Before dressing, Philippe Dellion pulled aside the window-curtains,
and, looking out into the light-spangled night, watched the carriage
lamps passing to and fro in the busy street. For a moment or two the
sight pleased him; he had been in this room, separated from the outer
world, for the space of two hours.
“What are you looking at, _mon petit_?” asked Madame de Gromance,
sitting up in the bed and arranging her tumbled hair. “Do strike a
light, it is impossible to see a thing.”
He lighted the candles that stood in little copper stands on either
side of a gilded clock adorned with shepherds and shepherdesses. The
gentle light reflected itself in the wardrobe and made the rosewood
cornice glisten. Little rays flickering everywhere in the room, lit up
the scattered garments and died gently away in the curtains’ folds.
The room was an apartment in a highly respectable hotel, in a street
near the Boulevard des Capucines. Madame de Gromance, in her wisdom,
had selected it, refusing to have anything to do with the less subtle
arrangements of Philippe, who had hired a little _rez-de-chaussée_, in
the lonely Avenue Kléber. It was her opinion that a woman who wished
to keep her affairs to herself must see that they take place in the
very heart of Paris, in some respectable hotel frequented by people
of divers races and tongues. She hardly ever spent more than two
consecutive months in Paris, but she frequently met Philippe there, and
in far greater security than she could have done in the provinces.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, the soft light fell upon her fair
fluffy hair, the milk-white skin of her sloping shoulders, and her
pretty but somewhat drooping breast.
“I am sure I shall be late again,” she said. “Tell me the time,
_mon-petit_, and don’t make a mistake. It’s really important!”
“Why do you always call me ‘_mon petit_’? Ten past six,” he returned in
a surly voice.
“Ten past six? Are you quite sure? I call you ‘_mon petit_’ because I
love you. What would you have me call you?”
“I call you Clotilde, you might occasionally call me Philippe.”
“I never do call people by their names.”
“Oh, well! no matter!” he said bitterly. “I don’t presume to imagine
that I shall change your habits.”
She picked up her stockings from the floor, stretching her back like a
cat about to pounce upon a mouse.
“What does it matter? I never think of calling you by your Christian
name, as I do my husband, or my brother, or my cousins.”
“All right! all right!” he replied. “I will conform to custom.”
“What custom?”
Jumping up with her stockings in her hand, she came across the room and
kissed him upon the neck.
Though by no means a clever man, he was suspicious, and an idea that
had lately struck him was worrying him; he suspected that Madame de
Gromance was careful to avoid making use of his name, or of the name
of any other lover, for fear of getting mixed in a moment of supreme
excitement, for she was a sensitive soul!
He was not exactly jealous, but he had a certain amount of proper
pride. Had he known that Madame de Gromance was unfaithful to him,
his vanity would have suffered. On the other hand, the desire he
had for the pretty creature was proportionate only to the desire he
believed her to inspire in others. He was not at all sure that it
was considered necessary to be the lover of Madame de Gromance, or
of any other society woman; many of his intimate friends preferred
an automobile to a mistress. He liked her well enough, and had no
objection to being her lover so long as it was considered the thing,
but if it was not, he could not see why he should persist in the
matter. The deep animal instinct in him and his outlook as a man of the
world scarcely agreed, and he was not clever enough to conciliate such
conflicting elements, the result being that there was an imperfect,
indeterminate tone about his remarks that rather fascinated Madame de
Gromance, who would not take the trouble of finding the solution and
making things clear. If it came to the point, his charmer would say
to him, “Of course I’ve never loved any man but you!” but that was
less in the hope of convincing him than in the desire to say the thing
most fitting the occasion. And at such moments when reflection is at a
disadvantage the tremendous difficulty presented by belief in such a
statement never occurred to him. Later, when he began to reason, doubt
assailed him.
His doubt found expression in cruel and sarcastic remarks, and he
practised the art of keeping his mind in a state of vague unrest. On
this particular occasion he was less sulky and bitter than usual, and
hardly even jealous or mistrustful. He merely displayed the ill-humour
that naturally follows gratified desire.
Madame de Gromance, on the contrary, was quite prepared for the
blackest fit of spite and unkindness, for on that very day her
strength, combined with her weakness, her natural inspiration and deep
artifice had obtained from him a more liberal display of affection
than that which on principle he usually vouchsafed. She had led him to
overstep the bounds of moderation, a thing he did not easily forgive,
for he was solicitous of his health, and keen on keeping in condition
for exercise and sport. Whenever Madame de Gromance led him further
than he wished, he afterwards avenged himself by unkind words and a
still more unkind silence. She did not mind, for she loved love, and
experience had taught her that all men are disagreeable as soon as
they get what they want. So she calmly awaited the reproaches she knew
she deserved. She was disappointed in her expectations, however, for a
remark from Philippe showed her that his mind was quiet and at rest.
