CLOTILDE--SIDOINE
_Sidoine_--I took sweet revenge.
_Clotilde_--Wicked creature! Wicked!
_Sidoine_--Yes, I went a bit too far, perhaps! But you set me such a
good example.
_Clotilde_--You were more cruel than I.
_Sidoine_--Not at all. Reality is what we feel to be real.
_Clotilde_--An innocent sham.
_Sidoine_--I, too.
_Clotilde_--Is that true? Tell me. Is it true?
_Sidoine_--A sham.
_Clotilde_--Is that true, wicked man? She was crying, too....
_Sidoine_--Very well, then, cry in your turn.
_Clotilde_--Ah! You love me, you love me, you do.
MAUVE
_Quelques mauves, sous les rosiers._
_Avec des airs humiliés_
--_R. G._
Pauline spent a very agreeable half-hour at the confessional. As she
picked off the heavy fruits of sin, the unburdened tree straightened its
branches and resumed its vernal attitude.
“It feels a little like Amélie washing my head,” she mused. “As the
fresh waves inundate me, I feel that I’m becoming lighter, relieved of a
heavy veil, of the crepe of care.”
As she mused thus she felt ashamed, for she should have belonged
entirely to contrition and have participated, by thrills of repentance,
in the indulgent words of the priest.
“But that’s all right,” she went on, in her thoughts. “And then, this
sensation of wellbeing that floods me--isn’t it the proof itself of the
effect of the sacrament upon the sinner?”
She had recounted sweetly, without bragging, but without reticence, the
story of her life for the past two years.
“I have sinned against chastity.”
“Yes. All by yourself?”
“No.”
“With your husband?”
“Oh! No.”
“Very well. Continue.”
“I have sinned in thought, in word and in deed.”
“A regular lover? An only one? Several?”
“An only one.”
“Very well. You desire ardently to see your accomplice, to kiss him, to
surrender yourself to him?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Always.”
“Very well. When you were together, did you exchange any dishonest
talk?”
“Oh! No.”
“Dishonest talk,--that is, tender words?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Then, caresses. Normal?”
“ ...”
“Did he kiss you all over?”
“Yes.”
“For a long time.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I, too.”
“And it was thus that you would reach voluptuousness?”
“Sometimes.”
“I see. That’s quite serious. Was it of your own free will or by
constraint?”
“Oh!”
“Of your own free will, then?”
“Yes.”
“This is horrible. You deserve the fires of hell.”
“Holy father, I repent, ever so much.”
“Very well. Continue. No other habitual attempts to avoid procreation?”
“ ...”
“You satisfied your passion without thinking of anything else, like
beasts, according to the words of the apostle Saint Paul?”
“ ...”
“You mingled your flesh at a venture, with no other purpose than bestial
pleasure?”
“Oh!”
“With never a reflection upon your own conduct, nary a regret, a thought
of the teachings of Holy Church?”
“Alas!”
“Without shame?”
“I feel shame now.”
“Very well. Continue. Did you undress, naked? Completely naked?”
“Yes.”
“Without blushing?”
“Alas!”
“You were like a demon.”
“Oh!”
“It’s only demons who don’t blush at their nakedness.”
“I blush at it now.”
“Did you yield to the sway of a too ardent temperament?”
“ ...”
“To passion, then?”
“Yes, I loved.”
“You should have had recourse to sacraments, to pious devotions.”
“I am doing so now.”
“How did he enamor you?”
“I no longer know. By glances, by smiles, by words....”
“Did you struggle?”
“I loved him.”
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never see him again?”
“Never.”
“Very well. Continue.”
And they had reviewed the other sins--gluttony, indolence, lying,--and
Pauline recalled the delicate lunches after the furious repasts of
love,--siestas in the arms of her friend, complicated tales that she
invented to throw her husband’s curiosity off the scent. That dream! For
it was now no more than a dream! That dream! She wept.
