I
CLAUDE was passing in front of the Hôtel de Ville, and the clock was
striking two o’clock in the morning when the storm burst forth. He had
been roaming forgetfully about the Central Markets, during that burning
July night, like a loitering artist enamoured of nocturnal Paris.
Suddenly the raindrops came down, so large and thick, that he took to
his heels and rushed, wildly bewildered, along the Quai de la Grève. But
on reaching the Pont Louis Philippe he pulled up, ragefully breathless;
he considered this fear of the rain to be idiotic; and so amid the
pitch-like darkness, under the lashing shower which drowned the
gas-jets, he crossed the bridge slowly, with his hands dangling by his
side.
He had only a few more steps to go. As he was turning on to the Quai
Bourbon, on the Isle of St. Louis, a sharp flash of lightning illumined
the straight, monotonous line of old houses bordering the narrow road
in front of the Seine. It blazed upon the panes of the high, shutterless
windows, showing up the melancholy frontages of the old-fashioned
dwellings in all their details; here a stone balcony, there the railing
of a terrace, and there a garland sculptured on a frieze. The painter
had his studio close by, under the eaves of the old Hôtel du Martoy,
nearly at the corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tête.* So he went
on while the quay, after flashing forth for a moment, relapsed into
darkness, and a terrible thunder-clap shook the drowsy quarter.
* The street of the Headless woman.--ED.
When Claude, blinded by the rain, got to his door--a low, rounded door,
studded with iron--he fumbled for the bell knob, and he was exceedingly
surprised--indeed, he started--on finding a living, breathing body
huddled against the woodwork. Then, by the light of a second flash, he
perceived a tall young girl, dressed in black, and drenched already, who
was shivering with fear. When a second thunder-clap had shaken both of
them, Claude exclaimed:
‘How you frighten one! Who are you, and what do you want?’
He could no longer see her; he only heard her sob, and stammer:
‘Oh, monsieur, don’t hurt me. It’s the fault of the driver, whom I hired
at the station, and who left me at this door, after ill-treating me.
Yes, a train ran off the rails, near Nevers. We were four hours late,
and a person who was to wait for me had gone. Oh, dear me; I have never
been in Paris before, and I don’t know where I am....’
Another blinding flash cut her short, and with dilated eyes she stared,
terror-stricken, at that part of the strange capital, that violet-tinted
apparition of a fantastic city. The rain had ceased falling. On the
opposite bank of the Seine was the Quai des Ormes, with its small grey
houses variegated below by the woodwork of their shops and with their
irregular roofs boldly outlined above, while the horizon suddenly became
clear on the left as far as the blue slate eaves of the Hôtel de Ville,
and on the right as far as the leaden-hued dome of St. Paul. What
startled her most of all, however, was the hollow of the stream, the
deep gap in which the Seine flowed, black and turgid, from the heavy
piles of the Pont Marie, to the light arches of the new Pont Louis
Philippe. Strange masses peopled the river, a sleeping flotilla of small
boats and yawls, a floating washhouse, and a dredger moored to the quay.
Then, farther down, against the other bank, were lighters, laden with
coals, and barges full of mill stone, dominated as it were by the
gigantic arm of a steam crane. But, suddenly, everything disappeared
again.
Claude had an instinctive distrust of women--that story of an accident,
of a belated train and a brutal cabman, seemed to him a ridiculous
invention. At the second thunder-clap the girl had shrunk farther still
into her corner, absolutely terrified.
‘But you cannot stop here all night,’ he said.
She sobbed still more and stammered, ‘I beseech you, monsieur, take me
to Passy. That’s where I was going.’
He shrugged his shoulders. Did she take him for a fool? Mechanically,
however, he turned towards the Quai des Célestins, where there was a
cabstand. Not the faintest glimmer of a lamp to be seen.
‘To Passy, my dear? Why not to Versailles? Where do you think one can
pick up a cab at this time of night, and in such weather?’
Her only answer was a shriek; for a fresh flash of lightning had almost
blinded her, and this time the tragic city had seemed to her to be
spattered with blood. An immense chasm had been revealed, the two
arms of the river stretching far away amidst the lurid flames of a
conflagration. The smallest details had appeared: the little closed
shutters of the Quai des Ormes, and the two openings of the Rue de la
Masure, and the Rue du Paon-Blanc, which made breaks in the line of
frontages; then near the Pont Marie one could have counted the leaves
on the lofty plane trees, which there form a bouquet of magnificent
verdure; while on the other side, beneath the Pont Louis Philippe, at
the Mail, the barges, ranged in a quadruple line, had flared with the
piles of yellow apples with which they were heavily laden. And there
was also the ripple of the water, the high chimney of the floating
washhouse, the tightened chain of the dredger, the heaps of sand on the
banks, indeed, an extraordinary agglomeration of things, quite a little
world filling the great gap which seemed to stretch from one horizon to
the other. But the sky became dark again, and the river flowed on, all
obscurity, amid the crashing of the thunder.
