boxwood hedge which bordered the park on the southern side. They passed
before the orange-grove, the monumental door of which was surmounted by
the Lorraine cross of Mareuilles, and then passed under the linden-trees
which formed an alley on the lawn. Statues of nymphs shivered in the
damp shade studded with pale lights. A pigeon, posed on the shoulder
of one of the white women, fled. From time to time a breath of wind
detached a dried leaf which fell, a shell of red gold, where remained a
drop of rain. Therese pointed to the nymph and said:
“She saw me when I was a girl and wishing to die. I suffered from dreams
and from fright. I was waiting for you. But you were so far away!”
The linden alley stopped near the large basin, in the centre of which
was a group of tritons blowing in their shells to form, when the waters
played, a liquid diadem with flowers of foam.
“It is the Joinville crown,” she said.
She pointed to a pathway which, starting from the basin, lost itself in
the fields, in the direction of the rising sun.
“This is my pathway. How often I walked in it sadly! I was sad when I
did not know you.”
They found the alley which, with other lindens and other nymphs, went
beyond. And they followed it to the grottoes. There was, in the rear
of the park, a semicircle of five large niches of rocks surmounted by
balustrades and separated by gigantic Terminus gods. One of these gods,
at a corner of the monument, dominated all the others by his monstrous
nudity, and lowered on them his stony look.
“When my father bought Joinville,” she said, “the grottoes were only
ruins, full of grass and vipers. A thousand rabbits had made holes in
them. He restored the Terminus gods and the arcades in accordance with
prints by Perrelle, which are preserved at the Bibliotheque Nationale.
He was his own architect.”
A desire for shade and mystery led them toward the arbor near the
grottoes. But the noise of footsteps which they heard, coming from the
covered alley, made them stop for a moment, and they saw, through the
leaves, Montessuy, with his arm around the Princess Seniavine’s waist.
Quietly they were walking toward the palace. Jacques and Therese, hiding
behind the enormous Terminus god, waited until they had passed.
Then she said to Dechartre, who was looking at her silently:
“That is amazing! I understand now why the Princess Seniavine, this
winter, asked my father to advise her about buying horses.”
Yet Therese admired her father for having conquered that beautiful
woman, who passed for being hard to please, and who was known to be
wealthy, in spite of the embarrassments which her mad disorder had
caused her. She asked Jacques whether he did not think the Princess was
beautiful. He said she had elegance. She was beautiful, doubtless.
Therese led Jacques to the moss-covered steps which, ascending behind
the grottoes, led to the Gerbe-de-l’Oise, formed of leaden reeds in
the midst of a great pink marble vase. Tall trees closed the park’s
perspective and stood at the beginning of the forest. They walked under
them. They were silent under the faint moan of the leaves.
He pressed her in his arms and placed kisses on her eyelids. Night was
descending, the first stars were trembling among the branches. In the
damp grass sighed the frog’s flutes. They went no farther.
When she took with him, in darkness, the road to the palace, the taste
of kisses and of mint remained on her lips, and in her eyes was the
image of her lover. She smiled under the lindens at the nymphs who had
seen the tears of her childhood. The Swan lifted in the sky its cross of
stars, and the moon mirrored its slender horn in the basin of the crown.
Insects in the grass uttered appeals to love. At the last turn of the
boxwood hedge, Therese and Jacques saw the triple black mass of
the castle, and through the wide bay-windows of the first story
distinguished moving forms in the red light. The bell rang.
Therese exclaimed:
“I have hardly time to dress for dinner.”
And she passed swiftly between the stone lions, leaving her lover under
the impression of a fairy-tale vision.
In the drawing-room, after dinner, M. Berthier d’Eyzelles read the
newspaper, and the Princess Seniavine played solitaire. Therese sat, her
eyes half closed over a book.
The Princess asked whether she found what she was reading amusing.
“I do not know. I was reading and thinking. Paul Vence is right: ‘We
find only ourselves in books.’”
Through the hangings came from the billiard-room the voices of the
players and the click of the balls.
“I have it!” exclaimed the Princess, throwing down the cards.
She had wagered a big sum on a horse which was running that day at the
Chantilly races.
Therese said she had received a letter from Fiesole. Miss Bell announced
her forthcoming marriage with Prince Eusebia Albertinelli della Spina.
The Princess laughed:
“There’s a man who will render a service to her.”
“What service?” asked Therese.
“He will disgust her with men, of course.”
Montessuy came into the parlor joyfully. He had won the game.
He sat beside Berthier-d’Eyzelles, and, taking a newspaper from the
sofa, said:
“The Minister of Finance announces that he will propose, when the
Chamber reassembles, his savings-bank bill.”
This bill was to give to savings-banks the authority to lend money to
communes, a proceeding which would take from Montessuy’s business houses
their best customers.
“Berthier,” asked the financier, “are you resolutely hostile to that
bill?”
Berthier nodded.
Montessuy rose, placed his hand on the Deputy’s shoulder, and said:
“My dear Berthier, I have an idea that the Cabinet will fall at the
beginning of the session.”
He approached his daughter.
“I have received an odd letter from Le Menil.”
Therese rose and closed the door that separated the parlor from the
billiard-room.
She was afraid of draughts, she said.
“A singular letter,” continued Montessuy. “Le Menil will not come to
Joinville. He has bought the yacht Rosebud. He is on the Mediterranean,
and can not live except on the water. It is a pity. He is the only one
who knows how to manage a hunt.”
At this instant Dechartre came into the room with Count Martin, who,
after beating him at billiards, had acquired a great affection for him
and was explaining to him the dangers of a personal tax based on the
number of servants one kept.
CHAPTER XXXI. AN UNWELCOME APPARITION
A pale winter sun piercing the mists of the Seine, illuminated the dogs
painted by Oudry on the doors of the dining room.
Madame Martin had at her right Garain the Deputy, formerly Chancellor,
also President of the Council, and at her left Senator Loyer. At Count
Martin-Belleme’s right was Monsieur Berthier-d’Eyzelles. It was an
intimate and serious business gathering. In conformity with Montessuy’s
prediction, the Cabinet had fallen four days before. Called to the
Elysee the same morning, Garain had accepted the task of forming a
cabinet. He was preparing, while taking breakfast, the combination which
was to be submitted in the evening to the President. And, while they
were discussing names, Therese was reviewing within herself the images
of her intimate life.
She had returned to Paris with Count Martin at the opening of the
parliamentary session, and since that moment had led an enchanted life.
Jacques loved her; he loved her with a delicious mingling of passion and
tenderness, of learned experience and curious ingenuity. He was nervous,
irritable, anxious. But the uncertainty of his humor made his gayety
more charming. That artistic gayety, bursting out suddenly like a flame,
caressed love without offending it. And the playful wit of her lover
made Therese marvel. She never could have imagined the infallible taste
which he exercised naturally in joyful caprice and in familiar fantasy.
At first he had displayed only the monotony of passionate ardor. That
alone had captured her. But since then she had discovered in him a
gay mind, well stored and diverse, as well as the gift of agreeable
flattery.
“To assemble a homogeneous ministry,” exclaimed Garain, “is easily said.
Yet one must be guided by the tendencies of the various factions of the
Chamber.”
He was uneasy. He saw himself surrounded by as many snares as those
which he had laid. Even his collaborators became hostile to him.
Count Martin wished the new ministry to satisfy the aspirations of the
new men.
“Your list is formed of personalities essentially different in origin
and in tendency,” he said. “Yet the most important fact in the political
history of recent years is the possibility, I should say the necessity,
to introduce unity of views in the government of the republic. These are
ideas which you, my dear Garin, have expressed with rare eloquence.”
M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles kept silence.