“Since your repentance is genuine, I am going to grant you absolution,
which it would have been preferable to defer, perhaps, but tears wipe
away many things. From the bottom of your heart ask pardon of God, whom
you have offended so gravely.”
Her emotion had redoubled, while the Latin words fell one by one upon
her blond tresses, through a delightful mauve hat matched to her dress,
which was of the same hue, but paler.
The ceremony over, she greeted, with no embarrassment whatsoever, the
priest, whom she knew. They spoke for a moment about the last charity
sale, the results of which had proved marvelous, and the poor man could
not help considering--without envy, of course, but with a certain
astonished complaisance--this elegant young woman, good-looking and
ingenious, who doubtless knew better than the most crafty casuist all
the secrets of licentiousness.
“Woman! Woman! This one has two little children as pretty as angels,
whom she herself takes to mass and to catechism. Her husband preaches
holy war and her lover has left her for Mme. de Ruel, who loudly
proclaims, ‘I, I am a fanatic of the Lord!’ Woman! Woman!”
Pauline, stepping back into her carriage, thought of the delightful
orchids that a hand which she imagined she could easily guess had sent
to her that very morning.
“Here I am, pure, spotless. What joy! There’s one of them with its
little rose tail twisted like a corkscrew, and it’s a dear! It’s he,
assuredly, it’s he. Already six o’clock! I hope I don’t miss him! Good
Lord! How beautiful is religion! I’m so happy!”
LILAC
_Et qu’on touche et que l’on sente les lilacs._
Francis Jammes.
Beatrice, being a princess, believed herself obliged to be very severe
toward her adorers. A princess--isn’t that a rare fruit, the plucking of
which is well worth some torments? She imposed tests upon them. The one,
an inveterate smoker, must, during an excursion into the country,
refrain from smoking an entire day. Another, who was fond of dancing,
must abstain from the most attractive balls for the season. Three
leading dandies, one after the other, were forbidden to patronize a
certain master of fashions. The tailor conceived a hatred for the
princess. Lionel, on the contrary, accepted everything, even ridicule.
When he had been deeply humiliated, he would be permitted a few somewhat
lingering kisses of her hand; he was favored with discreet smiles; his
flowers would occasionally be accepted; he would be chosen as companion
for a tour of the Salons or to go and hear one of M. Jules Lemaître’s
lectures. Finally, he was granted a tête-à-tête in the little lilac
salon, which was the well-known anti-chamber of the definite joys. For a
long time thus, seated, standing, on his knees, Lionel declaimed
gallant, witty or pathetic speeches upon his passion. One day, after a
tender impulse of abandonment, Beatrice suddenly resumed her dignified
air:
“Let us be reasonable, my friend. I ought not to fall, and you ought not
lead me into temptation. The flesh, even that of princesses,” and she
dwelt an instant upon that word, “is weak. But a woman like me knows how
to suffer. Born for virtue, I remain faithful to it. Alas! I shall never
belong to you. Be my friend, Lionel, be the partner of my renunciation
and the confidant of my griefs.”
Lionel had his plans. He knew that at this sentence of the play one must
be shocked, plunge into despair and knock his head lightly against the
panels of the little old oak library; they were very solid. Then, in
order to avoid a greater misfortune, the princess would weepingly yield.
She would go herself to bolt the door, as in the gallant prints of yore
and, like a grisette, let herself very adroitly be undressed.
Lionel had his plans. He pretended to enter into the arrangements of the
astonished princess:
“We’ll weep together. I love you too much to dare to oppose a will that
is so dear to me. Let us be friends, alas!”
Beatrice loved Lionel. At the moment in which he spoke thus she desired
him with all the secret desires of her soul and of her flesh. As he took
his leave, gloomily, she was on the point of clasping very tightly and
drawing to her heart the hand that touched hers, but a modesty that she
had never known frustrated her desire. She let Lionel depart without
finding anything else to say than:
“So soon!”