“My shirtmaker is an ass,” he said.
He carefully dressed himself before the glass, and turned great
thoughts over and over in his mind. After a few moments of silence he
asked in quite a pleasant tone:
“You know Loyer, don’t you?”
Fresh-complexioned and slightly flushed with her white figure thrown
into relief by the dark velvet of the arm-chair, she was sitting
buttoning her boots. As she sat there, with her head and neck bent
over her crossed legs, the light shone upon her hair and upon the bare
limbs revealed by the short garment she wore, making one think of an
allegorical figure from some painted Venetian ceiling. This resemblance
did not, however, strike Philippe. He repeated his question:
“Do you know Loyer?”
She lifted her head, dangling the buttonhook from the tips of her
fingers.
“Loyer, the Cabinet Minister? Yes, I know him.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Not very well, but I do know him.”
The man under discussion, Loyer the senator, keeper of the seals and
Minister of Public Worship, was an insignificant-looking old bachelor,
honest enough outside politics, a bit of a lawyer, and a philosopher,
whose hair had turned grey in the enjoyment of clandestine love and
tavern nights. As he had not made his entry into society until somewhat
late in life, the women he met there were a continual source of wonder
to him, as he devoured them with gold-spectacled eyes.
He was very young for his sixty years, and had known how to appreciate
Madame de Gromance at her true value when he had first met her in the
drawing-rooms of the _préfecture_. That was seven years ago.
Loyer had come to the town of M. Worms-Clavelin to unveil a statue
to Joan of Arc, and had then pronounced the memorable speech that
terminated magnificently with a comparison between the Maid and
Gambetta, each of whom was transfigured, said the orator, “by the
sublime light of patriotism.” The Conservatives, who already were
secretly siding with the Radicals, because of their financial policy,
were grateful to the minister for binding them anew to the old regime
with the honourable bonds of a generous sentiment.
M. de Gromance had offered him his hand, saying: “As an old Royalist,
Monsieur le Ministre, I thank you for Jeanne and for France!”
When Loyer walked that evening with Madame de Gromance in the gardens
of the _préfecture_, lighted up by hundreds of Chinese lanterns, fixed
to the trees--trees that had been planted in 1690 by the Benedictines
of Sillé, so that two centuries later Madame Worms-Clavelin might enjoy
their shade--the minister, who had been told by the Préfet himself that
the “old Royalist” was the most deluded husband in the Department,
whispered a few gallantries into the young woman’s pink ear. He was a
Burgundian, and prided himself on being a daring one at that. Impressed
by the beauty of the historic evening, he remarked as he took leave of
Madame de Gromance that the illuminations made him inclined to dream.
Madame de Gromance liked Loyer, and subsequently begged of him several
little favours on behalf of her parish and district, which the old
fellow granted, demanding nothing in return, quite content with being
allowed to pat the arms and shoulders of the beautiful _ralliée_ and to
ask in a jocular manner after her “Old Royalist.”
She could therefore quite well allow that she knew Loyer, who was in
the Radical Cabinet as Minister of Public Worship.
“I know Loyer as one knows a person who does not belong to the same set
as oneself. Why do you ask?”
“Because if you know him well enough, I want you to ask him to do
something for me.”
“What! Do you want to bear off the academic honours like M. Bergeret?”
“No,” said Philippe seriously. “It is something more important. I want
you to speak to him about Abbé Guitrel.”
In her surprise she stood up, revealing a glimpse of dazzling flesh
above her stockings. Astonishment gave her the semblance of innocence.
“Why?” she demanded.
He was carefully knotting his tie.
“I want Loyer to make him bishop.”
“Bishop!”
The word produced abundant and definite ideas in the mind of Madame de
Gromance.
For years and years she had seen the short, fat figure, mitre-crowned
and covered with the gold-embroidered cope, rubicund, shapeless,
dignified, of Monseigneur Charlot, officiating on fête-days at the
cathedral. She had often dined with him, and had received him at
her own table. In common with all the other ladies of the diocese,
she admired the clever repartee and handsome red-stockinged calves
of the cardinal-archbishop. She also knew a considerable number of
bishops, all of whom were worthy men, but she had never reflected on
the influences that confer episcopal dignity upon a priest. It seemed
to her strange that a kind-hearted but common and coarse-minded man
like Loyer should have the power to create a prelate like Monseigneur
Charlot.
She sat there, thoughtful, looking around the room, from the tumbled
bed to the little table, upon which were placed a bottle of sherry
and some biscuits; from the chair on which she had thrown some of her
garments to the untidy dressing-table, her beautiful, unintelligent
eyes wandered, seeing nothing but lace rochets, crosiers, crosses, and
amethyst rings. Feeling absolutely at a loss, she inquired:
“Do you think bishops are made like that?”