Senator Loyer rolled crumbs with his fingers. He had been formerly a
frequenter of beer-halls, and while moulding crumbs or cutting corks
he found ideas. He raised his red face. And, looking at Garain with
wrinkled eyes wherein red fire sparkled, he said:
“I said it, and nobody would believe it. The annihilation of the
monarchical Right was for the chiefs of the Republican party an
irreparable misfortune. We governed formerly against it. The real
support of a government is the Opposition. The Empire governed
against the Orleanists and against us; MacMahon governed against
the Republicans. More fortunate, we governed against the Right. The
Right--what a magnificent Opposition it was! It threatened, was candid,
powerless, great, honest, unpopular! We should have nursed it. We did
not know how to do that. And then, of course, everything wears out. Yet
it is always necessary to govern against something. There are to-day
only Socialists to give us the support which the Right lent us fifteen
years ago with so constant a generosity. But they are too weak. We
should reenforce them, make of them a political party. To do this at the
present hour is the first duty of a State minister.”
Garain, who was not cynical, made no answer.
“Garain, do you not yet know,” asked Count Martin, “whether with the
Premiership you are to take the Seals or the Interior?”
Garain replied that his decision would depend on the choice which some
one else would make. The presence of that personage in the Cabinet was
necessary, and he hesitated between two portfolios. Garain sacrificed
his personal convenience to superior interests.
Senator Loyer made a wry face. He wanted the Seals. It was a
long-cherished desire. A teacher of law under the Empire, he gave, in
cafes, lessons that were appreciated. He had the sense of chicanery.
Having begun his political fortune with articles skilfully written in
order to attract to himself prosecution, suits, and several weeks of
imprisonment, he had considered the press as a weapon of opposition
which every good government should break. Since September 4, 1870, he
had had the ambition to become Keeper of the Seals, so that everybody
might see how the old Bohemian who formerly explained the code while
dining on sauerkraut, would appear as supreme chief of the magistracy.
Idiots by the dozen had climbed over his back. Now having become aged
in the ordinary honors of the Senate, unpolished, married to a brewery
girl, poor, lazy, disillusioned, his old Jacobin spirit and his sincere
contempt for the people surviving his ambition, made of him a good man
for the Government. This time, as a part of the Garain combination, he
imagined he held the Department of Justice. And his protector, who would
not give it to him, was an unfortunate rival. He laughed, while moulding
a dog from a piece of bread.
M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles, calm and grave, caressed his handsome white
beard.
“Do you not think, Monsieur Garain, that it would be well to give a
place in the Cabinet to the men who have followed from the beginning the
political principles toward which we are directing ourselves to-day?”
“They lost themselves in doing it,” replied Garam, impatiently. “The
politician never should be in advance of circumstances. It is an error
to be in the right too soon. Thinkers are not men of business. And
then--let us talk frankly--if you want a Ministry of the Left Centre
variety, say so: I will retire. But I warn you that neither the Chamber
nor the country will sustain you.”
“It is evident,” said Count Martin, “that we must be sure of a
majority.”
“With my list, we have a majority,” said Garain. “It is the minority
which sustained the Ministry against us. Gentlemen, I appeal to your
devotion.”
And the laborious distribution of the portfolios began again. Count
Martin received, in the first place, the Public Works, which he refused,
for lack of competency, and afterward the Foreign Affairs, which he
accepted without objection.
But M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles, to whom Garain offered Commerce and
Agriculture, reserved his decision.
Loyer got the Colonies. He seemed very busy trying to make his bread dog
stand on the cloth. Yet he was looking out of the corners of his little
wrinkled eyelids at the Countess Martin and thinking that she was
desirable. He vaguely thought of the pleasure of meeting her again.
Leaving Garain to his combination, he was preoccupied by his fair
hostess, trying to divine her tastes and her habits, asking her
whether she went to the theatre, and if she ever went at night to the
coffee-house with her husband. And Therese was beginning to think he
was more interesting than the others, with his apparent ignorance of her
world and his superb cynicism.
Gamin arose. He had to see several persons before submitting his list
to the President of the Republic. Count Martin offered his carriage, but
Garain had one.
“Do you not think,” asked Count Martin, “that the President might object
to some names?”
“The President,” replied Garain, “will be inspired by the necessities of
the situation.”
He had already gone out of the door when he struck his forehead with his
hand.
“We have forgotten the Ministry of War.”
“We shall easily find somebody for it among the generals,” said Count
Martin.
“Ah,” exclaimed Garain, “you believe the choice of a minister of war is
easy. It is clear you have not, like me, been a member of three cabinets
and President of the Council. In my cabinets, and during my presidency
the greatest difficulties came from the Ministry of War. Generals are
all alike. You know the one I chose for the cabinet that I formed. When
we took him, he knew nothing of affairs. He hardly knew there were
two Chambers. We had to explain to him all the wheels of parliamentary
machinery; we had to teach him that there were an army committee,
finance committee, subcommittees, presidents of committees, a budget. He
asked that all this information be written for him on a piece of paper.
His ignorance of men and of things amazed and alarmed us. In a fortnight
he knew the most subtle tricks of the trade; he knew personally all the
senators and all the deputies, and was intriguing with them against us.
If it had not been for President Grevy’s help, he would have overthrown
us. And he was a very ordinary general, a general like any other. Oh,
no; do not think that the portfolio of war may be given hastily, without
reflection.”
And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague.
Therese rose. Senator Loyer offered his arm to her, with the
graceful attitude that he had learned forty years before at Bullier’s
dancing-hall. She left the politicians in the drawing-room, and hastened
to meet Dechartre.
A rosy mist covered the Seine, the stone quays, and the gilded trees.
The red sun threw into the cloudy sky the last glories of the year.
Therese, as she went out, relished the sharpness of the air and the
dying splendor of the day. Since her return to Paris, happy, she found
pleasure every morning in the changes of the weather. It seemed to her,
in her generous selfishness, that it was for her the wind blew in the
trees, or the fine, gray rain wet the horizon of the avenues; for her,
so that she might say, as she entered the little house of the Ternes,
“It is windy; it is raining; the weather is pleasant;” mingling thus the
ocean of things in the intimacy of her love. And every day was beautiful
for her, since each one brought her to the arms of her beloved.
While on her way that day to the little house of the Ternes she thought
of her unexpected happiness, so full and so secure. She walked in the
last glory of the sun already touched by winter, and said to herself:
“He loves me; I believe he loves me entirely. To love is easier and more
natural for him than for other men. They have in life ideas they think
superior to love--faith, habits, interests. They believe in God, or
in duties, or in themselves. He believes in me only. I am his God, his
duty, and his life.”
Then she thought:
“It is true, too, that he needs nobody, not even me. His thoughts alone
are a magnificent world in which he could easily live by himself. But
I can not live without him. What would become of me if I did not have
him?”
She was not alarmed by the violent passion that he had for her. She
recalled that she had said to him one day: “Your love for me is only
sensual. I do not complain of it; it is perhaps the only true love.” And
he had replied: “It is also the only grand and strong love. It has its
measure and its weapons. It is full of meaning and of images. It is
violent and mysterious. It attaches itself to the flesh and to the soul
of the flesh. The rest is only illusion and untruth.” She was almost
tranquil in her joy. Suspicions and anxieties had fled like the mists of
a summer storm. The worst weather of their love had come when they had
been separated from each other. One should never leave the one whom one
loves.
At the corner of the Avenue Marceau and of the Rue Galilee, she divined
rather than recognized a shadow that had passed by her, a forgotten
form. She thought, she wished to think, she was mistaken. The one whom
she thought she had seen existed no longer, never had existed. It was
a spectre seen in the limbo of another world, in the darkness of a half
light. And she continued to walk, retaining of this ill-defined meeting
an impression of coldness, of vague embarrassment, and of pain in the
heart.