‘Thank heaven it’s over. Oh, heaven! what’s to become of me?’
Just then the rain began to fall again, so stiffly and impelled by so
strong a wind that it swept along the quay with the violence of water
escaping through an open lock.
‘Come, let me get in,’ said Claude; ‘I can stand this no longer.’
Both were getting drenched. By the flickering light of the gas lamp at
the corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tête the young man could see the
water dripping from the girl’s dress, which was clinging to her skin, in
the deluge that swept against the door. He was seized with compassion.
Had he not once picked up a cur on such a stormy night as this? Yet he
felt angry with himself for softening. He never had anything to do with
women; he treated them all as if ignorant of their existence, with a
painful timidity which he disguised under a mask of bravado. And that
girl must really think him a downright fool, to bamboozle him with that
story of adventure--only fit for a farce. Nevertheless, he ended by
saying, ‘That’s enough. You had better come in out of the wet. You can
sleep in my rooms.’
But at this the girl became even more frightened, and threw up her arms.
‘In your rooms? Oh! good heavens. No, no; it’s impossible. I beseech
you, monsieur, take me to Passy. Let me beg of you.’
But Claude became angry. Why did she make all this fuss, when he was
willing to give her shelter? He had already rung the bell twice. At last
the door opened and he pushed the girl before him.
‘No, no, monsieur; I tell you, no--’
But another flash dazzled her, and when the thunder growled she bounded
inside, scarce knowing what she was about. The heavy door had closed
upon them, she was standing under a large archway in complete darkness.
‘It’s I, Madame Joseph,’ cried Claude to the doorkeeper. Then he added,
in a whisper, ‘Give me your hand, we have to cross the courtyard.’
The girl did as she was told; she no longer resisted; she was
overwhelmed, worn out. Once more they encountered the diluvian rain, as
they ran side by side as hard as they could across the yard. It was a
baronial courtyard, huge, and surrounded with stone arcades, indistinct
amidst the gloom. However, they came to a narrow passage without a
door, and he let go her hand. She could hear him trying to strike some
matches, and swearing. They were all damp. It was necessary for them to
grope their way upstairs.
‘Take hold of the banisters, and be careful,’ said Claude; ‘the steps
are very high.’
The staircase, a very narrow one, a former servants’ staircase, was
divided into three lofty flights, which she climbed, stumbling, with
unskilful, weary limbs. Then he warned her that they had to turn down a
long passage. She kept behind him, touching the walls on both sides with
her outstretched hands, as she advanced along that endless passage which
bent and came back to the front of the building on the quay. Then there
were still other stairs right under the roof--creaking, shaky wooden
stairs, which had no banister, and suggested the unplaned rungs of
a miller’s ladder. The landing at the top was so small that the girl
knocked against the young man, as he fumbled in his pocket for his key.
At last, however, he opened the door.
‘Don’t come in, but wait, else you’ll hurt yourself again.’
She did not stir. She was panting for breath, her heart was beating
fast, there was a buzzing in her ears, and she felt indeed exhausted
by that ascent in the dense gloom. It seemed to her as if she had been
climbing for hours, in such a maze, amidst such a turning and twisting
of stairs that she would never be able to find her way down again.
Inside the studio there was a shuffling of heavy feet, a rustling of
hands groping in the dark, a clatter of things being tumbled about,
accompanied by stifled objurgations. At last the doorway was lighted up.
‘Come in, it’s all right now.’
She went in and looked around her, without distinguishing anything. The
solitary candle burned dim in that garret, more than fifteen feet high,
and filled with a confused jumble of things whose big shadows showed
fantastically on the walls, which were painted in grey distemper. No,
she did not distinguish anything. She mechanically raised her eyes
to the large studio-window, against which the rain was beating with a
deafening roll like that of a drum, but at that moment another flash
of lightning illumined the sky, followed almost immediately by a
thunder-clap that seemed to split the roof. Dumb-stricken, pale as
death, she dropped upon a chair.
‘The devil!’ muttered Claude, who also was rather pale. ‘That clap
wasn’t far off. We were just in time. It’s better here than in the
streets, isn’t it?’
Then he went towards the door, closed it with a bang and turned the key,
while she watched him with a dazed look.
‘There, now, we are at home.’