“Of course,” he replied with assurance.
“And so you think, _mon petit_, that if I were to ask Loyer to make
Abbé Guitrel a bishop----”
He assured her that Loyer, who was an old gallant, would not refuse
that to a pretty woman.
She fixed her pink silk knickers to a hook on her silk stays. Then, as
he pressed for a reply, and insisted upon her going immediately to see
the minister, she grew exceedingly curious, and not a little suspicious.
“But, _mon petit_, why do you want Abbé Guitrel to be made a bishop?
Why?”
“To please Mother. And because I like the fellow; he is intelligent and
up to date--there aren’t so many like him. Yes, he really is advanced
and in the Pope’s good books besides. And Mother would be so delighted.”
“Then why doesn’t she go herself and settle the business with Loyer?”
“In the first place, darling, it wouldn’t be at all the same. Besides,
my parents are not in very great favour with this Cabinet. My father,
as President of the Chambre Syndicale des Métaux, has been protesting
against the new tariffs. You cannot imagine how irritating these
economic questions can be.”
But she knew quite well that he was deceiving her, and that it was not
filial love that made him dabble in ecclesiastical affairs.
She went round the room in her pink knickers of flowered silk, lithe,
agile, and pliable, stooping here and there over the scattered
garments, searching for her petticoat.
“_Mon petit_, I want your advice----”
“What about?”
After spending an unconscionable time arranging his tie in front of the
glass, and lighting a cigarette, he complacently sat watching her as
she flitted about the room in a costume that exaggerated so prettily
all that was feminine in her exceedingly feminine body. He did not know
whether to think her graceful or ridiculous. He did not know whether
he ought to think such things really unbeautiful, or whether he should
experience some slight artistic pleasure in beholding them. His doubt
arose from the recollection of a long discussion which had taken place
the winter before in the smoking-room at his father’s house, between
two old gallants, M. de Terremondre, who could think of nothing more
adorable than a pretty woman in her knickers and stays, and Paul Flin,
who, on the contrary, pitied a woman for her ungraceful appearance
at this particular stage of her toilet. Philippe had followed this
entertaining discussion, and could not make up his mind which of
the two was right. Terremondre was a man of experience, but he was
old-fashioned and too artistic. Paul Flin was considered less clever,
but very smart. Philippe’s natural malevolence and elective affinities
were making him incline to the latter’s theory when Madame de Gromance
put on her pink silk petticoat.
“_Mon petit_, do advise me. This year fur dresses are all the rage, but
what do you say to a red cloth dress--a rich red, say ruby--a fur coat
and fur toque with a bunch of Parma violets?”
He did not speak, and only betrayed his thought by a nod of the head.
At last he opened his mouth, whence issued, instead of words, the smoke
of his cigarette.
Deep in her dream she continued:
“With buttons of old paste, very narrow sleeves and a tight skirt.”
He spoke at last:
“A tight skirt--yes, that would be all right.”
Then she remembered that he knew nothing about skirts or bodices. An
idea flashed into her mind and matured.
“It is funny!” she cried. “Only the men who do not care about women
are interested in women’s dress. And the men who like them never
notice what they wear. Now you, for instance. I am sure you could
not tell me what dress I had on last Saturday at your mother’s, while
little Suequet, whose tastes, as everybody knows, are different, talks
_lingerie_ and _chiffons_ quite prettily. He is a born dressmaker and
milliner, that boy! Tell me, how do you account for it?”
“It would take too long.”
“You are sitting on my skirt, _mon petit_. While I think of it,
Emmanuel says that you are neglecting him. Yesterday he expected you to
come and see a horse that he wants to buy, and you didn’t turn up. He’s
awfully annoyed!”
At these words Philippe broke into a torrent of abuse.
“Your husband bores me to tears. He’s a grotesque fool--and the most
awful bore! You must admit yourself that pottering about all day in
his stables, his kennels, and his kitchen garden--for he goes in for
gardening too, the duffer--looking at the dogs’ food, the horses, and
such-like isn’t what you might call exciting. And then when one comes
to think of you and me, I must say it is a bit thick for your husband
to hang on to me as he does. He’s such a fool that he makes people
talk. It’s perfectly true, I tell you, people are beginning to talk.”
She answered him gently and seriously while she slipped on her skirt.
“Don’t abuse my husband, Philippe. As I am obliged to have a husband of
some sort, it is a very good thing mine is like he is. Just think for a
moment, _mon petit_, we might have somebody much worse to deal with.”
Philippe’s anger would not be calmed.
“And he loves you, the beast!”
