When Leonor arrived at Robinvast, Rose and her father were sitting
in the garden, each of them reading a letter.... From time to time,
Rose would raise her eyes and look at the trees; M. Des Boys between
two sentences of his letter would examine his daughter. During this
last fortnight, she had been pale, sad, out of humour; and her father,
absent-minded, but affectionate, had grown anxious. What was going
on between the recently engaged couple? But M. Des Boys would never
have dared to question his daughter. He was waiting for a confidence,
knowing quite well that it would never come; and on her side, Rose was
unhappy at having to keep locked up in her heart the troubles that
were suffocating her. These two people, shy and secretive towards one
another, might have remained like this for years without deciding to
speak the words which would have consoled them.
M. Des Boys had accordingly urged Leonor to come and finish his work.
"It will be a distraction for her," he had thought, "and then, at
bottom and in spite of my pledged word, I agree with my wife: Leonor
would be a much more suitable husband. What! Can Hervart be making her
unhappy already."
The letter he was reading at this moment put the final touch to his
anxiety. It was from Bouret and Leonor was much praised in it. Bouret
went on:
"I have seen Hervart and have equally advised him to get married, but
for different reasons. Though he is little younger than we are, he is
probably nearer the end. We shall all, alas, see this end confronting
us, if we live another fifteen years. Do you understand me? With
prudence and diplomacy, Hervart can still drag on a long time, can
even recapture brilliant moments; but he has played too much on the
fine violin given him by nature. The strings will snap one after the
other. As long as one remains a virtuoso, one can still astonish ears
habituated to vulgar exercises; but all the same, a single string is
very risky! I have therefore ordered him to marry and, above all, to be
faithful to his wife. Fidelity will bring satiety, satiety will bring
continence, and continence will perhaps be the true philter. A young
wife is not so dangerous as one thinks for a man on the down grade. She
is a favourable stimulant and, at the same time, a moderating element.
In fine, Hervart may make a very good husband. In any case it's an
experiment that interests me. I should be quite capable--if it gives
good results, that is, at least a fine child--of yielding myself to an
old temptation. I would give up my practice and go and cultivate roses
and camellias in some corner of your earthly Paradise, in the Saire
Valley, where one sees palms among the willow-trees!"
"I had almost forgotten one important point in our hypothesis. The
young wife must have a virtuous temperament, without coldness, but
also without sensual curiosity; a good reproducing animal, apt in the
pleasure of conceiving rather than in the pleasure of love-making; one
of those who, after having been blushing brides, become loving mothers.
If he falls on some rebellious woman he is lost. If the instrument
which he has to tune and render sensitive gives out no sound or false
notes he will lose courage and return to his old concerts. But if, by
chance, his wife should reveal herself as a creature of voluptuousness,
his perdition would be still more certain: Hervart would flare up
like a faggot and nothing but a handful of ashes would be left. I am
not speaking of the adultery which would, in these last two cases be
inevitable. Sometimes it has the effect of re-establishing the balance
in a dislocated household; there are excellent conjugal associations in
which each party has his or her ideal down town, in a different quarter
of the city. But this is a matter of sociology and doesn't interest
me. I remain in my domain, which is the human body, its functions,
its anomalies. I may add that it is by their ignorance of it that the
sociologists think of such nonsense as they do. They are still hard
at work--the idiots!--reasoning about averages, they never come down
to reality, to the individual. How it is despised, this human body of
ours! And yet it is the only truth, the only beauty, just as it is the
only ideal and the only poetry...."
Bouret was inclined to philosophise. His letters almost always passed
the range of his correspondents' comprehension. He saw that himself,
when he re-read them, and smiled. All that M. Des Boys understood in
his friend's dissertation was the passage which concerned Hervart;
but that he understood very well. Bouret's reticences produced their
ordinary effect: Hervart was considered as a man incapable, condemned
without reprieve.
"He's a madman. What does he mean by going and captivating a young
girl's heart when he isn't sure of being able to make a wife of her!
The Lord knows, women aren't angels; they have corpora! sensations; and
then maternity, maternity...."
M. Des Boys confided to himself all the scabrous or moral banalities
that such a subject could make him think of. Meanwhile, he examined his
daughter.
"How shall I explain this to her? I shall make her mother do it."
He continued his meditations; and sometimes he would smile at the
evocation of foolish fancies, sometimes his brows contracted and he
would feel a mixture of anxiety and anger.