But it was all over. There were only a few more thunder-claps in the
distance, and the rain soon ceased altogether. Claude, who was now
growing embarrassed, had examined the girl, askance. She seemed by no
means bad looking, and assuredly she was young: twenty at the most. This
scrutiny had the effect of making him more suspicious of her still,
in spite of an unconscious feeling, a vague idea, that she was not
altogether deceiving him. In any case, no matter how clever she might
be, she was mistaken if she imagined she had caught him. To prove this
he wilfully exaggerated his gruffness and curtness of manner.
Her very anguish at his words and demeanour made her rise, and in her
turn she examined him, though without daring to look him straight in the
face. And the aspect of that bony young man, with his angular joints and
wild bearded face, increased her fears. With his black felt hat and
his old brown coat, discoloured by long usage, he looked like a kind of
brigand.
Directly he told her to make herself at home and go to bed, for he
placed his bed at her disposal, she shrinkingly replied: ‘Thank you;
I’ll do very well as I am; I’ll not undress.’
‘But your clothes are dripping,’ he retorted. ‘Come now, don’t make an
idiot of yourself.’
And thereupon he began to knock about the chairs, and flung aside an old
screen, behind which she noticed a washstand and a tiny iron bedstead,
from which he began to remove the coverlet.
‘No, no, monsieur, it isn’t worth while; I assure you that I shall stay
here.’
At this, however, Claude became angry, gesticulating and shaking his
fists.
‘How much more of this comedy are we to have?’ said he. ‘As I give you
my bed, what have you to complain of? You need not pay any attention to
me. I shall sleep on that couch.’
He strode towards her with a threatening look, and thereupon, beside
herself with fear, thinking that he was going to strike her, she
tremblingly unfastened her hat. The water was dripping from her skirts.
He kept on growling. Nevertheless, a sudden scruple seemed to come to
him, for he ended by saying, condescendingly:
‘Perhaps you don’t like to sleep in my sheets. I’ll change them.’
He at once began dragging them from the bed and flinging them on to the
couch at the other end of the studio. And afterwards he took a clean
pair from the wardrobe and began to make the bed with all the deftness
of a bachelor accustomed to that kind of thing. He carefully tucked in
the clothes on the side near the wall, shook the pillows, and turned
back a corner of the coverlet.
‘There, that’ll do; won’t it?’ said he.
And as she did not answer, but remained motionless, he pushed her behind
the screen. ‘Good heavens! what a lot of fuss,’ he thought. And after
spreading his own sheets on the couch, and hanging his clothes on an
easel, he quickly went to bed himself. When he was on the point of
blowing out the candle, however, he reflected that if he did so she
would have to undress in the dark, and so he waited. At first he had
not heard her stir; she had no doubt remained standing against the
iron bedstead. But at last he detected a slight rustling, a slow,
faint movement, as if amidst her preparations she also were listening,
frightened perchance by the candle which was still alight. At last,
after several minutes, the spring mattress creaked, and then all became
still.
‘Are you comfortable, mademoiselle?’ now asked Claude, in a much more
gentle voice.
‘Yes, monsieur, very comfortable,’ she replied, in a scarcely audible
voice, which still quivered with emotion.
‘Very well, then. Good-night.’
‘Good-night.’
He blew out the candle, and the silence became more intense. In spite of
his fatigue, his eyes soon opened again, and gazed upward at the large
window of the studio. The sky had become very clear again, the stars
were twinkling in the sultry July night, and, despite the storm, the
heat remained oppressive. Claude was thinking about the girl--agitated
for a moment by contrary feelings, though at last contempt gained
the mastery. He indeed believed himself to be very strong-minded; he
imagined a romance concocted to destroy his tranquillity, and he gibed
contentedly at having frustrated it. His experience of women was very
slight, nevertheless he endeavoured to draw certain conclusions from
the story she had told him, struck as he was at present by certain petty
details, and feeling perplexed. But why, after all, should he worry his
brain? What did it matter whether she had told him the truth or a lie?
In the morning she would go off; there would be an end to it all, and
they would never see each other again. Thus Claude lay cogitating, and
it was only towards daybreak, when the stars began to pale, that he
fell asleep. As for the girl behind the screen, in spite of the crushing
fatigue of her journey, she continued tossing about uneasily, oppressed
by the heaviness of the atmosphere beneath the hot zinc-work of the
roof; and doubtless, too, she was rendered nervous by the strangeness of
her surroundings.
In the morning, when Claude awoke, his eyes kept blinking. It was very
late, and the sunshine streamed through the large window. One of his
theories was, that young landscape painters should take studios despised
by the academical figure painters--studios which the sun flooded with
living beams. Nevertheless he felt dazzled, and fell back again on his
couch. Why the devil had he been sleeping there? His eyes, still heavy
with sleep, wandered mechanically round the studio, when, all at once,
beside the screen he noticed a heap of petticoats. Then he at
once remembered the girl. He began to listen, and heard a sound of
long-drawn, regular breathing, like that of a child comfortably asleep.