As she proceeded along the avenue she saw coming toward her newspaper
carriers holding the evening sheets announcing the new Cabinet. She
traversed the square; her steps followed the happy impatience of her
desire. She had visions of Jacques waiting for her at the foot of the
stairway, among the marble figures; taking her in his arms and carrying
her, trembling from kisses, to that room full of shadows and of
delights, where the sweetness of life made her forget life.
But in the solitude of the Avenue MacMahon, the shadow which she had
seen at the corner of the Rue Galilee came near her with a directness
that was unmistakable.
She recognized Robert Le Menil, who, having followed her from the quay,
was stopping her at the most quiet and secure place.
His air, his attitude, expressed the simplicity of motive which had
formerly pleased Therese. His face, naturally harsh, darkened by
sunburn, somewhat hollowed, but calm, expressed profound suffering.
“I must speak to you.”
She slackened her pace. He walked by her side.
“I have tried to forget you. After what had happened it was natural, was
it not? I have done all I could. It was better to forget you, surely;
but I could not. So I bought a boat, and I have been travelling for six
months. You know, perhaps?”
She made a sign that she knew.
He continued:
“The Rosebud, a beautiful yacht. There were six men in the crew. I
manoeuvred with them. It was a pastime.”
He paused. She was walking slowly, saddened, and, above all, annoyed.
It seemed to her an absurd and painful thing, beyond all expression, to
have to listen to such words from a stranger.
He continued:
“What I suffered on that boat I should be ashamed to tell you.”
She felt he spoke the truth.
“Oh, I forgive you--I have reflected alone a great deal. I passed many
nights and days on the divan of the deckhouse, turning always the same
ideas in my mind. For six months I have thought more than I ever did in
my life. Do not laugh. There is nothing like suffering to enlarge the
mind. I understand that if I have lost you the fault is mine. I should
have known how to keep you. And I said to myself: ‘I did not know. Oh;
if I could only begin again!’ By dint of thinking and of suffering, I
understand. I know now that I did not sufficiently share your tastes
and your ideas. You are a superior woman. I did not notice it before,
because it was not for that that I loved you. Without suspecting it, I
irritated you.”
She shook her head. He insisted.
“Yes, yes, I often wounded your feelings. I did not consider your
delicacy. There were misunderstandings between us. The reason was, we
have not the same temperament. And then, I did not know how to amuse
you. I did not know how to give you the amusement you need. I did
not procure for you the pleasures that a woman as intelligent as you
requires.”
So simple and so true was he in his regrets and in his pain, she found
him worthy of sympathy. She said to him, softly:
“My friend, I never had reason to complain of you.”
He continued:
“All I have said to you is true. I understood this when I was alone in
my boat. I have spent hours on it to which I would not condemn my worst
enemy. Often I felt like throwing myself into the water. I did not do
it. Was it because I have religious principles or family sentiments, or
because I have no courage? I do not know. The reason is, perhaps, that
from a distance you held me to life. I was attracted by you, since I am
here. For two days I have been watching you. I did not wish to reappear
at your house. I should not have found you alone; I should not have been
able to talk to you. And then you would have been forced to receive me.
I thought it better to speak to you in the street. The idea came to me
on the boat. I said to myself: ‘In the street she will listen to me only
if she wishes, as she wished four years ago in the park of Joinville,
you know, under the statues, near the crown.’”
He continued, with a sigh:
“Yes, as at Joinville, since all is to be begun again. For two days
I have been watching you. Yesterday it was raining; you went out in a
carriage. I might have followed you and learned where you were going
if I wished to do it. I did not do it. I do not wish to do what would
displease you.”
She extended her hand to him.
“I thank you. I knew I should not regret the trust I have placed in
you.”
Alarmed, impatient, fearing what more he might say, she tried to escape
him.
“Farewell! You have all life before you. You should be happy. Appreciate
it, and do not torment yourself about things that are not worth the
trouble.”
He stopped her with a look. His face had changed to the violent and
resolute expression which she knew.
“I have told you I must speak to you. Listen to me for a minute.”
She was thinking of Jacques, who was waiting for her. An occasional
passer-by looked at her and went on his way. She stopped under the black
branches of a tree, and waited with pity and fright in her soul.
He said:
“I forgive you and forget everything. Take me back. I will promise never
to say a word of the past.”
She shuddered, and made a movement of surprise and distaste so natural
that he stopped. Then, after a moment of reflection:
“My proposition to you is not an ordinary one, I know it well. But I
have reflected. I have thought of everything. It is the only possible
thing. Think of it, Therese, and do not reply at once.”
“It would be wrong to deceive you. I can not, I will not do what you
say; and you know the reason why.”
A cab was passing slowly near them. She made a sign to the coachman to
stop. Le Menil kept her a moment longer.
“I knew you would say this to me, and that is the reason why I say to
you, do not reply at once.”
Her fingers on the handle of the door, she turned on him the glance of
her gray eyes.
It was a painful moment for him. He recalled the time when he saw those
charming gray eyes gleam under half-closed lids. He smothered a sob, and
murmured:
“Listen; I can not live without you. I love you. It is now that I love
you. Formerly I did not know.”
And while she gave to the coachman, haphazard, the address of a tailor,
Le Menil went away.
The meeting gave her much uneasiness and anxiety. Since she was forced
to meet him again, she would have preferred to see him violent and
brutal, as he had been at Florence. At the corner of the avenue she said
to the coachman:
“To the Ternes.”
CHAPTER XXXII. THE RED LILY
It was Friday, at the opera. The curtain had fallen on Faust’s
laboratory. From the orchestra, opera-glasses were raised in a surveying
of the gold and purple theatre. The sombre drapery of the boxes framed
the dazzling heads and bare shoulders of women. The amphitheatre bent
above the parquette its garland of diamonds, hair, gauze, and satin. In
the proscenium boxes were the wife of the Austrian Ambassador and the
Duchess Gladwin; in the amphitheatre Berthe d’Osigny and Jane Tulle, the
latter made famous the day before by the suicide of one of her lovers;
in the boxes, Madame Berard de La Malle, her eyes lowered, her long
eyelashes shading her pure cheeks; Princess Seniavine, who, looking
superb, concealed under her fan panther--like yawnings; Madame de
Morlaine, between two young women whom she was training in the elegances
of the mind; Madame Meillan, resting assured on thirty years of
sovereign beauty; Madame Berthier d’Eyzelles, erect under iron-gray hair
sparkling with diamonds. The bloom of her cheeks heightened the austere
dignity of her attitude. She was attracting much notice. It had been
learned in the morning that, after the failure of Garain’s latest
combination, M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles had, undertaken the task of forming
a Ministry. The papers published lists with the name of Martin-Belleme
for the treasury, and the opera-glasses were turned toward the still
empty box of the Countess Martin.
A murmur of voices filled the hall. In the third rank of the parquette,
General Lariviere, standing at his place, was talking with General de La
Briche.
“I will do as you do, my old comrade, I will go and plant cabbages in
Touraine.”
He was in one of his moments of melancholy, when nothingness appeared to
him to be the end of life. He had flattered Garain, and Garain, thinking
him too clever, had preferred for Minister of War a shortsighted and
national artillery general. At least, the General relished the pleasure
of seeing Garain abandoned, betrayed by his friends Berthier-d’Eyzelles
and Martin-Belleme. It made him laugh even to the wrinkles of his small
eyes. He laughed in profile. Weary of a long life of dissimulation, he
gave to himself suddenly the joy of expressing his thoughts.
