cross-grained ladies and the most indifferent men alike. It was a
curious influence exercised by that mere child; and she owed it neither
to her experience--for what did she know of life?--nor to her tact--for
what aim had she in view?--but to an inexplicable charm which affected
all who came near her and which, at the same time, protected her against
them. Her innocence was a greater attraction than any subtlety or
intellectual charm and defended her to better purpose than prudence
would have done or cleverness.
Old Simare was mad about her. Mme. Bottentuit told her all the secrets
of her home life. Mme. Charmeron confided to her that she was
broken-hearted at having nothing but daughters, but that she had not
given up hope yet. Mlle. du Bocage hid her head on Gilberte’s shoulder,
wept and told her all her old-maidenly disappointments and regrets.
“You are the ornament of my _salon_, Gilberte,” said Mme. de la
Vaudraye.
She was not jealous of her. Gilberte, with her exquisite compassion, had
guessed that the former lady of the Logis must still suffer from the
ruin of her fortunes, must still feel how stunted and narrow was her
life; and she showed her more attention than she did to any other.
Out of kindness to the mother she even tried to win the son’s
sympathies; but here she encountered a medley of such shyness and
rudeness, so unlovable a nature and so marked a determination to repel
her advances and treat her as he treated the other frequenters of the
_salon_ that Gilberte was quite discomfited.
“Do not be discouraged,” said the mother. “He is a little unsociable;
but he is so full of good qualities.”
Nevertheless, Gilberte once heard her mutter between her teeth:
“What a bear that boy is!”
And she heard on all sides that mother and son did not agree.
The _salon_ underwent a change. There were as many commonplaces uttered
as ever; but those who spoke them did so with less smug importance than
before. People were less sure of themselves. The talented amateurs in
singing and piano-playing sought for shades of expression and feeling.
Lastly, the order of the concert became “subject to alterations” and the
performers no longer wore the air of automata obeying predestined laws.
There were asides in the conversation; people talked among themselves,
for the pleasure of talking and in accordance with their various
sympathies.
One evening, Beaufrelant drew Gilberte into a corner and said:
“I am mad, madame, do you hear? I am mad. I care for nothing, I am
indifferent to my flowers, it is you all the time. I am free: my name,
my life are yours; give me some hope....”
The next day, le Hourteulx made his declaration:
“Life has become a burden to me. If you do not take pity on me, madame,
I shall cease to exist.... But I can hardly believe that you will reject
me.... Do you dislike me?... I am a widower and well-off, you know....”
That was the only dark spot that troubled Gilberte’s serenity: the more
or less discreet attentions which all those men paid her. Simare the
younger went far more cleverly to work and tried to inspire confidence
with a pretence of delicacy by which Gilberte allowed herself to be
taken in. But Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx showed no pity: they pursued
her relentlessly, speaking to her, not unnaturally, as to a woman who
knows what life is and who could not well take offence at a declaration
or even at the terms in which it was made.
Poor Gilberte did not take offence, but she was very much surprised; and
the sighs and transports of those two men of forty bored her terribly.
She avoided them and she also had to avoid young Lartiste, who tried the
effect of poetry and fired the most passionate verses of Musset and
Verlaine at her; the brother too of the Demoiselles Bottentuit, a
schoolboy who was only let out on Thursdays and Sundays and who, the
third time he saw her, threatened to kill himself at her feet; and
lastly a cousin of Mlle. du Bocage, who was engaged to the elder
Charmeron girl and who offered to break off the marriage and abandon a
very good match if it caused her the faintest annoyance.
She no longer enjoyed at the Logis the atmosphere of peace and isolation
so dear to her. Adèle had to defend the door, with the vigilance of a
watch-dog, against the daring suitors who tried to obtain admission to
her mistress upon some pretext:
“Madame is at home to nobody; I have positive instructions.”
The old servant saw through the disguise of M. le Hourteulx, who
appeared dressed up as a beggar, and of Beaufrelant, who, in cap and
blouse, came round with a green-grocer’s barrow.
Gilberte could not go for a stroll in her garden without seeing the
figure of one or other of those importunate gentlemen on the right, in
the next garden which ran from the castle down to the river. At
nightfall, she was conscious of shadowy forms prowling round the
manor-house. She felt herself spied upon on every side, stalked like a
beast of the chase.