The door closed, she felt herself enveloped in a mantle of chagrin. It
was heavy, it was thick, it hid all objects from her sight,--all life
itself. Finally her suffering yielded somewhat to this idea:
“He will come back tomorrow.”
Lionel did not come back on the next day, nor two days later, nor three.
On the fourth came a word, from London:
“Dear friend, an unexpected matter.... I hope tomorrow, at the regular
hour, to present to you the respectful compliments of your friend
Lionel.”
At the regular hour, a blue note: “Suffering....”
Beatrice’s reply:
“I knew very well, my dear friend, that only something unexpected could
take you away from me. But why should I have been deprived of news about
you so long--three or four centuries? At last I have that news, however,
and it’s bad! Tell me that I need not be uneasy? Beatrice.”
Lionel, as he read this, said:
“She is conquered. It’ll be tomorrow.”
During this week Beatrice’s imagination had skipped about a thousand
different ways, from branch to branch, like a squirrel. She had passed
through deception, hope, fear, boredom, despair, joy, disquietude, and
this is the point she had reached when Lionel was shown in.
At sight of him she darted forward, then checked herself, blushing.
Lionel opened his arms; she fell into them, closing her eyes, happy, no
longer thinking of anything. There were long, mute kisses, tender
caresses, then it was Lionel himself who bolted the door. Thus, at the
same time that he affirmed his love, he affirmed his authority.
Lionel loved Beatrice, but he held a certain smiling rancor against the
princess. Even as he satisfied his love, at the same time he perfected
his revenge. After the great liberty, there were the little ones, which
are indecent, and the singular ones, which are excessive. He dared all
and exacted all. Every day he added a stanza to the voluptuous poem.
Beatrice, however, with the air of one who lets herself be vanquished by
love, grew more and more exalted as the beads of the chaplet ran through
her fingers, and one day when Lionel, at the end of his imagination, had
enjoyed simply a mutual and simple happiness, Beatrice, at ease,
laughing, invented a mad embrace.
Then he sank to his knees and kissed her feet, not as a lover but as a
worshipper, and he mused:
“O Beatrice, thrice woman,--Beatrice of beauty, Beatrice of love,
Beatrice of voluptuousness,--with these soft words I entreat your pardon
for my stupidity. I tried to humiliate you, follow your example; I
thought I would treat you somewhat as an odalisk and it is I, instead,
who have done your will; it is I who am the slave.”
ORANGE
_Des bouquets de jasmin, de grénade et d’orange._
Corneille.
When the captain entered the little room where she worked with her
mother, Berthe was dumbfounded. She could arise only by restraining her
heart. Falling at once back in to her chair, she lowered her head. She
seemed to be folding her work, but she was trembling with happiness.
The mother expanded in graciousness and in useless, common words:
“You weren’t expected so soon. We should have desired to dress and
receive you in the parlor. We should have placed, since it’s the style
in Paris, some flowers in the vases upon the mantelpiece. And above all
we should have asked M. Bernard to be here, for nothing so intimidates
poor women as a brilliant officer.”
She was very much afraid. The orderly, who had come that afternoon as
courier to visit the room, and unpack a military valise, had not given
the old domestic a very clear notion of what the captain was like.
“He’s a rough chap, I tell you,” he had said. “Twice my size and with an
appetite like the devil.”
“Lord Jesus, can it be possible! We’ll cook him a fine dinner and make a
fine bed for this excellent gentleman.”
“He’s not a fine gentleman. He’s a tough bird. He’ll be here at six
o’clock. Well, greetings to the company. So long.”
“You’re surely going to have something to drink just the same, mister
Soldier.”
“Just the same.”
And as he drank, the soldier had outlined his notion of the captain: a
handsome brute.
As these details were repeated the whole house had trembled, but not
Berthe. M. Bernard had gone to invite to dinner the tax-collector, a
knowing fellow, so that he might not be alone, face to face with such a
redoubtable personage.