“You see, my good La Briche, they make fools of us with their civil
army, which costs a great deal, and is worth nothing. Small armies are
the only good ones. This was the opinion of Napoleon I, who knew.”
“It is true, it is very true,” sighed General de La Briche, with tears
in his eyes.
Montessuy passed before them; Lariviere extended his hand to him.
“They say, Montessuy, that you are the one who checked Garain. Accept my
compliments.”
Montessuy denied that he had exercised any political influence. He
was not a senator nor a deputy, nor a councillor-general. And, looking
through his glasses at the hall:
“See, Lariviere, in that box at the right, a very beautiful woman, a
brunette.”
And he took his seat quietly, relishing the sweets of power.
However, in the hall, in the corridors, the names of the new
Ministers went from mouth to mouth in the midst of profound
indifference: President of the Council and Minister of the Interior,
Berthier-d’Eyzelles; justice and Religions, Loyer; Treasury,
Martin-Belleme. All the ministers were known except those of Commerce,
War, and the Navy, who were not yet designated.
The curtain was raised on the wine-shop of Bacchus. The students were
singing their second chorus when Madame Martin appeared in her box. Her
white gown had sleeves like wings, and on the drapery of her corsage, at
the left breast, shone a large ruby lily.
Miss Bell sat near her, in a green velvet Queen Anne gown. Betrothed to
Prince Eusebio Albertinelli della Spina, she had come to Paris to order
her trousseau.
In the movement and the noise of the kermess she said:
“Darling, you have left at Florence a friend who retains the charm
of your memory. It is Professor Arrighi. He reserves for you the
praise-which he says is the most beautiful. He says you are a musical
creature. But how could Professor Arrighi forget you, darling, since
the trees in the garden have not forgotten you? Their unleaved branches
lament your absence. Even they regret you, darling.”
“Tell them,” said Therese, “that I have of Fiesole a delightful
reminiscence, which I shall always keep.”
In the rear of the opera-box M. Martin-Belleme was explaining in a
low voice his ideas to Joseph Springer and to Duviquet. He was saying:
“France’s signature is the best in the world.” He was inclined to
prudence in financial matters.
And Miss Bell said:
“Darling, I will tell the trees of Fiesole that you regret them and that
you will soon come to visit them on their hills. But I ask you, do you
see Monsieur Dechartre in Paris? I should like to see him very much.
I like him because his mind is graceful. Darling, the mind of Monsieur
Dechartre is full of grace and elegance.”
Therese replied M. Jacques Dechartre was doubtless in the theatre, and
that he would not fail to come and salute Miss Bell.
The curtain fell on the gayety of the waltz scene. Visitors crowded the
foyers. Financiers, artists, deputies met in the anteroom adjoining the
box. They surrounded M. Martin-Belleme, murmured polite congratulations,
made graceful gestures to him, and crowded one another in order to shake
his hand. Joseph Schmoll, coughing, complaining, blind and deaf, made
his way through the throng and reached Madame Martin. He took her hand
and said:
“They say your husband is appointed Minister. Is it true?”
She knew they were talking of it, but she did not think he had been
appointed yet. Her husband was there, why not ask him?
Sensitive to literal truths only, Schmoll said:
“Your husband is not yet a Minister? When he is appointed, I will ask
you for an interview. It is an affair of the highest importance.”
He paused, throwing from his gold spectacles the glances of a blind man
and of a visionary, which kept him, despite the brutal exactitude of his
temperament, in a sort of mystical state of mind. He asked, brusquely:
“Were you in Italy this year, Madame?”
And, without giving her time to answer:
“I know, I know. You went to Rome. You have looked at the arch of
the infamous Titus, that execrable monument, where one may see the
seven-branched candlestick among the spoils of the Jews. Well, Madame,
it is a shame to the world that that monument remains standing in the
city of Rome, where the Popes have subsisted only through the art of
the Jews, financiers and money-changers. The Jews brought to Italy the
science of Greece and of the Orient. The Renaissance, Madame, is the
work of Israel. That is the truth, certain but misunderstood.”
And he went through the crowd of visitors, crushing hats as he passed.
Princess Seniavine looked at her friend from her box with the curiosity
that the beauty of women at times excited in her. She made a sign to
Paul Vence who was near her:
“Do you not think Madame Martin is extraordinarily beautiful this year?”
In the lobby, full of light and gold, General de La Briche asked
Lariviere:
“Did you see my nephew?”
“Your nephew, Le Menil?”
“Yes--Robert. He was in the theatre a moment ago.”
La Briche remained pensive for a moment. Then he said:
“He came this summer to Semanville. I thought him odd. A charming
fellow, frank and intelligent. But he ought to have some occupation,
some aim in life.”
The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had
hushed. In the foyer the two old men were walking alone.
“An aim in life,” repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his
companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a
scene.
Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had
finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin:
“Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful
letter. He has told me that he is very celebrated. And I am glad to
know it. He said also: ‘The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and
aromatic plants. Mine bleeds and moans under a rain of stones and of
oyster-shells.’ Do the French, my love, really throw stones at Monsieur
Choulette?”
While Therese reassured Miss Bell, Loyer, imperious and somewhat noisy,
caused the door of the box to be opened. He appeared wet and spattered
with mud.
“I come from the Elysee,” he said.
He had the gallantry to announce to Madame Martin, first, the good news
he was bringing:
“The decrees are signed. Your husband has the Finances. It is a good
portfolio.”
“The President of the Republic,” inquired M. Martin--Belleme, “made no
objection when my name was pronounced?”
“No; Berthier praised the hereditary property of the Martins,
your caution, and the links with which you are attached to certain
personalities in the financial world whose concurrence may be useful
to the government. And the President, in accordance with Garain’s happy
expression, was inspired by the necessities of the situation. He has
signed.”
On Count Martin’s yellowed face two or three wrinkles appeared. He was
smiling.
“The decree,” continued Loyer, “will be published tomorrow. I
accompanied myself the clerk who took it to the printer. It was surer.
In Grevy’s time, and Grevy was not an idiot, decrees were intercepted in
the journey from the Elysee to the Quai Voltaire.”
And Loyer threw himself on a chair. There, enjoying the view of Madame
Martin, he continued:
“People will not say, as they did in the time of my poor friend
Gambetta, that the republic is lacking in women. You will give us fine
festivals, Madame, in the salons of the Ministry.”
Marguerite, looking at herself in the mirror, with her necklace and
earrings, was singing the jewel song.
“We shall have to compose the declaration,” said Count Martin. “I have
thought of it. For my department I have found, I think, a fine formula.”
Loyer shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear Martin, we have nothing essential to change in the declaration
of the preceding Cabinet; the situation is unchanged.”
He struck his forehead with his hand.
“Oh, I had forgotten. We have made your friend, old Lariviere, Minister
of War, without consulting him. I have to warn him.”
He thought he could find him in the boulevard cafe, where military men
go. But Count Martin knew the General was in the theatre.
“I must find him,” said Loyer.
Bowing to Therese, he said:
“You permit me, Countess, to take your husband?”
They had just gone out when Jacques Dechartre and Paul Vence came into
the box.
“I congratulate you, Madame,” said Paul Vence.
But she turned toward Dechartre:
“I hope you have not come to congratulate me, too.”
Paul Vence asked her if she would move into the apartments of the
Ministry.
“Oh, no,” she replied.
“At least, Madame,” said Paul Vence, “you will go to the balls at
the Elysees, and we shall admire the art with which you retain your
mysterious charm.”
“Changes in cabinets,” said Madame Martin, “inspire you, Monsieur Vence,
with very frivolous reflections.”