Ah! so she was still slumbering, and so calmly, that it would be a pity
to disturb her. He felt dazed and somewhat annoyed at the adventure,
however, for it would spoil his morning’s work. He got angry at his own
good nature; it would be better to shake her, so that she might go
at once. Nevertheless he put on his trousers and slippers softly, and
walked about on tiptoes.
The cuckoo clock struck nine, and Claude made a gesture of annoyance.
Nothing had stirred; the regular breathing continued. The best thing to
do, he thought, would be to set to work on his large picture; he would
see to his breakfast later on, when he was able to move about. But,
after all, he could not make up his mind. He who lived amid chronic
disorder felt worried by that heap of petticoats lying on the floor.
Some water had dripped from them, but they were damp still. And so,
while grumbling in a low tone, he ended by picking them up one by one
and spreading them over the chairs in the sunlight. Had one ever seen
the like, clothes thrown about anyhow? They would never get dry, and
she would never go off! He turned all that feminine apparel over very
awkwardly, got entangled with the black dress-body, and went on all
fours to pick up the stockings that had fallen behind an old canvas.
They were Balbriggan stockings of a dark grey, long and fine, and he
examined them, before hanging them up to dry. The water oozing from the
edge of the dress had soaked them, so he wrung and stretched them with
his warm hands, in order that he might be able to send her away the
quicker.
Since he had been on his legs, Claude had felt sorely tempted to push
aside the screen and to take a look at his guest. This self-condemned
curiosity only increased his bad temper. At last, with his habitual
shrug of the shoulders, he was taking up his brushes, when he heard some
words stammered amidst a rustling of bed-clothes. Then, however, soft
breathing was heard again, and this time he yielded to the temptation,
dropping his brushes, and peeping from behind the screen. The sight that
met his eyes rooted him to the spot, so fascinated that he muttered,
‘Good gracious! good gracious!’
The girl, amidst the hot-house heat that came from the window, had
thrown back her coverlet, and, overcome with the fatigue of a restless
night, lay steeped in a flood of sunshine, unconscious of everything.
In her feverish slumbers a shoulder button had become unfastened, and
a sleeve slipping down allowed her bosom to be seen, with skin which
looked almost gilded and soft like satin. Her right arm rested beneath
her neck, her head was thrown back, and her black unwound tresses
enwrapped her like a dusky cloak.
‘Good gracious! But she’s a beauty!’ muttered Claude once more.
There, in every point, was the figure he had vainly sought for his
picture, and it was almost in the right pose. She was rather spare,
perhaps, but then so lithe and fresh.
With a light step, Claude ran to take his box of crayons, and a large
sheet of paper. Then, squatting on a low chair, he placed a portfolio on
his knees and began to sketch with an air of perfect happiness. All else
vanished amidst artistic surprise and enthusiasm. No thought of sex came
to him. It was all a mere question of chaste outlines, splendid flesh
tints, well-set muscles. Face to face with nature, an uneasy mistrust of
his powers made him feel small; so, squaring his elbows, he became very
attentive and respectful. This lasted for about a quarter of an hour,
during which he paused every now and then, blinking at the figure before
him. As he was afraid, however, that she might change her position, he
speedily set to work again, holding his breath, lest he should awaken
her.
And yet, while steadily applying himself to his work, vague fancies
again assailed his mind. Who could she be? Assuredly no mere hussy. But
why had she told him such an unbelievable tale? Thereupon he began to
imagine other stories. Perhaps she had but lately arrived in Paris with
a lover, who had abandoned her; perhaps she was some young woman of the
middle classes led into bad company by a female friend, and not daring
to go home to her relatives; or else there was some still more intricate
drama beneath it all; something horrible, inexplicable, the truth
of which he would never fathom. All these hypotheses increased his
perplexity. Meanwhile, he went on sketching her face, studying it with
care. The whole of the upper part, the clear forehead, as smooth as
a polished mirror, the small nose, with its delicately chiselled and
nervous nostrils, denoted great kindliness and gentleness. One divined
the sweet smile of the eyes beneath the closed lids; a smile that would
light up the whole of the features. Unfortunately, the lower part of the
face marred that expression of sweetness; the jaw was prominent, and the
lips, rather too full, showed almost blood-like over the strong white
teeth. There was here, like a flash of passion, something that spoke
of awakening womanhood, still unconscious of itself amidst those other
traits of childlike softness.
But suddenly a shiver rippled over the girl’s satiny skin. Perhaps
she had felt the weight of that gaze thus mentally dissecting her. She
opened her eyes very wide and uttered a cry.