* * * * *
It was Easter Sunday. After dinner, Adèle and her husband went to the
fair, just outside the town. Gilberte was left alone.
It had been raining; and the fresh smell of wet leaves and moist earth
came through the open window of the boudoir which she had made into her
study. The book which she was reading in an absent-minded way dropped to
her lap and she sat dreaming, with her gaze lost in the blackness of the
trees. And, quite without reason--for the least sound would have struck
her ear--she was overcome with an indescribable sense of dread, which
increased from moment to moment. The silence seemed to her unnatural and
awful. The darkness was heavy with menace; and she could not take her
eyes from it, sat spellbound by the unknown peril which she felt was
there.
A recollection doubled her fears. On the evening before at Mme. de la
Vaudraye’s, a turn in the conversation had led her to say that her
servants were going to this fair. So they knew that she was all alone at
the Logis.
Her one thought was to close the window, fasten down the shutters and
place an obstacle between herself and the snares that were being laid
for her in the threatening darkness; and yet she dared not stir, as
though the least movement would have exposed her to immediate
dangers.... But what dangers?
She made an effort and rose from her chair. At the same moment, a head
appeared and a man strode across the balcony and sprang into the room.
It was Simare.
The revulsion of feeling was such that she almost felt inclined to
laugh. Wearily, she sat down and murmured:
“Oh, monsieur, you ought not to have done this!... I should never have
thought it of you....”
He flung himself on his knees:
“Do not judge me unheard.... I am not master of myself.... I have to go
away for a month ... and I wanted to see you ... to tell you what I
feel, what I suffer.... Oh, you don’t know how your indifference has
tortured me.... My sadness, my admiration, my hopes, my emotion, when in
your presence: you have understood none of these ... but then you never
do understand.... At this very moment, when I am here, at your knees,
when I am imploring you, when I am proclaiming my sorrow and my
obsession, I feel that my words do not reach you. And yet they must. You
must, you shall know what I have to say to you.... Listen to me....”
But Gilberte would not listen. Although her extreme innocence had
preserved her at first contact with the world, nevertheless she was
beginning to see a glimmer of the meaning of many things; and she was
frightened of the words that were coming. No, she would not hear them
from the lips of this man, she would not allow this man to be the first
to speak them in her ear. She had a sudden intuition of their importance
and their sweetness and their magic; and she felt that it was almost a
contamination to hear them.
She entreated him:
“Be quiet.... I shall be so grateful if you will....”
“No, no,” he cried, “I must speak. Ever since I have known you, the
words I have to say have been on my lips, suffocating me.... Gilberte,
Gilberte, I....”
She gave a desperate glance, the glance of a victim which does not know
how to defend itself and awaits the blow that is about to fall. He
stammered:
“Oh, your eyes ... your eyes ...!”
He remained on his knees, humble and undecided, and repeated, in a low
voice:
“Your eyes ... yes ... my father told me ... child’s eyes that put one
off....”
He rose and struck his fist upon the table:
“No, after all, I will not allow myself to be thwarted. I mean to speak
and I shall speak.... If your eyes prevent me, well, I sha’n’t see your
eyes!”
He went to the lamp and, with a sudden movement, put it out.
Gilberte gave a scream. She tried to run away, stumbled over a chair and
fell. She tried to call out; and her voice died away in her throat.
Then, powerless, she stirred no more.
He seized her hand and raised it to his lips.
She made a weak attempt to release herself, but strength failed her.
She said, simply:
“Please, monsieur ... I have never done you any harm.... I have always
been kind to you.... Please....”
His hand slacked its grasp. They remained opposite each other. What was
he going to say to her? At her wits’ end, with her heart wildly beating,
she tried, through the darkness, through the great, impenetrable
silence that enshrouded the two of them, to see Simare’s face, to read
his tumultuous thoughts, his will.... A few seconds passed....
Then he said:
“I beg your pardon.... I am a scoundrel.... I wanted to force you to
take my name, to share my existence.... It was cowardly and base of
me.... Still, there was more in me, believe me, than wicked designs....
Oh, I hear your heart beating ... do not tremble!... You will never be
in danger from any one ... it is not only your eyes that protect you:
there is the sound of your voice, there is your silence, there is the
air you breathe, your mere presence.... Forgive me....”
He went away, She dimly saw him cross the window-rail and presently
heard the sound of his steps as he walked down the gravel-path in the
garden.
