun,
there some drapery thrown carelessly over an easel; every where frames
and pictures of all shapes and sizes. She was posing in a low-necked
dress to show her throat fully; around her neck a heavy pearl
necklace--Danae's pearls, her first temptation. They had not spoken for
more than two hours. At first Odette had taken a large Spanish knife
in her hand, playing with it to hide her nervousness somewhat; but it
dropped from her fingers, and she sat quiet, staring at vacancy, trying
to control her wildly beating heart. She would rather die than let him
see the intense agitation this tête-à-tête was causing her.
Claude commenced to paint with great energy; but the sweet intoxication
of her presence gradually mounted to his brain. He had just completed
the face, when the necklace slipped on her neck. He rose, and, speaking
for the first time in two hours, said: "If you will allow me, I will--"
As he approached, she looked at him. Did he see the love in her eyes?
or, was he conquered by his own passion? His fingers had just touched
the necklace, when he seized her passionately in his arms, and, kissing
her bare white throat, he murmured: "I love you." At one bound she was
on her feet. She escaped from his arms, haggard and trembling. She
extended her hand to protect herself, and the large knife she still
held struck his cheek, making a slight wound which began to bleed. Then
Odette, with a cry of horror, fled from the room.
Claude did not follow her. He stood where she had left him,
mechanically wiping away the drops of blood from his cheek. He seemed
to see clearly now, and for the first time, that this passion for
Odette was the one love of his whole life; all else had been nothing
in comparison. Did she love him? He could not decide. While he was
thus reflecting, time was passing. He heard the noise of a carriage
being driven to the door, and, looking out of the window, he saw Odette
and her husband get into it. One of the servants placed a small trunk
beside the driver, the gate was opened, and the coupé drove off. So she
was going away. He was seized with the utmost anxiety, for, if Odette
had proclaimed his rashness, he knew well that his wife would despise
him ever after. But gradually his love again gained the ascendancy,
and he said to himself the next hour would decide his fate. Either
Odette had left forever with her husband, or else she had invented
some trivial excuse to leave home for a short time, showing she was
afraid of her own weakness, and this fear would prove that she returned
Claude's love. He seated himself on the sofa, burying his face in his
hands, while his heart was torn with love and remorse. Night came on
gradually, until all was dark outside, as his heart was, it being
covered with the black pall of his disgraceful passion. He did not
reflect that this woman he loved was the daughter-in-law of her who
bore his name! At first he almost wished that Odette had left his house
to return no more. He supposed that, if they never met again, he could
conquer this love in time. But as the hours passed, his former thoughts
returned to him, and he would have bought with his life's blood the
assurance that he would soon see Odette again. When he heard the
outside door open, and distinguished Paul's voice, he uttered a cry of
joy. The young man came up to the studio almost immediately. "Why, you
are in the dark!" he exclaimed, "Odette must have been sitting for you
when her cousin's telegram was brought to her. I wished to go with her
to Dijon, but she said it was quite unnecessary."
As the studio was so dark, Paul could not see Claude's excitement.
He asked almost unconsciously: "What train did she take?"
"The accommodation train. She will not reach Dijon till midnight. I
tried to persuade her to wait for the eight o'clock express, but she
wished to start as soon as possible. So she has gone."
Claude was not mistaken. Odette was fleeing from him and from herself.
When she escaped from the studio, she hurried to her room, with his
kiss still burning on her neck. It seemed as if she must be branded
there, and every one would see the mark. Again she said, "I am lost,"
as she had said it a few weeks ago. And she was lost. The curse had
come upon her, and she could not escape her destiny. But her conscience
filled her with contempt and disgust for her own self. A voice seemed
to cry, "Flee! flee for your life!" but where? and with whom? She never
thought that her only safety now was in her husband; that she must
confess every thing to him, and flee with him far, far away, never,
never to return. She did not know that this was her last chance. She
only felt the necessity of flight for to-day. She thought not of the
morrow. Her mind formed a dozen plans. Finally, she decided, and trying
to regain self-possession, she went to her husband's room.
Paul was busily writing. He looked up as the door opened, and cried
joyfully: "Welcome, welcome! I am so glad to see you! How goes the
Danae?"