“Madame,” continued Paul Vence, “I shall not say like Renan, my beloved
master: ‘What does Sirius care?’ because somebody would reply with
reason ‘What does little Earth care for big Sirius?’ But I am always
surprised when people who are adult, and even old, let themselves be
deluded by the illusion of power, as if hunger, love, and death, all
the ignoble or sublime necessities of life, did not exercise on men an
empire too sovereign to leave them anything other than power written on
paper and an empire of words. And, what is still more marvellous, people
imagine they have other chiefs of state and other ministers than their
miseries, their desires, and their imbecility. He was a wise man who
said: ‘Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges.’”
“But, Monsieur Vence,” said Madame Martin, laughingly, “you are the man
who wrote that. I read it.”
The two Ministers looked vainly in the theatre and in the corridors for
the General. On the advice of the ushers, they went behind the scenes.
Two ballet-dancers were standing sadly, with a foot on the bar placed
against the wall. Here and there men in evening dress and women in gauze
formed groups almost silent.
Loyer and Martin-Belleme, when they entered, took off their hats. They
saw, in the rear of the hall, Lariviere with a pretty girl whose pink
tunic, held by a gold belt, was open at the hips.
She held in her hand a gilt pasteboard cup. When they were near her,
they heard her say to the General:
“You are old, to be sure, but I think you do as much as he does.”
And she was pointing disdainfully to a grinning young man, with a
gardenia in his button-hole, who stood near them.
Loyer motioned to the General that he wished to speak to him, and,
pushing him against the bar, said:
“I have the pleasure to announce to you that you have been appointed
Minister of War.”
Lariviere, distrustful, said nothing. That badly dressed man with long
hair, who, under his dusty coat, resembled a clown, inspired so little
confidence in him that he suspected a snare, perhaps a bad joke.
“Monsieur Loyer is Keeper of the Seals,” said Count Martin.
“General, you cannot refuse,” Loyer said. “I have said you will accept.
If you hesitate, it will be favoring the offensive return of Garain. He
is a traitor.”
“My dear colleague, you exaggerate,” said Count Martin; “but Garain,
perhaps, is lacking a little in frankness. And the General’s support is
urgent.”
“The Fatherland before everything,” replied Lariviere with emotion.
“You know, General,” continued Loyer, “the existing laws are to be
applied with moderation.”
He looked at the two dancers who were extending their short and muscular
legs on the bar.
Lariviere murmured:
“The army’s patriotism is excellent; the good-will of the chiefs is at
the height of the most critical circumstances.”
Loyer tapped his shoulder.
“My dear colleague, there is some use in having big armies.”
“I believe as you do,” replied Lariviere; “the present army fills the
superior necessities of national defence.”
“The use of big armies,” continued Loyer, “is to make war impossible.
One would be crazy to engage in a war these immeasurable forces, the
management of which surpasses all human faculty. Is not this your
opinion, General?”
General Lariviere winked.
“The situation,” he said, “exacts circumspection. We are facing a
perilous unknown.”
Then Loyer, looking at his war colleague with cynical contempt, said:
“In the very improbable case of a war, don’t you think, my dear
colleague, that the real generals would be the station-masters?”
The three Ministers went out by the private stairway. The President of
the Council was waiting for them.
The last act had begun; Madame Martin had in her box only Dechartre and
Miss Bell. Miss Bell was saying:
“I rejoice, darling, I am exalted, at the thought that you wear on
your heart the red lily of Florence. Monsieur Dechartre, whose soul is
artistic, must be very glad, too, to see at your corsage that charming
jewel.
“I should like to know the jeweller that made it, darling. This lily
is lithe and supple like an iris. Oh, it is elegant, magnificent, and
cruel. Have you noticed, my love, that beautiful jewels have an air of
magnificent cruelty?”
“My jeweller,” said Therese, “is here, and you have named him; it is
Monsieur Dechartre who designed this jewel.”
The door of the box was opened. Therese half turned her head and saw in
the shadow Le Menil, who was bowing to her with his brusque suppleness.
“Transmit, I pray you, Madame, my congratulations to your husband.”
He complimented her on her fine appearance. He spoke to Miss Bell a few
courteous and precise words.
Therese listened anxiously, her mouth half open in the painful effort
to say insignificant things in reply. He asked her whether she had had a
good season at Joinville. He would have liked to go in the hunting time,
but could not. He had gone to the Mediterranean, then he had hunted at
Semanville.
“Oh, Monsieur Le Menil,” said Miss Bell, “you have wandered on the blue
sea. Have you seen sirens?”
No, he had not seen sirens, but for three days a dolphin had swum in the
yacht’s wake.
Miss Bell asked him if that dolphin liked music.
He thought not.
“Dolphins,” he said, “are very ordinary fish that sailors call
sea-geese, because they have goose-shaped heads.”
But Miss Bell would not believe that the monster which had earned the
poet Arion had a goose-shaped head.
“Monsieur Le Menil, if next year a dolphin comes to swim near your boat,
I pray you play to him on the flute the Delphic Hymn to Apollo. Do you
like the sea, Monsieur Le Menil?”
“I prefer the woods.”
Self-contained, simple, he talked quietly.
“Oh, Monsieur Le Menil, I know you like woods where the hares dance in
the moonlight.”
Dechartre, pale, rose and went out.
The church scene was on. Marguerite, kneeling, was wringing her hands,
and her head drooped with the weight of her long tresses. The voices of
the organ and the chorus sang the death-song.
“Oh, darling, do you know that that death-song, which is sung only in
the Catholic churches, comes from a Franciscan hermitage? It sounds
like the wind which blows in winter in the trees on the summit of the
Alverno.”
Therese did not hear. Her soul had followed Dechartre through the door
of her box.
In the anteroom was a noise of overthrown chairs. It was Schmoll coming
back. He had learned that M. Martin-Belleme had recently been appointed
Minister. At once he claimed the cross of Commander of the Legion of
Honor and a larger apartment at the Institute. His apartment was small,
narrow, insufficient for his wife and his five daughters. He had been
forced to put his workshop under the roof. He made long complaints, and
consented to go only after Madame Martin had promised that she would
speak to her husband.
“Monsieur Le Menil,” asked Miss Bell, “shall you go yachting next year?”
Le Menil thought not. He did not intend to keep the Rosebud. The water
was tiresome.
And calm, energetic, determined, he looked at Therese.
On the stage, in Marguerite’s prison, Mephistopheles sang, and the
orchestra imitated the gallop of horses. Therese murmured:
“I have a headache. It is too warm here.”
Le Menil opened the door.
The clear phrase of Marguerite calling the angels ascended to heaven in
white sparks.
“Darling, I will tell you that poor Marguerite does not wish to be saved
according to the flesh, and for that reason she is saved in spirit and
in truth. I believe one thing, darling, I believe firmly we shall all be
saved. Oh, yes, I believe in the final purification of sinners.”
Therese rose, tall and white, with the red flower at her breast. Miss
Bell, immovable, listened to the music. Le Menil, in the anteroom, took
Madame Martin’s cloak, and, while he held it unfolded, she traversed the
box, the anteroom, and stopped before the mirror of the half-open door.
He placed on her bare shoulders the cape of red velvet embroidered with
gold and lined with ermine, and said, in a low tone, but distinctly:
“Therese, I love you. Remember what I asked you the day before
yesterday. I shall be every day, at three o’clock, at our home, in the
Rue Spontini.”
At this moment, as she made a motion with her head to receive the cloak,
she saw Dechartre with his hand on the knob of the door. He had heard.
He looked at her with all the reproach and suffering that human eyes can
contain. Then he went into the dim corridor. She felt hammers of fire
beating in her chest and remained immovable on the threshold.