Gilberte rushed to the door. She could not have stayed for another
instant in the solitude of that room.
It was an intolerable agony, of which she felt the grip even more now
that Simare was no longer there. Where should she go? To Mme. de la
Vaudraye’s? She remembered vaguely that it was not one of her
“evenings,” because of the fair. No matter. She wanted people, lights,
bustle, men and women in whose presence she could master her fears and
pluck up courage.
She ran to her bedroom, put on her hat and cloak.... But no, she dared
not go out....
A noise came from the square in front of the Logis, on the town side;
the noise of an altercation, of a struggle. She drew back the curtains.
Two men were fighting under her windows. In her fright, she flew to the
bolt, locked herself in and crouched down in the furthest corner of her
room. Her instinct, her weakness impelled her to hide herself, to know
nothing of what was happening, to wait.... But the din increased. There
were shouts and moans.
Then she was ashamed of her cowardice. It was impossible for her to
continue in that nervous inactivity. She wanted to interfere, to help,
if there were still time. Bravely, she opened the door, went down the
stairs, walked out into the square and up to the combatants.
By the light of the lamp she recognized Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx.
Rolling on the ground, covered with mud, hatless, their clothes all
disarranged, they were fighting with a sort of mad rage, with the
stubbornness of two mortal enemies rejoicing in an opportunity of
vengeance long deferred. They struck at each other in turns, collared
each other, bashed each other’s faces with their fists, wrestled
violently. And this amid insults and exclamations of triumph:
“Here, you villain, take that!”
“One for you!”
“Ah, my fine fellow, you caught it this time! How did that strike you?”
And they called Gilberte to witness, like the queen of a tournament in
whose honour two of her knights were breaking a lance:
“What do you think of that, madame?”
“Got in there with my left, madame!”
“Ah, he was looking out for you, the scoundrel!”
“Oh, you blackguard, you were prowling round her house!”
Abandoning all attempts at interference, she turned to move away. They
rose with difficulty and followed her, each hustling his rival as he
went on trying to get rid of him. But the heat of the struggle brought
them to the ground again; and she ran away.
The first street to which her steps led her came out in front of the
church. The La Vaudrayes’ house was close by; and she hastened to it.
No one answered when she rang the bell. Still, there was a light in the
drawing-room. She tapped at one of the windows. Some one came to the
door. It was Guillaume de la Vaudraye.
“You, madame!” he exclaimed.
“Where’s your mother? Where’s your mother?” she panted.
“My mother is at Caen, on business; I am alone in the house.”
She walked to the drawing-room unsteadily and sank into a chair.
“What is the matter? Why are you here?”
She whispered, in a broken voice:
“They came.... They are following me.... I am frightened of them....”
“Simare, was it?... And Le Hourteulx, I suppose ... and Beaufrelant....”
“Yes ... so I daren’t go back....”
“But Adèle ... and her husband?”
“Gone to the fair.”
He thought for a moment and said:
“I will go and fetch them. It’s some way off. Take a rest until we
come: you need it.”
Gilberte, utterly exhausted, fell asleep.
Adèle woke her. There was a taxi waiting for her. Guillaume did not show
himself again.
VI
A NEW FRIEND
Two days later Domfront could not believe its ears when it heard that
all relations had been broken off between the La Vaudrayes on the one
hand and Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx on the other. The two no longer
formed part of the _salon_.
“Oh, nonsense! Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx, who have been there longer
than anybody, who date back to the days when the La Vaudrayes saw their
friends at the Logis: it’s impossible!”
“It’s quite true, for all that. I heard it from Mme. Duval, who is
constantly at all three houses; and she saw the letters which Mme. de la
Vaudraye wrote.”
“Well, you can say what you please, but it’s a great pity. M. le
Hourteulx: such a fine voice! And M. Beaufrelant: such a brilliant
talker! And have you heard the reason?”
“No, I can’t imagine.... If I hear the least thing, I’ll let you know.”
Gilberte was very much vexed when Adèle told her what had happened. She
had no doubt that Guillaume de la Vaudraye had told his mother what he
knew of the incident and she was distressed at being the cause of
disagreement, complication and gossip.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “all this would not have come about if I had not
been looked upon as married.”