Rose was also reading:
"... but I have been very ill since my arrival here. Some fever, due,
it may be to the delicious excitement of my heart. A great depression
has been the result and I now feel a most disquieting lassitude. Alas!
the conclusion is sad: we must put off our marriage. It's a infinite
pain to me to write this; but I ask myself when it will be possible?
Will it ever be possible? No, I won't ask that. It would be terrible.
I love you so much! What a happiness it is to walk again with you, in
fancy, through the wood at Robinvast! If I was too audacious, you will
pardon me won't you, because of the violence of my love...."
There was a lot more in this style, and a less inexperienced woman
than Rose would have felt the artificiality of this amorous eloquence
Not a word of it, certainly, came from the heart. M. Hervart, who was
not cruel, had first laid down the principle of his illness and his
intention was to draw from it, graduating deceptions, all its logical
conclusions. If necessary, he had said to himself, Bouret will help
me. M. Hervart, who was by nature a man of the last moment and the
present sensation, thought of Rose only as one thinks of a sick friend,
for whose recovery one certainly hopes, but without anguish of mind.
However the fatuity inevitable in the male sex assured him that he
was not forgotten: he flattered himself on having left a wound in the
young girl's heart which would never altogether close, and he felt
what was almost remorse. To enjoy the egoist's complete peace, he
would have consented to a sacrifice; he would have allowed Rose, not
forgetfulness, but melancholy resignation.
"Poor child!... But it had to happen. I hope she won't be too unhappy."
The perusal of M. Hervart's letter left Rose sad and charmed:
"Oh, how he loves me! Oh, my darling Xavier, you are ill then?"
And she thought of the fiancée's cruel fate:
"He is ill, and mayn't go and console him."
She was turning towards her father when he rose to meet Leonor. It was
in the presence of the young man and without paying heed to him that
she imparted M. Hervart's news.
"He is ill, he has had a touch of fever...."
"Fever?" exclaimed M. Des Boys.
"Yes, and afterwards he's been feeling very weak after it."
"Very weak, yes. What then?"
"What then, why, our marriage has to be postponed...."
"Of course."
"I'm very anxious."
"So I should imagine."
"Why shouldn't we go and see him?"
"Do you think it would be any use?"
"It would give him such pleasure."
"Does he ask you to do it?"
"No...."
"Well, then."
"He doesn't dare ask."
"Is he as shy as all that?"
This innocent question made her blush.
"I'll speak of it with your mother," M. Des Boys continued.
"Meanwhile, let's get on a little with our architecture."
Rose had been so bored since Xavier's departure, she had been so
miserable at his long silence, and now she was feeling so anxious that
she accepted her father's proposal without repugnance.
This time they were dealing with the house, there were urgent repairs
to be made and useful ameliorations. As they went round, the architect
pointed out the weak spots. A whole plan of restoration formed itself
in his head.
The days passed. The masons were soon at work. Rose hardly left
Leonor's side.
They had news of M. Hervart more than once through the newspapers, for
his rearrangements at the Louvre had drawn upon him the epigrams of the
press; but he himself remained silent.
In the circumstances M. Des Boys had resolved to say nothing, to leave
time to do its work. Later on, when no dangerous memories of her past
love remained in Rose's heart, when she should be married, he would
confide her the truth, with a smile.
One day Leonor let fall, from the top of a ladder, a pocket-book from
which a flood of papers--sketches, bills, letters, picture post-cards
--escaped. Rose picked them up, without giving them more than the
discreetest glance when Martinvast castle caught her eye. At the loot
of the keep she found M. Hervart's "love and kisses." The blood came
suddenly to her eyes; she turned the card over and read: "Mademoiselle
Gratienne Leboeuf, Rue du Havre, Honfleur." She looked up; Leonor did
not seem to have noticed the incident, and with a rapid gesture she
folded up the card and slipped it into her bosom.
"Monsieur Leonor, you've dropped your pocket-book."
Leonor descended his ladder and thanked her, while Rose walked away.
When she had disappeared he noticed with delight that she had stolen
Martinvast Castle; then, whistling, he climbed up once more to see his
workmen.
Arrived in her room, Rose sat down, trembling.
"I have made a mistake," she said to herself. "It isn't possible. And
how could it have come into Leonor's hands?"
She extracted the card from its hiding-place, unfolded it and looked at
it, trembling.
"It's his writing all right."