“We’ll get him drunk,” he had decided. “That will be the best way to get
out of it.”
Mme. Bernard, on her side, said to herself:
“I’ll stuff him with sweets. Dainties--that’s all it takes to win over a
man.”
Berthe, too, had thought on the matter. She had mused:
“At last, a man! I shall behold, finally, a man. Ah! How long ago!...
Perhaps he’ll harm me? Perhaps! Perhaps!”
And she had tried to devote herself entirely to her embroidery, as on
every other day, so as not to appear excited:
“Are we going to look like folks who never receive a visitor?”
And as she drew the needle she repeated to herself:
“Can my hour have come, at last,--the definitive hour?”
There was talk of great maneuvers, of the country, of its coolness, of
the grass, of the trees. The officer sketched his rustic landscapes,
lauded the charm of the tiny stream beneath the willows, and deplored
the fact that he had been compelled to trample upon a corner of green
meadow all aglow with buttercups.
Berthe, astonished, gazed at him, surprised at such tenderness, when he
accentuated his admiration by slapping his knee and bursting into:
“Upon my word! A pretty little patch of earth! There was a big girl who
kept pounding her clothes and from time to time would get up to lay out
a piece upon a willow pollard. By Jove! If I had been alone!”
Berthe, once more happy, thought to herself:
“If he had been alone with her, something terrible would have happened,
that’s evident. Oh! If I could only be alone with him?”
As the officer praised the garden, which he had glimpsed as he came in,
Berthe addressed him for the first time:
“It’s very simple, but would you like to see it?”
“A good idea,” said the mother, “and you’ll cut some flowers. I’ll join
you in a moment.”
“I’ll cut the ones you tell me to. I don’t want you to hurt your fingers
in my presence.”
“No, no. Do you think me so clumsy?”
She pretended to struggle with him, letting him capture the instrument.
He opened her fingers gently.
“A good sign,” he said. “To have touched so pretty a hand makes one feel
like touching the heart.”
She made no reply, thinking:
“It’ll all come to nothing but empty compliments!”
Then she became aggressive. As the captain held out a rose with a hand
streaked by scratches:
“Blood? Don’t let any get on to my flowers, at least.”
“But blood’s a beautiful thing.”
“No, it’s dirty.”
“I never believed that anybody could talk like that to an officer who
had had his head half split by the blow of a sword.”
She looked at him.
“He really looks terribly angry. If he dared, he would strike me. What
shall I say to him to excite him more?”
She could find nothing, and there was a long silence.
“Another one,” she said to herself, “who is master of his emotions. I
was deceived. He won’t attack me. Ah! How weary I am!”
“In short,” said the captain to himself, “she has insulted me. She’s
only a woman. Very well. But she insulted me just the same. I must get
reparation.”
The captain looked around him. They were in an out-of-the-way nook,
enclosed by clumps of bushes.
“The basket’s full, I believe,” he said. “Here’s the pruning-shears.”
And, as she held out her fingers, somewhat uneasy, despite her
resolution, at the change of attitude in the man whom she was observing,
she felt two hands seize upon her shoulders and, at the same time, a
mouth crush against her own.
His gesture of vengeance completed--an ironical vengeance--the captain
released her shoulders and was drawing back when he felt that his rude
kiss was being returned with passion. From her shoulder one of his hands
descended upon the heaving breast; the other hand supported her yielding
waist. An eminently classical pose, the sequel of which, not far from a
bed of verdure, is the difficulty of lifting up a skirt caught under the
recumbent body. It is often necessary for the tender victim, who has not
lost her sense of folds, to come delicately to the aid of the brute.
“Yes, yes....” murmured Berthe.
But, from the direction of the house a voice was calling:
“Berthe, Berthe.”
As she arose, she said:
“We have the night. I will come. Meanwhile, silence, coldness, or
conventional gallantry.”