“You were waiting for me?” said Montessuy. “You are left alone to-day. I
will escort you and Miss Bell.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. A WHITE NIGHT
In the carriage, and in her room, she saw again the look of her lover,
that cruel and dolorous look. She knew with what facility he fell into
despair, the promptness of his will not to will. She had seen him run
away thus on the shore of the Arno. Happy then in her sadness and in her
anguish, she could run after him and say, “Come.” Now, again surrounded,
watched, she should have found something to say, and not have let him
go from her dumb and desolate. She had remained surprised, stunned. The
accident had been so absurd and so rapid! She had against Le Menil the
sentiment of simple anger which malicious things cause. She reproached
herself bitterly for having permitted her lover to go without a word,
without a glance, wherein she could have placed her soul.
While Pauline waited to undress her, Therese walked to and fro
impatiently. Then she stopped suddenly. In the obscure mirrors, wherein
the reflections of the candles were drowned, she saw the corridor of the
playhouse, and her beloved flying from her through it.
Where was he now? What was he saying to himself alone? It was torture
for her not to be able to rejoin him and see him again at once.
She pressed her heart with her hands; she was smothering.
Pauline uttered a cry. She saw drops of blood on the white corsage of
her mistress.
Therese, without knowing it, had pricked her hand with the red lily.
She detached the emblematic jewel which she had worn before all as
the dazzling secret of her heart, and, holding it in her fingers,
contemplated it for a long time. Then she saw again the days of
Florence--the cell of San Marco, where her lover’s kiss weighed
delicately on her mouth, while, through her lowered lashes, she vaguely
perceived again the angels and the sky painted on the wall, and the
dazzling fountain of the ice-vender against the bright cloth; the
pavilion of the Via Alfieri, its nymphs, its goats, and the room where
the shepherds and the masks on the screens listened to her sighs and
noted her long silences.
No, all these things were not shadows of the past, spectres of ancient
hours. They were the present reality of her love. And a word stupidly
cast by a stranger would destroy these beautiful things! Happily, it was
not possible. Her love, her lover, did not depend on such insignificant
matters. If only she could run to his house! She would find him before
the fire, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, sad. Then she
would run her fingers through his hair, force him to lift his head, to
see that she loved him, that she was his treasure, palpitating with joy
and love.
She had dismissed her maid. In her bed she thought of only one thing.
It was an accident, an absurd accident. He would understand it; he would
know that their love had nothing to do with anything so stupid. What
folly for him to care about another! As if there were other men in the
world!
M. Martin-Belleme half opened the bedroom door. Seeing a light he went
in.
“You are not asleep, Therese?”
He had been at a conference with his colleagues. He wanted advice from
his wife on certain points. He needed to hear sincere words.
“It is done,” he said. “You will help me, I am sure, in my situation,
which is much envied, but very difficult and even perilous. I owe it to
you somewhat, since it came to me through the powerful influence of your
father.”
He consulted her on the choice of a Chief of Cabinet.
She advised him as best she could. She thought he was sensible, calm,
and not sillier than many others.
He lost himself in reflections.
“I have to defend before the Senate the budget voted by the Chamber of
Deputies. The budget contains innovations which I did not approve. When
I was a deputy I fought against them. Now that I am a minister I must
support them. I saw things from the outside formerly. I see them from
the inside now, and their aspect is changed. And, then, I am free no
longer.”
He sighed:
“Ah, if the people only knew the little that we can do when we are
powerful!”
He told her his impressions. Berthier was reserved. The others were
impenetrable. Loyer alone was excessively authoritative.
She listened to him without attention and without impatience. His pale
face and voice marked for her like a clock the minutes that passed with
intolerable slowness.
Loyer had odd sallies of wit. Immediately after he had declared his
strict adhesion to the Concordat, he said: “Bishops are spiritual
prefects. I will protect them since they belong to me. And through them
I shall hold the guardians of souls, curates.”
He recalled to her that she would have to meet people who were not of
her class and who would shock her by their vulgarity. But his situation
demanded that he should not disdain anybody. At all events, he counted
on her tact and on her devotion.
She looked at him, a little astonished.
“There is no hurry, my dear. We shall see later.”
He was tired. He said good-night and advised her to sleep. She was
ruining her health by reading all night. He left her.
She heard the noise of his footsteps, heavier than usual, while he
traversed the library, encumbered with blue books and journals, to reach
his room, where he would perhaps sleep. Then she felt the weight on her
of the night’s silence. She looked at her watch. It was half-past one.
She said to herself: “He, too, is suffering. He looked at me with so
much despair and anger.”
She was courageous and ardent. She was impatient at being a prisoner.
When daylight came, she would go, she would see him, she would explain
everything to him. It was so clear! In the painful monotony of her
thought, she listened to the rolling of wagons which at long intervals
passed on the quay. That noise preoccupied, almost interested her. She
listened to the rumble, at first faint and distant, then louder, in
which she could distinguish the rolling of the wheels, the creaking
of the axles, the shock of horses’ shoes, which, decreasing little by
little, ended in an imperceptible murmur.
And when silence returned, she fell again into her reverie.
He would understand that she loved him, that she had never loved any one
except him. It was unfortunate that the night was so long. She did not
dare to look at her watch for fear of seeing in it the immobility of
time.
She rose, went to the window, and drew the curtains. There was a pale
light in the clouded sky. She thought it might be the beginning of dawn.
She looked at her watch. It was half-past three.
She returned to the window. The sombre infinity outdoors attracted her.
She looked. The sidewalks shone under the gas-jets. A gentle rain was
falling. Suddenly a voice ascended in the silence; acute, and then
grave, it seemed to be made of several voices replying to one another.
It--was a drunkard disputing with the beings of his dream, to whom he
generously gave utterance, and whom he confounded afterward with great
gestures and in furious sentences. Therese could see the poor man
walk along the parapet in his white blouse, and she could hear words
recurring incessantly: “That is what I say to the government.”
Chilled, she returned to her bed. She thought, “He is jealous, he is
madly jealous. It is a question of nerves and of blood. But his love,
too, is an affair of blood and of nerves. His love and his jealousy are
one and the same thing. Another would understand. It would be sufficient
to please his self-love.” But he was jealous from the depth of his soul.
She knew this; she knew that in him jealousy was a physical torture, a
wound enlarged by imagination. She knew how profound the evil was. She
had seen him grow pale before the bronze St. Mark when she had thrown
the letter in the box on the wall of the old Florentine house at a time
when she was his only in dreams.
She recalled his smothered complaints, his sudden fits of sadness, and
the painful mystery of the words which he repeated frequently: “I can
forget you only when I am with you.” She saw again the Dinard letter and
his furious despair at a word overheard at a wine-shop table. She felt
that the blow had been struck accidentally at the most sensitive point,
at the bleeding wound. But she did not lose courage. She would tell
everything, she would confess everything, and all her avowals would say
to him: “I love you. I have never loved any one except you!” She had not
betrayed him. She would tell him nothing that he had not guessed. She
had lied so little, as little as possible, and then only not to give
him pain. How could he not understand? It was better he should know
everything, since everything meant nothing. She represented to herself
incessantly the same ideas, repeated to herself the same words.
Her lamp gave only a smoky light. She lighted candles. It was six
o’clock. She realized that she had slept. She ran to the window. The sky
was black, and mingled with the earth in a chaos of thick darkness. Then
she was curious to know exactly at what hour the sun would rise. She had
had no idea of this. She thought only that nights were long in December.
She did not think of looking at the calendar. The heavy step of workmen
walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and marketmen, came
to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at this first
awakening of the city.
CHAPTER XXXIV. “I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU ALWAYS!”
At nine o’clock, in the yard of the little house, she observed M.