‘Ah! great heavens!’
Sudden terror paralysed her at the sight of that strange room, and that
young man crouching in his shirt-sleeves in front of her and devouring
her with his eyes. Flushing hotly, she impulsively pulled up the
counterpane.
‘Well, what’s the matter?’ cried Claude, angrily, his crayon suspended
in mid-air; ‘what wasp has stung you now?’
He, whose knowledge of womankind was largely limited to professional
models, was at a loss to understand the girl’s action.
She neither spoke nor stirred, but remained with the counterpane tightly
wrapped round her throat, her body almost doubled up, and scarcely
showing an outline beneath her coverings.
‘I won’t eat you, will I?’ urged Claude. ‘Come, just lie as you were,
there’s a good girl.’
Again she blushed to her very ears. At last she stammered, ‘Oh, no,
monsieur, no--pray!’
But he began to lose his temper altogether. One of the angry fits to
which he was subject was coming upon him. He thought her obstinacy
stupid. And as in response to his urgent requests she only began to sob,
he quite lost his head in despair before his sketch, thinking that he
would never be able to finish it, and would thus lose a capital study
for his picture.
‘Well, you won’t, eh? But it’s idiotic. What do you take me for? Have
I annoyed you at all? You know I haven’t. Besides, listen, it is very
unkind of you to refuse me this service, because, after all, I sheltered
you--I gave up my bed to you.’
She only continued to cry, with her head buried in the pillow.
‘I assure you that I am very much in want of this sketch, else I
wouldn’t worry you.’
He grew surprised at the girl’s abundant tears, and ashamed at
having been so rough with her, so he held his tongue at last, feeling
embarrassed, and wishing too that she might have time to recover a bit.
Then he began again, in a very gentle tone:
‘Well, as it annoys you, let’s say no more about it. But if you only
knew. I’ve got a figure in my picture yonder which doesn’t make head-way
at all, and you were just in the very note. As for me, when it’s a
question of painting, I’d kill father and mother, you know. Well, you’ll
excuse me, won’t you? And if you’d like me to be very nice, you’d just
give me a few minutes more. No, no; keep quiet as you are; I only want
the head--nothing but the head. If I could finish that, it would be all
right. Really now, be kind; put your arm as it was before, and I shall
be very grateful to you--grateful all my life long.’
It was he who was entreating now, pitifully waving his crayon amid
the emotion of his artistic craving. Besides, he had not stirred, but
remained crouching on his low chair, at a distance from the bed. At last
she risked the ordeal, and uncovered her tranquillised face. What else
could she do? She was at his mercy, and he looked so wretchedly unhappy.
Nevertheless, she still hesitated, she felt some last scruples. But
eventually, without saying a word, she slowly brought her bare arm from
beneath the coverings, and again slipped it under her head, taking care,
however, to keep the counterpane tightly round her throat.
‘Ah! how kind you are! I’ll make haste, you will be free in a minute.’
He bent over his drawing, and only looked at her now and then with the
glance of a painter who simply regards the woman before him as a model.
At first she became pink again; the consciousness that she was showing
her bare arm--which she would have shown in a ball-room without thinking
at all about it--filled her with confusion. Nevertheless, the young
man seemed so reasonable that she became reassured. The blush left her
cheeks, and her lips parted in a vague confiding smile. And from between
her half-opened eyelids she began to study him. How he had frightened
her the previous night with his thick brown beard, his large head, and
his impulsive gestures. And yet he was not ugly; she even detected great
tenderness in the depths of his brown eyes, while his nose altogether
surprised her. It was a finely-cut woman’s nose, almost lost amidst the
bristling hair on his lips. He shook slightly with a nervous anxiety
which made his crayon seem a living thing in his slender hand, and
which touched her though she knew not why. She felt sure he was not
bad-natured, his rough, surly ways arose from bashfulness. She did not
decipher all this very clearly, but she divined it, and began to put
herself at her ease, as if she were with a friend.