The officer, to the great astonishment of his hosts, ate and drank very
moderately. He smoked only two cigarettes, but accepted a great deal of
coffee. His attention, that entire evening, was concentrated upon trying
to hit upon the topics of conversation that could release the eloquence
of his partners. He was lucky enough to discover them. While they spoke,
he reflected:
“Virgin? A lover? Lovers? Innocence? Perversity? Curiosity? Stupidity?
In any event, it’s serious. In the first place, my conscience? Then,
marriage? I’d better bolt the door.”
The next instant the male began to dream of the beautiful girl who was
offering herself:
“Why have any scruples? What? Not pluck the flower along the road?”
Finally:
“If I don’t take it, I’ll feel remorseful for the next two years,
perhaps for the rest of my life.”
He looked at her without affectation, while she poured him out a glass
of tea, and he dared to say:
“Oh! Not so much, it’s very strong. You’re going to keep me from
sleeping.”
As her only reply she raised her head, looked at him and lowered her
lashes.
He felt his head whirl around. Of a surety this was not his first
affair, but he had never before enjoyed one of such quality. This
youthful country bourgeoise certainly excited him to the highest pitch.
What was this sphinx with the red hair? He scented the odor of her
nudity in advance, and trembled. He saw her all white, like those marble
statues which formerly he had desired rather than admired.
“You’ll sleep in the orange room,” said Mme. Bernard, who was beginning
to grow sleepy. “One of my daughter’s whims. She wanted it all in that
color. But you’ve seen it already. I hope that you’ll sleep in it well.”
This last word pierced the officer atrociously. This maternal
intervention cast him back into his indecision.
Berthe perhaps divined this evil impression, for she added:
“Orange is my color. It seems to me that I’m less ugly amidst this
flame, into which I am melted. Nobody ever sleeps in that room, but I
often retire to it. It’s my domain.”
“And what does she do there, I ask you?” resumed Mme. Bernard. “She
reads, she dreams, for we’re a bit dreamy. What would you have? Young
girls! I was just the same at her age. But my favorite color was blue.”
“Orange is a pretty color, too.”
“Say that it’s the prettiest of all,” said Berthe.
“It’s the prettiest of all,” said the officer.
Now he awaited her. After having undressed, he half-dressed, and smoked
a cigarette, sketching arabesques upon the margins of a newspaper. He no
longer thought of anything. Only, at every sound, even that of a wakened
fly, his heart would stop beating.
Every six seconds he would look at the door. He arose and went over to
it, to put his ear at the chink.
At this moment a panel of drapery, near the hearth, seemed to detach
itself.
“Am I seeing things?”
He approached the mystery and reached there just in time to receive
Berthe in his arms.
“My room is there,” she explained, after having received and returned
the kiss of greeting. “Simply a double cupboard whose inside partition
I’ve managed to make moveable. How many times, for three years, have I
come to see if you were there! Nobody, always nobody! But at last here
you are. Will you love me, at least?”
Seeing that these words astonished her lover, she resumed:
“He who comes is he whom one has been awaiting. You have come and I
belong to you.”
Walking ever so softly, speaking ever so softly, they reached the edge
of the bed and sat down. As he pressed her to him, the captain felt,
under the flimsy robe, the young girl’s bodily beauty. He was deeply
moved, but he had the courage to say:
“No, you are a silly child and I will not abuse you. If you wish to love
me, we have the rest of our lives. You said, imprudently and
innocently, ‘We have the night.’ And I tell you: ‘We have life’.”
She dropped her head upon the officer’s chest, pressing very tightly the
arm that she had slipped around his neck. Then she arose, her head red,
her golden eyes gleaming ardently, wildly, found his lips, which she
bit, and threw herself upon her back, drawing him upon her.
“Should we,” she said later, cuddling into her lover’s lap, “should we
ever have found again a chance like this?”
Two months later the orange room became the wedding chamber.
They were very happy and spoke very often of their adventure, but
Berthe, I believe, never confessed to her husband that he was the third
captain for whom she had pierced the walls.