Fusellier sweeping, in the rain, while smoking his pipe. Madame
Fusellier came out of her box. Both looked embarrassed. Madame Fusellier
was the first to speak:
“Monsieur Jacques is not at home.” And, as Therese remained silent,
immovable, Fusellier came near her with his broom, hiding with his left
hand his pipe behind his back--
“Monsieur Jacques has not yet come home.”
“I will wait for him,” said Therese.
Madame Fusellier led her to the parlor, where she lighted the fire. As
the wood smoked and would not flame, she remained bent, with her hands
on her knees.
“It is the rain,” she said, “which causes the smoke.”
Madame Martin said it was not worth while to make a fire, that she did
not feel cold.
She saw herself in the glass.
She was livid, with glowing spots on her cheeks. Then only she felt that
her feet were frozen. She approached the fire. Madame Fusellier, seeing
her anxious, spoke softly to her:
“Monsieur Jacques will come soon. Let Madame warm herself while waiting
for him.”
A dim light fell with the rain on the glass ceiling.
Upon the wall, the lady with the unicorn was not beautiful among the
cavaliers in a forest full of flowers and birds. Therese was repeating
to herself the words: “He has not yet come home.” And by dint of saying
this she lost the meaning of it. With burning eyes she looked at the
door.
She remained thus without a movement, without a thought, for a time the
duration of which she did not know; perhaps half an hour. The noise of
a footstep came to her, the door was opened. He came in. She saw that he
was wet with rain and mud, and burning with fever.
She fixed on him a look so sincere and so frank that it struck him. But
almost at once he recalled within himself all his sufferings.
He said to her:
“What do you want of me? You have done me all the harm you could do me.”
Fatigue gave him an air of gentleness. It frightened her.
“Jacques, listen to me!”
He motioned to her that he wished to hear nothing from her.
“Jacques, listen to me. I have not deceived you. Oh, no, I have not
deceived you. Was it possible? Was it--”
He interrupted her:
“Have some pity for me. Do not make me suffer again. Leave me, I pray
you. If you knew the night I have passed, you would not have the courage
to torment me again.”
He let himself fall on the divan. He had walked all night. Not to suffer
too much, he had tried to find diversions. On the Bercy Quay he had
looked at the moon floating in the clouds. For an hour he had seen it
veil itself and reappear. Then he had counted the windows of houses with
minute care. The rain began to fall. He had gone to the market and had
drunk whiskey in a wine-room. A big girl who squinted had said to him,
“You don’t look happy.” He had fallen half asleep on the leather bench.
It had been a moment of oblivion. The images of that painful night
passed before his eyes. He said: “I recalled the night of the Arno. You
have spoiled for me all the joy and beauty in the world.” He asked her
to leave him alone. In his lassitude he had a great pity for himself. He
would have liked to sleep--not to die; he held death in horror--but
to sleep and never to wake again. Yet, before him, as desirable
as formerly, despite the painful fixity of her dry eyes, and more
mysterious than ever, he saw her. His hatred was vivified by suffering.
She extended her arms to him. “Listen to me, Jacques.” He motioned to
her that it was useless for her to speak. Yet he wished to listen to
her, and already he was listening with avidity. He detested and rejected
in advance what she would say, but nothing else in the world interested
him.
She said:
“You may have believed I was betraying you, that I was not living for
you alone. But can you not understand anything? You do not see that if
that man were my lover it would not have been necessary for him to talk
to me at the play-house in that box; he would have a thousand other ways
of meeting me. Oh, no, my friend, I assure you that since the day when I
had the happiness to meet you, I have been yours entirely. Could I have
been another’s? What you imagine is monstrous. But I love you, I love
you! I love only you. I never have loved any one except you.”
He replied slowly, with cruel heaviness:
“‘I shall be every day, at three o’clock, at our home, in the Rue
Spontini.’ It was not a lover, your lover, who said these things? No! it
was a stranger, an unknown person.”
She straightened herself, and with painful gravity said:
“Yes, I had been his. You knew it. I have denied it, I have told an
untruth, not to irritate or grieve you. I saw you so anxious. But I lied
so little and so badly. You knew. Do not reproach me for it. You knew;
you often spoke to me of the past, and then one day somebody told you
at the restaurant--and you imagined much more than ever happened. While
telling an untruth, I was not deceiving you. If you knew the little that
he was in my life! There! I did not know you. I did not know you were to
come. I was lonely.”
She fell on her knees.
“I was wrong. I should have waited for you. But if you knew how slight a
matter that was in my life!”
And with her voice modulated to a soft and singing complaint she said:
“Why did you not come sooner, why?”
She dragged herself to him, tried to take his hands. He repelled her.
“I was stupid. I did not think. I did not know. I did not wish to know.”
He rose and exclaimed, in an explosion of hatred:
“I did not wish him to be that man.”
She sat in the place which he had left, and there, plaintively, in a
low voice, she explained the past. In that time she lived in a world
horribly commonplace. She had yielded, but she had regretted at once.
If he but knew the sadness of her life he would not be jealous. He
would pity her. She shook her head and said, looking at him through the
falling locks of her hair:
“I am talking to you of another woman. There is nothing in common
between that woman and me. I exist only since I have known you, since I
have belonged to you.”
He walked about the room madly. He laughed painfully.
“Yes; but while you loved me, the other woman--the one who was not you?”
She looked at him indignantly:
“Can you believe--”
“Did you not see him again at Florence? Did you not accompany him to the
station?”
She told him that he had come to Italy to find her; that she had seen
him; that she had broken with him; that he had gone, irritated, and that
since then he was trying to win her back; but that she had not even paid
any attention to him.
“My beloved, I see, I know, only you in the world.” He shook his head.
“I do not believe you.”
She revolted.
“I have told you everything. Accuse me, condemn me, but do not offend me
in my love for you.”
He shook his head.
“Leave me. You have harmed me too much. I have loved you so much that
all the pain which you could have given me I would have taken, kept,
loved; but this is too hideous. I hate it. Leave me. I am suffering too
much. Farewell!”
She stood erect.
“I have come. It is my happiness, it is my life, I am fighting for. I
will not go.”
And she said again all that she had already said. Violent and sincere,
sure of herself, she explained how she had broken the tie which was
already loose and irritated her; how since the day when she had loved
him she had been his only, without regret, without a wandering look or
thought. But in speaking to him of another she irritated him. And he
shouted at her:
“I do not believe you.”
She only repeated her declarations.
And suddenly, instinctively, she looked at her watch:
“Oh, it is noon!”
She had often given that cry of alarm when the farewell hour had
surprised them. And Jacques shuddered at the phrase which was so
familiar, so painful, and was this time so desperate. For a few minutes
more she said ardent words and shed tears. Then she left him; she had
gained nothing.
At her house she found in the waiting-room the marketwoman, who had come
to present a bouquet to her. She remembered that her husband was a
State minister. There were telegrams, visiting-cards and letters,
congratulations and solicitations. Madame Marmet wrote to recommend her
nephew to General Lariviere.
She went into the dining-room and fell in a chair. M. Martin-Belleme was
just finishing his breakfast. He was expected at the Cabinet Council and
at the former Finance Minister’s, to whom he owed a call.
“Do not forget, my dear friend, to call on Madame Berthier d’Eyzelles.
You know how sensitive she is.”
She made no answer. While he was dipping his fingers in the glass bowl,
he saw she was so tired that he dared not say any more. He found himself
in the presence of a secret which he did not wish to know; in presence
of an intimate suffering which one word would reveal. He felt anxiety,
fear, and a certain respect.
He threw down his napkin.
“Excuse me, dear.”
He went out.
She tried to eat, but could swallow nothing.