"I had to break off the sitting. A telegram was brought me from Dijon.
My cousin Anna is very sick, and sends for me. I should like to start
immediately."
Her first lie necessitated another, and then another, without the
thought occurring to her that, if Paul had asked the servants about the
despatch, he would have discovered her falsehood. But the young man
never stooped to any thing like that. Such trust and confidence as his
is never suspicious. He tried to persuade her to wait for the express,
but in vain, as she insisted upon starting immediately.
She did not draw a long breath until she was settled in the train,
and the whistle of the engine sounded the shrill note of departure.
She felt safe at last--in her foolish blindness--safe! As she closed
her eyes, the scene in the studio appeared again. She felt Claude's
burning gaze fastened upon her. She felt him approach, and again his
arms were around her! She shuddered, and, opening the window, held
her burning forehead to the cool night air. Then she returned to the
thought of her own safety. She had fled, so she was pure and good.
She loved Claude beyond expression; she had wounded him with a knife,
and was fleeing from him! So she was still true to herself! She was
sincere. We never lie to ourselves. Of course, she loved Claude; but
that was not her fault. We are not responsible for our feelings. We are
only responsible for our actions. Who could accuse her, if the whole
world could read her heart? Who could say, "She is guilty?" She was not
guilty, because she had left him. She had struggled and fought against
this overwhelming love. She recalled her vain efforts to throw it off.
She had earnestly tried to love her husband. It was her misfortune,
not her fault, that she could not succeed. She felt proud of her
resistance to Claude, and the farther behind her that Paris lay, the
more did shame and disgrace seem to recede from her. She thought of the
monstrous hippogriff on whose back Ariosto's heroes escaped from their
enemies, and the engine seemed just such another monster, bearing her
away from Claude.
And her sister, who advised her to pray! She smiled with contempt. She
did not need a God to keep her from doing wrong. Will and energy are
all that we need on earth. Reason, not God, rules the universe. It was
reason that showed her the abyss before her, that told her to flee, and
that led her to Dijon! Pray? If there were a God, He ought not to have
permitted this love to take possession of her heart. He ought to have
comforted her and sympathized with her struggles. It was not necessary
for her to mumble prayers. When she said, "I will be true," that was
all that was needed. The kiss on her neck burnt no longer while she was
congratulating herself on her safety and her strength; but it was still
there.
Odette was completely exhausted when she arrived at Dijon. She went to
a hotel, and was asleep in five minutes after being shown to a room.
When she awoke, the room was flooded with sunshine. She was ready at
ten o'clock to go to her cousin.
She had gone over the same road lately, with her husband. How many
things had happened since then! The appearance of the country was
entirely different, too, with no more snow or ice to be seen. As the
carriage passed over the little hills, or wound around among the forest
trees, the peacefulness and loveliness seemed to give her weary soul a
refreshing rest. Her cousin was completely amazed at her arrival.
"What can have brought you here? I can not believe my eyes!"
"I have come to spend a few days with you. I told my husband you had
sent me a telegram, because I was longing for some fresh country air."
Anna was delighted to see her. Odette accompanied her all day, from
the dairy to the farm-yard, from the farm-yard to the kitchen, and
every where did she seem interested and pleased. The old lady was in
raptures. She had always loved Odette, but from this day she idolized
her. And the young wife, in return, was grateful for the peace and
oblivion of this quiet refuge. When evening arrived, they sat in front
of the great fire-place, with its crackling wood fire. For many years
Anna's eyes had never been open as late as ten o'clock.
The farmer's daughter, Anna's servant, had arranged the best rooms
in the house for the "pretty lady," as she called Odette. They
consisted of two large rooms, occupying the whole of one side of
the ground floor. Odette kissed her cousin "good-night," and went
into her bed-room. She took the lamp and amused herself by examining
the old-fashioned engravings on the walls, "Poniatowski throwing
himself into the Elster," and "Hippocrates refusing the presents
from Artaxerxes," etc. Then she put the lamp on a table and opened
the window. She inhaled the fresh, cool air, and enjoyed the lovely
landscape before her,--the woods in tender blue and black shades, the
fields gray and white, as the moon shone through the clouds; she could
hear the little brook murmuring under the drooping branches of the
willow trees. She wrapped a shawl around her and sat down, to enjoy at
her ease the clear, cool night, so silent and lovely.