She made a little grimace and shrugged her shoulders, as if to imply
that that was not worth mentioning. That is how Philippe chose to
interpret it, for he went on to enlarge upon the subject.
“As far as that goes, anyone can see at a glance that he’s not much of
a man with the women, but, even then, some things don’t bear thinking
about.”
Madame de Gromance turned to Philippe a beautiful look full of
happiness and peace, a look that counselled the banishment of all
painful thoughts, and going up to him placed full upon his lips a kiss,
magnificent as a royal scarlet seal.
“Mind my cigarette,” he said.
By this time she was clothed in a very simple grey dress, and was
arranging her toque upon her fluffy hair. Suddenly she broke into a
laugh, and he inquired the cause of her amusement.
“Oh, nothing!”
Then, as he persisted in his inquiry:
“Well, I was only thinking that when your mother went to see her
lover--years ago, you know--she must have found her hair a terrible
nuisance, that is if she wore it as it is in that portrait you have of
her at home.”
He made no reply, not quite knowing how to treat a joke of this
description, which inwardly shocked him.
“You’re not angry, surely,” she went on. “You do love me, don’t you?”
No, he was not angry; yes, he loved her; and she returned to her
original idea.
“It is strange, you know. Sons always believe in the virtue of their
mothers; daughters, too, but not so implicitly. And yet the fact of a
woman having had children is surely not sufficient to prove that she
has never had lovers.”
She reflected a moment, and then went on:
“Things are complicated in this world. Goodbye, _mon petit_. I am
walking, and have only just time to get there.”
“Why are you walking?”
“Because it is good for my health, and then it explains my not having
the carriage. And it’s rather fun.”
She scrutinized herself in the looking-glass, first three-quarter-ways,
then sideways, finally glancing at her back view.
“At this hour of the day, for instance, I am sure to collect a good
number of followers.”
“Why?”
“Because I look rather nice.”
“What I mean is, why at this hour specially?”
“Because it is evening. The streets are always full just before
dinner-time.”
“But who follows you? What sort of people?”
“All sorts. Men about town, workmen and priests. Yesterday a nigger
followed me. He had on a hat that shone like a mirror. He was awfully
sweet.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“Oh, yes. He said: ‘Madame, will you go for a drive with me? Or are you
afraid of losing your reputation?’”
“What a silly remark!”
“Some of them say much sillier things,” she answered gravely. “Adieu,
_mon petit_, we’ve had a lovely time to-day.”
Her hand was already on the key of the door when he stopped her.
“Clotilde,” said he, “promise me you will go and see Loyer, and that
you will say to him very nicely, ‘M. Loyer, you have a vacant see to
dispose of. Make Abbé Guitrel bishop, you cannot do better. The Pope
thinks very highly of him.’”
She shook her pretty head.
“Go and see Loyer for that? Can you imagine me in the cage of that
old gorilla? We must make some special arrangement, meet him at some
friend’s house, or something of the sort.”
“But,” objected Philippe, “it’s very important. At any moment Loyer may
sign the appointments now. There are several vacant sees.”
She reflected a moment, and, making a special effort to think clearly,
said:
“You must be mistaken, _mon petit_,” said she. “It’s _not_ Loyer who
appoints the bishops. It’s the Pope, really it is, or the Nuncio. I
can prove that, for the other day Emmanuel said, ‘The Nuncio ought to
overcome the modesty of M. de Goulet, and offer him a bishopric.’ So
you see.”
He tried to convince her to the contrary, taking the trouble to explain
the reason why.
“Listen to me! The minister chooses the bishops, and the Nuncio
confirms the minister’s choice. That is what is called the Concordat.
You must say to Loyer: ‘I know of an intelligent liberal-minded priest,
one that the Pope thinks of very highly’----”
“Yes, yes, I know!” She opened wide eyes of wonder. “It’s an
extraordinary thing you are asking of me, _mon petit_!”
Her amazement came from the fact that she was religious, and had the
greatest veneration for holy things. He was a little less religious
than she, but perhaps a trifle more scrupulous, and in his innermost
self he recognized that she was right, and that it was an extraordinary
thing to ask of her. But he was so anxious for the matter to be
concluded that he hastened to reassure her.
“I am not asking you to do anything forbidden by religion,” he
protested.
In the meanwhile her first curiosity had returned.
“But why do you want M. Guitrel to be chosen, _mon petit_?” she asked.
He answered confusedly, as he had done before:
“Mother would be pleased, and other people too.”
“What other people?”
“Oh, heaps of them--the Bonmonts.”
“The Bonmonts? But they are Jews!”
“That doesn’t matter; there are Jews even among the clergy.”
Madame de Gromance grew more suspicious as soon as she learned that the
Bonmonts were mixed up in the singular affair, but being affectionate
and easily led she promised Philippe she would do as he asked.