And, as a matter of fact, she seemed, as a married woman, to be exposed
to unpleasantness which she would have escaped in the position of a
girl. Instead of the quiet which she had sought, she found, in the men’s
behaviour, in their conversation, in their way of looking at her, in the
persistency of their pursuit, a host of disturbing little annoyances
which might well have troubled a mind less innocent than hers.
She went to Mme. de la Vaudraye, in the afternoon, and begged her to
reconsider her decision.
“It is no use asking me,” cried Mme. de la Vaudraye. “I admit that, in
writing to those two gentlemen, I did no more than my duty; but it was
my son who pointed out to me how imperative that duty was.”
She was in a bad temper and, when all is said, with reason. No mistress
of a house lightly gives up two individuals of the undoubted merit of M.
Beaufrelant and M. le Hourteulx. She called out:
“Guillaume, Mme. Armand wants to talk to you!”
And, when her son entered the room, she went out.
Gilberte, who was always frightened by Guillaume’s obvious coldness and
his excessive reserve, blushed as she made her request. Ought so much
importance to be attached to an incident which the two gentlemen surely
regretted and at which she could only laugh?
“My mother and I have no right to laugh at it,” he said. “We are
responsible for all the people whom we introduce to you. If one of them
treats you with disrespect, we must not expose you to meeting him here.”
“But how have they treated me with disrespect?... I assure you, I don’t
see it....”
He looked at her, turned away his head and said, in a voice so abrupt
that she could not make out whether his answer was full of contemptuous
pity or affectionate admiration:
“It is the others, it is all of us who must see for you.... How can you
be expected to see those things?”
He paused and continued:
“Are you very anxious to have those two boors back here?”
“For your mother’s sake, yes. I feel that the situation grieves her.”
“Why, of course,” he exclaimed, with cutting irony, “they are the two
finest ornaments of her _salon_! How will the others do without them?
How will they manage to rattle out the regulation tomfoolery? Will they
ever be able to reach the required level of absurdity, affectation,
stupidity and narrowness? Heavens, if we were a shade less dull and less
inane, what a catastrophe!”
“It’s not right of you to talk like that, monsieur,” said Gilberte.
“What!” he said, taken aback.
“No, you ought not to laugh at what is a great pleasure to your mother.
If some of her friends are a little eccentric, it is not for you to
remark upon it.”
He rose, began to walk excitedly up and down the room and then,
gradually mastering himself, came and sat opposite Gilberte again and
said:
“You are right, madame. Besides, among all those people whom I cannot
help criticizing, I have never heard you speak any but sensible,
judicious, intelligent words, admirable for their kindness and wisdom.
You always answer their most ridiculous questions as though they had
asked you about the most interesting things in life. One word from you
brings order and lucidity into the most absurd conversations.”
It was no longer the same voice. Usually so hard and dictatorial, it had
become humble and grave. And his face, which was generally severe, bore
an expression of infinite gentleness. One was no longer conscious of
acrimony, constraint or distrust, but of the frank unreserve of a
pent-up nature and of subdued melancholy.
Which of the two was the real Guillaume? Gilberte did not even ask
herself the question, was only too happy to believe at once in the more
attractive of the two images presented to her. And so she smiled upon
this second Guillaume and said:
“Then ... those gentlemen ...?”
“Your two protégés shall resume the places which they fill so well. I
insist, however, on a temporary exclusion as a punishment; for it is a
punishment to Le Hourteulx and Beaufrelant. After that, if they are very
good....”
“And you will be pleasant to them?”
“To them and to the others, at least as pleasant as I can.”
“Is it so very difficult?”
“Extremely! I can’t help it: I do not suffer fools gladly; they make me
irritable and unjust. I have not your charity.”
“It only needs a little indulgence; think of your mother.”
“Oh, my mother, my mother!”
There was something sorrowful and harsh about this exclamation that
struck Gilberte. She kept silence from a sense of delicacy. But
Guillaume was passing through one of those periods when it is a relief
to the over-burdened soul to confess its troubles:
“Have my mother and I ever understood each other? We have not an idea in
common. Her wants are not mine, nor are mine hers. She offends all my
tastes as I offend all hers. If I display so much bitterness against the
merry-andrews who perform in her _salon_, it is because of her. I hate
to see her countenancing their grimaces and posturings.”
She said nothing. He asked:
“You blame me for it, don’t you? Yes, yes, I feel it.... And how
strange: in your presence, I too think that I am wrong and, while I was
saying those things, I blushed as if I had uttered ugly thoughts!”