Suddenly she started. She saw a shadow on the garden wall. She thought
she was mistaken, and leaned forward. The shadow climbed the wall and
directed its way across the garden to the lighted window. Odette knew
what it was. She instinctively felt that the thief, climbing into the
garden at night, was the one she most dreaded to see. He crossed the
garden, stepped on a stone under the window, swung himself up by his
hands, and stood before her, pale and determined. They gazed at each
other a moment, then,
"I love you!" he whispered.
She receded before him to the back of the room. "What are you doing
here?" she cried. "Why do you persecute me with your shameful love? I
am not your wife. Leave me this minute, or I will scream for help and
have you driven away as a thief!"
Claude repeated, "I love you!"
She could not recede any further, she was already against the wall.
Claude stood quiet; then, in his eloquent, trembling voice, fascinating
her with the tender brilliancy of his eyes, he continued: "You love
me! You can not deny it. You belong to me. To me alone. I take all the
shame, the disgrace, upon myself, because I worship you, because I can
not live without you, because you alone are my life and my happiness.
Do you not see how I, too, have fought and struggled against this love
that you have awakened in my heart. But all, all in vain. We must
submit to our destiny. I love you."
Odette stood pale and trembling against the wall. She felt she was
tottering on the brink of an abyss. She was falling, falling.
As Claude advanced, she raised her hand with a gesture of superb
disdain.
"Coward!" she exclaimed.
Claude approached nearer.
"Coward!" she repeated.
Claude was at her side. He whispered softly again: "I love you;" and,
as he opened his arms, she sank into his embrace, incapable of further
resistance to the passionate love in her heart.
Odette was alone in the train. She had left Dijon the day after her
arrival, and was returning to Paris. As on the journey down, her brain
was throbbing with thoughts of all kinds. She was seeking excuses for
her crime, and the books she had studied with her father supplied her
with many. Did not Darwin write, "All human beings are forced to obey
their instincts?" Spencer wrote, "Will can never conquer Nature;" while
Rousseau said, "Uncontrollable emotion excuses any crime." Those she
revered as her masters, justified her. Why should she feel called upon
to accuse herself? Her conscience could be at rest, as she had resisted
this love in her heart to the utmost.
She recalled one quotation after another, to show that she had,
after all, nothing to reproach herself with. She acknowledged no
responsibility to any God. Only to her own conscience was she
responsible, and that gave her absolution. Since the world is as it
is, all weak human creatures must expect to be occasionally worsted in
their strife against evil. And then, she knew that this life is the end
of the soul. Her father had taught her that there is no Judge to punish
the wicked and reward the good, as the Bible declares. And before
arriving at this total annihilation, the inevitable end of all men
and things, she was going to live to enjoy life and love and be happy.
She would be prudent, so that no one would suspect, and there would be
nothing to fear. At this moment, she thought of her sister, and a sharp
pang of agony pierced her soul as she felt that Germaine would despise
her. In the midst of this total shipwreck of all that was true and good
in her heart, only this affection for her sister remained; and the
poor creature, born with good impulses, but corrupted by her wretched
education, degraded by the teachings of the brutal materialism of the
day, burst into sobs of sorrow and despair.
Then trying to find some way out of her grief, she began to apply the
same sophistic reasonings to her sister. Yes, Germaine would despise
her, but only because she had been brought up amid the superstitions
and mummeries of religion. Germaine's judgment would be warped by her
absurd faith in God and Christianity. She would not pay any attention
to her contempt. An intelligent being should be governed by reason, and
not by superstition. Her reason told her that when one has done all in
one's power, that is sufficient. And she complacently rested in the
free pardon given by her reason, without reflecting that day before
yesterday her reason had been the first to condemn her.
The unhappy creature did not know that every human being has a terrible
judge in himself. No matter how low or degraded he may be, some day his
conscience will stand before him, judge and executioner at the same
time; and from that day he will despise himself as he is despised by
all who know his crime. He will never be able to tear off this Nessus'
robe that eats into his vitals!