Madame de Bonmont, who had chosen Raoul Marcien from among all others,
and who loved him with deep affection, was justified for the space of a
few weeks in congratulating herself upon her choice, and in believing
herself a happy woman. A tremendous change had taken place in the
order of things. Raoul, who had formerly been despised or disliked in
all circles of society, who had been rejected by his regiment, cut by
his friends, cast off by his relations, expelled from his club; who
was known in all the courts of law by reason of the repeated charges
of swindling brought against him, had suddenly become cleansed of all
stain and purified of all dishonour. Certain events, guessed at, no
doubt, and soon to be made clear, had interested the Government on his
behalf. It was exceedingly necessary that Raoul should pass for an
honourable man. In public and in private, ministers maintained that the
power and glory of France and the peace of the whole world depended
upon this.
His honour was of public utility, and each and all did their best to
make it an established fact. The Government worked to this end, as
did the lawyers and the newspapers, in fact all good citizens worked
joyfully for its establishment. Madame de Bonmont experienced both
pleasure and uneasiness at the sudden transformation of her lover
into an example and a model for all Frenchmen. She was made for the
enjoyment of tranquil joys and pleasures _à deux_, and all this fame
astonished and made her ill at ease. When with Raoul she had the
fatiguing sensation of living perpetually in a lift.
Evidences of the esteem in which he was held amazed the simple
Elizabeth both by their number and extent. Congratulations, flattering
pledges, good-conduct certificates, compliments, and praises poured
in from all the bodies known and unknown, and from all the public
societies in town and country. They came from the courts, the barracks,
the archbishops’ palaces, from the town halls, _préfectures_ and great
houses of France. They rang out in the street riots, and resounded
with the bugles during torchlight processions. His honour shone
proudly forth nowadays; it flamed into being like a huge cross at an
illuminated fête. Whether he went to the Palais de Justice, or to the
Moulin-Rouge, he was greeted by the acclamations of the crowd, and
princes begged for the honour of touching his hand.
And, in spite of all this, Raoul was not at peace. When in the little
first-floor apartment hung with sky-blue draperies, intended by Madame
de Bonmont to shelter their mutual love, he was always sombre and
violent. When he heard his worth and praises shouted in the streets,
when he could not listen to the rumbling wheels of an omnibus or the
shriek of a tram without knowing that both vehicles contained the
supporters and guardians of his honour, he still remained plunged in
the bitterest, most dismal thoughts and cherished terrible designs.
With frowning brows and clenched teeth he muttered curses; he chewed
threats as a sailor chews his tobacco. “Scoundrels! Wretches! I’ll
run them through the body!” It may seem almost impossible, but
is, nevertheless, true, that he was unconscious of the people’s
acclamations; he did not hear them, and the only people he thought
of were his few accusers, all of whom were believed to be dispersed,
destroyed, and reduced to powder. In his imagination he saw them
standing before him, with threatening faces, and at sight of them
terror made his yellow eyes start from his head.
His fury was a source of consternation to poor Madame de Bonmont, who
only heard hoarse cries of hatred and vengeance coming from the lips
which should have given her kisses and words of love. And she was the
more surprised and uncomfortable because her lover’s threats were
directed as much against friend as against foe. For when he spoke
of “running them through,” Raoul never stopped to make the subtle
distinction between his defenders and his adversaries. His great mind
took in the whole of his country, yes, and the whole of the human race.
He would spend hours every day pacing up and down like a caged lion or
panther in the two little rooms that Madame de Bonmont had hung with
blue silk and furnished with cosy lounges in the hope of better things.
“I’ll do for them!” he muttered as he strode up and down.
Seated in one corner of the big couch she would follow his movements
with a timid look, and listen anxiously to his words; not that the
sentiments expressed by him appeared to her in any way unworthy of
her beloved; instinctively submissive, naturally docile, she admired
strength in all its forms, and flattered herself with the vague hope
that a man who was capable of such wholesale slaughter, might also, at
another time, be capable of wonderful embraces. And sitting at one end
of the couch, she waited with half-closed eyes and gently heaving bosom
for her Raoul’s mood to change.
She waited in vain! The vociferations continued to make her start:
“I’ll do for them!”
Occasionally she would timidly try to appease his fury; in a voice as
full as her figure she would murmur:
“But they are doing you full justice, dearest--every one knows you to
be a man of honour!”
It may be true that the slender, dark-haired David succeeded in calming
the fury of Saul with his shepherd’s lute, the sound of which was
thinner than a cricket’s chirrup; Elizabeth, less fortunate than he,
vainly offered to Raoul the Nirvana of her sighs and the splendour of
her pink and white self. Without daring to look at him, she ventured to
say:
“I cannot understand you, _mon ami_. You have confounded your
detractors, the General embraced you in the middle of the street the
other day, and the ministers....”
She got no further; he burst out:
“You mention those blackguards to me! They are only trying to find
some way of getting at me. They would like to see me a hundred feet
under the ground. But they had better be careful! I will devour them
piecemeal!”
Then he came back to his dear, familiar thought:
“I must do for them!”
This was his dream:
“I should like to be in an immense marble hall full of people, and to
lay about me with a big stick, to strike for days and nights, until
the floor, the ceiling, and the walls were red with blood!”
She vouchsafed no reply, but only looked in silence at her breast,
where lay the little bunch of violets she had bought for him and dared
not offer.
He gave her no more love. It was over and done with. The
hardest-hearted man would have taken pity on the pretty, gentle
creature who, with her voluptuous body and skin of milk and roses,
resembled some big, warm flower in its beauty, neglected, abandoned,
and left without care or culture.
She was suffering, and, being piously inclined, she sought a remedy
in religion. Thinking that an interview with Abbé Guitrel would be of
great service to Raoul, she resolved to bring the priest and her lover
together.