Nevertheless, the studio continued to frighten her a little. She
cast sidelong glances around it, astonished at so much disorder and
carelessness. Before the stove the cinders of the previous winter still
lay in a heap. Besides the bed, the small washstand, and the couch,
there was no other furniture than an old dilapidated oaken wardrobe and
a large deal table, littered with brushes, colours, dirty plates, and
a spirit lamp, atop of which was a saucepan, with shreds of vermicelli
sticking to its sides. Some rush-bottomed chairs, their seats the worse
for wear, were scattered about beside spavined easels. Near the couch
the candlestick used on the previous night stood on the floor, which
looked as if it had not been swept for fully a month. There was only the
cuckoo clock, a huge one, with a dial illuminated with crimson flowers,
that looked clean and bright, ticking sonorously all the while. But what
especially frightened her were some sketches in oils that hung frameless
from the walls, a serried array of sketches reaching to the floor, where
they mingled with heaps of canvases thrown about anyhow. She had never
seen such terrible painting, so coarse, so glaring, showing a violence
of colour, that jarred upon her nerves like a carter’s oath heard on the
doorstep of an inn. She cast her eyes down for a moment, and then became
attracted by a picture, the back of which was turned to her. It was
the large canvas at which the painter was working, and which he pushed
against the wall every night, the better to judge it on the morrow
in the surprise of the first glance. What could it be, that one, she
wondered, since he dared not even show it? And, meantime, through the
vast room, a sheet of burning sunlight, falling straight from the window
panes, unchecked by any blind, spread with the flow of molten gold over
all the broken-down furniture, whose devil-may-care shabbiness it threw
into bold relief.
Claude began to feel the silence oppressive; he wanted to say something,
no matter what, first, in order to be polite, and more especially to
divert her attention from her pose. But cudgel his brain as he would, he
could only think of asking: ‘Pray, what is your name?’
She opened her eyes, which she had closed, as if she were feeling
sleepy.
‘Christine,’ she said.
At which he seemed surprised. Neither had he told her his name. Since
the night before they had been together, side by side, without knowing
one another.
‘My name is Claude.’
And, having looked at her just at that moment, he saw her burst into
a pretty laugh. It was the sudden, merry peal of a big girl, still
scarcely more than a hoyden. She considered this tardy exchange of names
rather droll. Then something else amused her.
‘How funny--Claude, Christine--they begin with the same letter.’
They both became silent once more. He was blinking at his work, growing
absorbed in it, and at a loss how to continue the conversation. He
fancied that she was beginning to feel tired and uncomfortable, and in
his fear lest she should stir, he remarked at random, merely to occupy
her thoughts, ‘It feels rather warm.’
This time she checked her laughter, her natural gaiety that revived and
burst forth in spite of herself ever since she had felt easier in mind.
Truth to tell, the heat was indeed so oppressive that it seemed to her
as if she were in a bath, with skin moist and pale with the milky pallor
of a camellia.
‘Yes, it feels rather warm,’ she said, seriously, though mirth was
dancing in her eyes.
Thereupon Claude continued, with a good-natured air:
‘It’s the sun falling straight in; but, after all, a flood of sunshine
on one’s skin does one good. We could have done with some of it last
night at the door, couldn’t we?’
At this both burst out laughing, and he, delighted at having hit upon
a subject of conversation, questioned her about her adventure, without,
however, feeling inquisitive, for he cared little about discovering the
real truth, and was only intent upon prolonging the sitting.
Christine simply, and in a few words, related what had befallen her.
Early on the previous morning she had left Clermont for Paris, where
she was to take up a situation as reader and companion to the widow of a
general, Madame Vanzade, a rich old lady, who lived at Passy. The train
was timed to reach Paris at ten minutes past nine in the evening, and
a maid was to meet her at the station. They had even settled by letter
upon a means of recognition. She was to wear a black hat with a grey
feather in it. But, a little above Nevers, her train had come upon a
goods train which had run off the rails, its litter of smashed trucks
still obstructing the line. There was quite a series of mishaps
and delays. First an interminable wait in the carriages, which the
passengers had to quit at last, luggage and all, in order to trudge to
the next station, three kilometres distant, where the authorities had
decided to make up another train. By this time they had lost two hours,
and then another two were lost in the general confusion which the
accident had caused from one end of the line to the other, in such wise
that they reached the Paris terminus four hours behind time, that is, at
one o’clock in the morning.
‘Bad luck, indeed,’ interrupted Claude, who was still sceptical,
though half disarmed, in his surprise at the neat way in which the girl
arranged the details of her story.
‘And, of course, there was no one at the station to meet you?’ he added.
Christine had, indeed, missed Madame Vanzade’s maid, who, no doubt, had
grown tired of waiting. She told Claude of her utter helplessness at the
Lyons terminus--that large, strange, dark station, deserted at that late
hour of night. She had not dared to take a cab at first, but had kept
on walking up and down, carrying her small bag, and still hoping that
somebody would come for her. When at last she made up her mind there
only remained one driver, very dirty and smelling of drink, who prowled
round her, offering his cab in a knowing, impudent way.
‘Yes, I know, a dawdler,’ said Claude, getting as interested as if he
were listening to a fairy tale. ‘So you got into his cab?’
Looking up at the ceiling, Christine continued, without shifting her
position: ‘He made me; he called me his little dear, and frightened me.
When he found out that I was going to Passy, he became very angry, and
whipped his horse so hard that I was obliged to hold on by the doors.