She still felt doubtful.
"What's the date?"
She deciphered it without difficulty. "Cherbourg, 31 July, 1903."
"The very day we went to the Liais Garden, the day we went up that
tower where I almost fainted with love.... I was so happy!"
She began crying. Through her tears she looked at her hands, turning
them, looking at all the fingers one after another. She looked as
though she were rediscovering them, taking possession of them once more.
Finally she got up and stamped her foot.
"Very well then, I don't love him any more. There! Good-bye, Monsieur
Hervart. You deceived me, I shall never forgive you. And I had such
confidence in him; I let myself rest so softly on his heart."
She was still crying.
"Now, I am ashamed...."
And she felt her body, from head to feet, as though to take possession
of it also. She would have liked to press it, to wring it so that all
the caresses, all the kisses which had sunk into her skin, penetrated
her veins, thrilled her nerves, might be drained out of it.
In her already perverted innocence she pictured to herself the mutual
caresses of Xavier and this Gratienne woman. She pictured to herself
this woman's body and compared it with her own. Was she more beautiful?
In what is one woman's body more beautiful than another's? Xavier had
loved to caress her, to crush her in his arms. And used he not to say:
"How beautiful you are!" A vision, against which she struggled in vain,
showed her Xavier kneeling beside Gratienne and covering her with
kisses.
A heat mounted in her breast, her heart contracted; she tried to cry
out, half got up, clutched at the air with her hands and fell in a
faint.
When she came to herself, she felt very tired and very frightened as
well. She looked about her, afraid to discover the reality of the
painful vision which had overwhelmed her. Reassured, she breathed
again.
"It was a dream, only a dream."
But it seemed as though a spring had suddenly been released in her
heart. Throughout her whole being there was a sudden change. Under her
maiden breast, grief had taken up its home. She felt it as one feels
a piece of gravel in one's shoe. It was something material which had
insinuated itself into the intimacy of her flesh, causing her, not
pain, but a sense of discomfort.
At the same time, all that she habitually loved seemed to her without
the faintest interest. She looked with an indifferent eye at this
room in which she had dreamt so many dreams, this room that she had
arranged, decorated with so much pleasure, so much minute care, this
cell she had spun and woven herself to sleep in, like a chrysalis, till
the awakening of love should come. The great trees of the wood which
she could see from her window, and could never see without emotion,
appeared to her patches of insignificant greenery: she noticed, for
the first time, that their tops were of uneven height and she was
irritated by it. There was a sound of hammering; she leaned out of the
window and saw two men splitting a block of granite, and for a moment
she wondered what for.
"Oh, yes, of course, the repairs.... What does it all matter to me? Ah!
where are my dear solitary hours in the old house, imprisoned by its
ivy and climbing roses! And now Leonor! I wish he'd go away. He's the
cause of it all. If it hadn't been for his clumsiness, I should never
have known of the existence of this woman.... But how did he come to
have that card in his pocket?"
The idea of a voluntary indiscretion did not occur to her. She had
never dreamt that Leonor could feel for her any emotion of tenderness.
Besides, no man except Xavier had yet existed in her imagination. There
was Xavier on the one hand; and on the other there were the others.
Meanwhile she went on reflecting. Love, jealousy, grief, quickened her
natural intelligence.
"There were several letters in the pocket-book addressed to M. Varin.
That's natural. But why this card addressed to that woman? He must
know her too. She must have given it to him because of the view of
Martinvast Castle, I suppose...."
She could not succeed in reconstructing the adventure of this
post-card. There was some mystery about it, which she soon gave up the
hope of solving.
"But all I have to do is to ask M. Leonor. How simple! But then I shall
have to tell him that I stole his postal card, for I have stolen it!
It's not very serious, perhaps, but how shall I dare talk to him about
it, how shall I, first of all, confess that I had the bad manners to
look at his correspondence? Oh! but a post-card, a picture! And then I
shall tell him the truth? it fell under my eyes by chance, and if the
card had been turned with the address side upwards, I should certainly
not have turned it over...."
What was most repugnant to her was the necessity of speaking of
Gratienne, for Leonor was not ignorant of her projected marriage with
M. Hervart. She remained undecided, and at once she began to suffer
once more; for her grief had spared her a little while she was engaged
in her deliberations.
She was so wretched and so tired that when the dinner-bell rang she
went down without thinking of her dress, without refreshing her eyes,
still red and inflamed with crying.