She laughed:
“They were not very pretty ones.”
“Never mind, I prefer you to know them. I do not wish to trick you into
liking me. If I ever win your esteem, I want to do so without hypocrisy,
without trying to hide my faults from you.”
No one had ever spoken to Gilberte with such seriousness and deference.
She felt quite touched and, with a spontaneous movement, held out her
hand to Guillaume:
“We shall be friends,” she said. “I am sure that we shall be friends.”
He was on the point of raising her small, gloved hand to his lips, but
he restrained himself. And she went on:
“So this is the unsociable Guillaume de la Vaudraye! Will you believe
that you quite frightened me with your surly ways? You did indeed!”
After this interview, Gilberte did two or three errands and returned to
the Logis. It was drawing towards evening. She made for the summer-house
and saw her dream-companion in the distance. She said to him, as though
he could hear her and as though she felt bound to tell him the good news
without delay:
“You know, I have a new friend!”
And Gilberte saw nothing extraordinary in this sudden friendship, based
upon the exchange of a few sentences. Was she not one of those
unsophisticated beings who always obey the unreflecting impulse of
their hearts, who look you straight in the eyes and who do not think it
out of place to tell people how they feel towards them?
And so, the next evening, she went to Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, quite happy
at the thought of seeing her new friend again. A disappointment awaited
her: Guillaume did not appear.
She went back next day. Guillaume came down to the drawing-room, bowed
to her and seemed to take no further notice of her presence.
Thereupon, on the third day, while the others were listening to Mlle. du
Bocage and M. Lartiste the elder in the duet from _Mireille_, Gilberte,
finding that Guillaume was alone in the next room, went out to him. She
at once saw that he tried to avoid her. Realizing this to be impossible,
he gave a gesture of vexation and crossed his arms in an indifferent
attitude.
“What about your promise?” she asked, playfully, but a little sadly.
“You promised to make yourself pleasant to your enemies in the _salon_;
and this is the best you can do! Am I not entitled to complain? Did we
not shake hands as friends?”
He uncrossed his arms and his expression changed. Once again she felt
the relaxation of a tense will, the immediate suppression of all
resistance in this silent man whose square chin and inflexible eyes bore
witness to his obstinacy.
“Good!” she said. “Capital! But you still look a little fierce....
That’s better!... And now, come along.”
He stopped her:
“Do not ask too much of me. You are so far above ordinary life, so
inaccessible, that you can mix with those people and remain serene and
untouched. I could only do so at the risk of deteriorating. One must
make allowance for different temperaments. I shall be polite, that’s
all.”
Then she stayed and they talked.
Often, after that, Gilberte had to go to him and open, as she said, the
door of his prison-house, unbind his hands and deliver his captive soul.
But she did it so easily that it amused them both.
“You have but to lift your little finger,” Guillaume would say, “to
bring down the prison-walls.”
Under this uneven and rugged husk, Gilberte discovered the most
exquisite and delicate of natures, a poet’s nature that was galled by
all its surroundings, a child’s nature that his mother had kept in to
the verge of pain. And it was often from the point of view of a child
that Gilberte was glad to be with him. They would laugh at the least
thing, with that childish laughter, which is so good just because it has
no excuse except our need of laughter. They longed to run and skip and
play.
“Oh dear, how young I am!” Guillaume would exclaim.
“I shall be two next year,” Gilberte declared.
They could be serious also. She asked him about his writing, wanted to
read what he had printed. He refused, on the pretext that he was not
satisfied. Nevertheless, he showed her a letter from the editor of an
important review, a letter teeming with compliments.
He lent her his favorite books and she devoured them.
Mme. de la Vaudraye was in ecstasies. She was now certain that her dream
would be realized. She was too clever to betray her delight and hid it
under demonstrations of gratitude:
“How sweet of you, my dear Gilberte, to tame that wild savage! You will
make quite a courtier of him.”
And she added, with a sigh:
“Oh, if you could only turn him into a more attentive son and make him
more grateful to his mother for all the sacrifices she has made for
him!”
The discord between Mme. de la Vaudraye and Guillaume was Gilberte’s
greatest grief. Her love of harmony prompted her to make continual
endeavours at reconciliation which were bound to fail as much because of
the mother’s arid artificiality as of the son’s stubbornness and
reserve.
She had to give up the attempt.