After that I felt more easy, because the cab trundled along all
right through the lighted streets, and I saw people about. At last I
recognised the Seine, for though I was never in Paris before, I had
often looked at a map. Naturally I thought he would keep along the quay,
so I became very frightened again on noticing that we crossed a bridge.
Just then it began to rain, and the cab, which had got into a very
dark turning, suddenly stopped. The driver got down from his seat, and
declared it was raining too hard for him to remain on the box--’
Claude burst out laughing. He no longer doubted. She could not have
invented that driver. And as she suddenly stopped, somewhat confused, he
said, ‘All right, the cabman was having a joke.’
‘I jumped out at once by the other door,’ resumed Christine. ‘Then he
began to swear at me, saying that we had arrived at Passy, and that he
would tear my hat from my head if I did not pay him. It was raining in
torrents, and the quay was absolutely deserted. I was losing my head,
and when I had pulled out a five-franc piece, he whipped up his horse
and drove off, taking my little bag, which luckily only contained two
pocket-handkerchiefs, a bit of cake, and the key of my trunk, which I
had been obliged to leave behind in the train.’
‘But you ought to have taken his number,’ exclaimed the artist
indignantly. In fact he now remembered having been brushed against by
a passing cab, which had rattled by furiously while he was crossing the
Pont Louis Philippe, amid the downpour of the storm. And he reflected
how improbable truth often was. The story he had conjured up as being
the most simple and logical was utterly stupid beside the natural chain
of life’s many combinations.
‘You may imagine how I felt under the doorway,’ concluded Christine.
‘I knew well enough that I was not at Passy, and that I should have to
spend the night there, in this terrible Paris. And there was the thunder
and the lightning--those horrible blue and red flashes, which showed me
things that made me tremble.’
She closed her eyelids once more, she shivered, and the colour left her
cheeks as, in her fancy, she again beheld the tragic city--that line
of quays stretching away in a furnace-like blaze, the deep moat of the
river, with its leaden waters obstructed by huge black masses, lighters
looking like lifeless whales, and bristling with motionless cranes which
stretched forth gallows-like arms. Was that a welcome to Paris?
Again did silence fall. Claude had resumed his drawing. But she became
restless, her arm was getting stiff.
‘Just put your elbow a little lower, please,’ said Claude. Then, with an
air of concern, as if to excuse his curtness: ‘Your parents will be very
uneasy, if they have heard of the accident.’
‘I have no parents.’
‘What! neither father nor mother? You are all alone in the world?’
‘Yes; all alone.’
She was eighteen years old, and had been born in Strasburg, quite by
chance, though, between two changes of garrison, for her father was a
soldier, Captain Hallegrain. Just as she entered upon her twelfth year,
the captain, a Gascon, hailing from Montauban, had died at Clermont,
where he had settled when paralysis of the legs had obliged him to
retire from active service. For nearly five years afterwards, her
mother, a Parisian by birth, had remained in that dull provincial town,
managing as well as she could with her scanty pension, but eking it
out by fan-painting, in order that she might bring up her daughter as a
lady. She had, however, now been dead for fifteen months, and had left
her child penniless and unprotected, without a friend, save the Superior
of the Sisters of the Visitation, who had kept her with them. Christine
had come straight to Paris from the convent, the Superior having
succeeded in procuring her a situation as reader and companion to her
old friend, Madame Vanzade, who was almost blind.
At these additional particulars, Claude sat absolutely speechless. That
convent, that well-bred orphan, that adventure, all taking so romantic
a turn, made him relapse into embarrassment again, into all his former
awkwardness of gesture and speech. He had left off drawing, and sat
looking, with downcast eyes, at his sketch.
‘Is Clermont pretty?’ he asked, at last.
‘Not very; it’s a gloomy town. Besides, I don’t know; I scarcely ever
went out.’
She was resting on her elbow, and continued, as if talking to herself in
a very low voice, still tremulous from the thought of her bereavement.
‘Mamma, who wasn’t strong, killed herself with work. She spoilt me;
nothing was too good for me. I had all sorts of masters, but I did not
get on very well; first, because I fell ill, then because I paid no
attention. I was always laughing and skipping about like a featherbrain.
I didn’t care for music, piano playing gave me a cramp in my arms. The
only thing I cared about at all was painting.’
He raised his head and interrupted her. ‘You can paint?’
‘Oh, no; I know nothing, nothing at all. Mamma, who was very talented,
made me do a little water-colour, and I sometimes helped her with the
backgrounds of her fans. She painted some lovely ones.’