At two o’clock she returned to the little house of the Ternes. She
found Jacques in his room. He was smoking a wooden pipe. A cup of coffee
almost empty was on the table. He looked at her with a harshness that
chilled her. She dared not talk, feeling that everything that she could
say would offend and irritate him, and yet she knew that in remaining
discreet and dumb she intensified his anger. He knew that she would
return; he had waited for her with impatience. A sudden light came to
her, and she saw that she had done wrong to come; that if she had been
absent he would have desired, wanted, called for her, perhaps. But it
was too late; and, at all events, she was not trying to be crafty.
She said to him:
“You see I have returned. I could not do otherwise. And then it was
natural, since I love you. And you know it.”
She knew very well that all she could say would only irritate him. He
asked her whether that was the way she spoke in the Rue Spontini.
She looked at him with sadness.
“Jacques, you have often told me that there were hatred and anger in
your heart against me. You like to make me suffer. I can see it.”
With ardent patience, at length, she told him her entire life, the
little that she had put into it; the sadness of the past; and how, since
he had known her, she had lived only through him and in him.
The words fell as limpid as her look. She sat near him. He listened
to her with bitter avidity. Cruel with himself, he wished to know
everything about her last meetings with the other. She reported
faithfully the events of the Great Britain Hotel; but she changed the
scene to the outside, in an alley of the Casino, from fear that the
image of their sad interview in a closed room should irritate her lover.
Then she explained the meeting at the station. She had not wished to
cause despair to a suffering man who was so violent. But since then
she had had no news from him until the day when he spoke to her on the
street. She repeated what she had replied to him. Two days later she had
seen him at the opera, in her box. Certainly, she had not encouraged him
to come. It was the truth.
It was the truth. But the old poison, slowly accumulating in his mind,
burned him. She made the past, the irreparable past, present to him, by
her avowals. He saw images of it which tortured him. He said:
“I do not believe you.”
And he added:
“And if I believed you, I could not see you again, because of the idea
that you have loved that man. I have told you, I have written to you,
you remember, that I did not wish him to be that man. And since--”
He stopped.
She said:
“You know very well that since then nothing has happened.”
He replied, with violence:
“Since then I have seen him.”
They remained silent for a long time. Then she said, surprised and
plaintive:
“But, my friend, you should have thought that a woman such as I, married
as I was--every day one sees women bring to their lovers a past darker
than mine and yet they inspire love. Ah, my past--if you knew how
insignificant it was!”
“I know what you can give. One can not forgive to you what one may
forgive to another.”
“But, my friend, I am like others.”
“No, you are not like others. To you one can not forgive anything.”
He talked with set teeth. His eyes, which she had seen so large, glowing
with tenderness, were now dry, harsh, narrowed between wrinkled lids and
cast a new glance at her. He frightened her. She went to the rear of
the room, sat on a chair, and there she remained, trembling, for a long
time, smothered by her sobs. Then she broke into tears.
He sighed:
“Why did I ever know you?”
She replied, weeping:
“I do not regret having known you. I am dying of it, and I do not regret
it. I have loved.”
He stubbornly continued to make her suffer. He felt that he was playing
an odious part, but he could not stop.
“It is possible, after all, that you have loved me too.”
She answered, with soft bitterness:
“But I have loved only you. I have loved you too much. And it is for
that you are punishing me. Oh, can you think that I was to another what
I have been to you?”
“Why not?”
She looked at him without force and without courage.
“It is true that you do not believe me.”
She added softly:
“If I killed myself would you believe me?”
“No, I would not believe you.”
She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief; then, lifting her eyes,
shining through her tears, she said:
“Then, all is at an end!”
She rose, saw again in the room the thousand things with which she had
lived in laughing intimacy, which she had regarded as hers, now suddenly
become nothing to her, and confronting her as a stranger and an enemy.
She saw again the nude woman who made, while running, the gesture which
had not been explained to her; the Florentine models which recalled
to her Fiesole and the enchanted hours of Italy; the profile sketch by
Dechartre of the girl who laughed in her pretty pathetic thinness. She
stopped a moment sympathetically in front of that little newspaper
girl who had come there too, and had disappeared, carried away in the
irresistible current of life and of events.
She repeated:
“Then all is at an end?”
He remained silent.
The twilight made the room dim.
“What will become of me?” she asked.
“And what will become of me?” he replied.
They looked at each other with sympathy, because each was moved with
self-pity.
Therese said again:
“And I, who feared to grow old in your eyes, for fear our beautiful
love should end! It would have been better if it had never come. Yes,
it would be better if I had not been born. What a presentiment was that
which came to me, when a child, under the lindens of Joinville, before
the marble nymphs! I wished to die then.”
Her arms fell, and clasping her hands she lifted her eyes; her wet
glance threw a light in the shadows.
“Is there not a way of my making you feel that what I am saying to you
is true? That never since I have been yours, never--But how could I? The
very idea of it seems horrible, absurd. Do you know me so little?”
He shook his head sadly. “I do not know you.”
She questioned once more with her eyes all the objects in the room.
“But then, what we have been to each other was vain, useless. Men and
women break themselves against one another; they do not mingle.”
She revolted. It was not possible that he should not feel what he was
to her. And, in the ardor of her love, she threw herself on him and
smothered him with kisses and tears. He forgot everything, and took her
in his arms--sobbing, weak, yet happy--and clasped her close with the
fierceness of desire. With her head leaning back against the pillow, she
smiled through her tears. Then, brusquely he disengaged himself.
“I do not see you alone. I see the other with you always.” She looked at
him, dumb, indignant, desperate. Then, feeling that all was indeed at
an end, she cast around her a surprised glance of her unseeing eyes, and
went slowly away.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly
A hero must be human. Napoleon was human
Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere
Brilliancy of a fortune too new
Curious to know her face of that day
Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared
Do you think that people have not talked about us?
Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality
Does one ever possess what one loves?
Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone
Each was moved with self-pity
Everybody knows about that
Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city
Gave value to her affability by not squandering it
He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions
He studied until the last moment
He is not intelligent enough to doubt
He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes
He knew now the divine malady of love
Her husband had become quite bearable
His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth
(Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder
I love myself because you love me
I can forget you only when I am with you
I wished to spoil our past
I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness
I have to pay for the happiness you give me
I gave myself to him because he loved me
I haven’t a taste, I have tastes
I have known things which I know no more
I do not desire your friendship
Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests
Immobility of time
Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself
Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object
It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him
It is an error to be in the right too soon
It was too late: she did not wish to win
Jealous without having the right to be jealous
Kisses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair
Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope
Laughing in every wrinkle of his face
Learn to live without desire
Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges
Life as a whole is too vast and too remote
Life is made up of just such trifles
Life is not a great thing
Little that we can do when we are powerful
Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty
Love was only a brief intoxication
Lovers never separate kindly
Made life give all it could yield
Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud
Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past
Nobody troubled himself about that originality
None but fools resisted the current
Not everything is known, but everything is said
Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain
One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars
One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel
One is never kind when one is in love
One should never leave the one whom one loves
Picturesquely ugly
Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open
Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her
Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill
She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it
She is happy, since she likes to remember
Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one
Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others
Since she was in love, she had lost prudence
So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice
Superior men sometimes lack cleverness
That sort of cold charity which is called altruism
That if we live the reason is that we hope
That absurd and generous fury for ownership
The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne
The door of one’s room opens on the infinite
The past is the only human reality--Everything that is, is past
The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you
The violent pleasure of losing
The discouragement which the irreparable gives
The real support of a government is the Opposition
The politician never should be in advance of circumstances
There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget
There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel
They are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle’
To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form
Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know
Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies
Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life
Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything?
We are too happy; we are robbing life
What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world
Whether they know or do not know, they talk
Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault
You must take me with my own soul!
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France