In spite of herself, she then glanced at the startling sketches with
which the walls seemed ablaze, and her limpid eyes assumed an uneasy
expression at the sight of that rough, brutal style of painting. From
where she lay she obtained a topsy-turvy view of the study of herself
which the painter had begun, and her consternation at the violent tones
she noticed, the rough crayon strokes, with which the shadows were
dashed off, prevented her from asking to look at it more closely.
Besides, she was growing very uncomfortable in that bed, where she lay
broiling; she fidgetted with the idea of going off and putting an end to
all these things which, ever since the night before, had seemed to her
so much of a dream.
Claude, no doubt, became aware of her discomfort. A sudden feeling of
shame brought with it one of compunction.
He put his unfinished sketch aside, and hastily exclaimed: ‘Much obliged
for your kindness, mademoiselle. Forgive me, I have really abused it.
Yes, indeed, pray get up; it’s time for you to look for your friends.’
And without appearing to understand why she did not follow his advice,
but hid more and more of her bare arm in proportion as he drew nearer,
he still insisted upon advising her to rise. All at once, as the real
state of things struck him, he swung his arms about like a madman, set
the screen in position, and went to the far end of the studio, where he
began noisily setting his crockery in order, so that she might jump out
and dress herself, without fear of being overheard.
Amidst the din he had thus raised, he failed to hear her hesitating
voice, ‘Monsieur, monsieur--’
At last he caught her words.
‘Monsieur, would you be so kind--I can’t find my stockings.’
Claude hurried forward. What had he been thinking of? What was she to do
behind that screen, without her stockings and petticoats, which he had
spread out in the sunlight? The stockings were dry, he assured himself
of that by gently rubbing them together, and he handed them to her over
the partition; again noticing her arm, bare, plump and rosy like that of
a child. Then he tossed the skirts on to the foot of the bed and pushed
her boots forward, leaving nothing but her bonnet suspended from the
easel. She had thanked him and that was all; he scarcely distinguished
the rustling of her clothes and the discreet splashing of water. Still
he continued to concern himself about her.
‘You will find the soap in a saucer on the table. Open the drawer and
take a clean towel. Do you want more water? I’ll give you the pitcher.’
Suddenly the idea that he was blundering again exasperated him.
‘There, there, I am only worrying you. I will leave you to your own
devices. Do as if you were at home.’
And he continued to potter about among the crockery. He was debating
with himself whether he should ask her to stay to breakfast. He ought
not to let her go like that. On the other hand, if she did stay, he
would never get done; it would mean a loss of his whole morning. Without
deciding anything, as soon as he had lighted his spirit lamp, he washed
his saucepan and began to make some chocolate. He thought it more
_distingué_, feeling rather ashamed of his vermicelli, which he mixed
with bread and soused with oil as people do in the South of France.
However, he was still breaking the chocolate into bits, when he uttered
a cry of surprise, ‘What, already?’
It was Christine, who had pushed back the screen, and who appeared
looking neat and correct in her black dress, duly laced and buttoned
up, equipped, as it were, in a twinkle. Her rosy face did not even show
traces of the water, her thick hair was twisted in a knot at the back
of her head, not a single lock out of place. And Claude remained
open-mouthed before that miracle of quickness, that proof of feminine
skill in dressing well and promptly.
‘The deuce, if you go about everything in that way!’ said he.
He found her taller and handsomer than he had fancied. But what struck
him most was her look of quiet decision. She was evidently no longer
afraid of him. It seemed as though she had re-donned her armour and
become an amazon again. She smiled and looked him straight in the face.
Whereupon he said what he was still reluctant to say:
‘You’ll breakfast with me, won’t you?’
But she refused the offer. ‘No, thank you. I am going to the station,
where my trunk must have arrived by now, and then I shall drive to
Passy.’
It was in vain that he told her that she must be hungry, that it was
unreasonable for her to go out without eating something.
‘Well, if you won’t, I’ll go down and fetch you a cab,’ he ended by
exclaiming.
‘Pray don’t take such trouble.’
‘But you can’t go such a distance on foot. Let me at least take you to
the cabstand, as you don’t know Paris.’
‘No, really I do not need you. If you wish to oblige me, let me go away
by myself.’
She had evidently made up her mind. She no doubt shrank from the idea
of being seen with a man, even by strangers. She meant to remain silent
about that strange night, she meant to tell some falsehood, and keep
the recollection of her adventure entirely to herself. He made a
furious gesture, which was tantamount to sending her to the devil. Good
riddance; it suited him better not to have to go down. But, all the
same, he felt hurt at heart, and considered that she was ungrateful.
‘As you please, then. I sha’n’t resort to force,’ he said.
At these words, Christine’s vague smile became more accentuated. She did
not reply, but took her bonnet and looked round in search of a glass.
Failing to find one, she tied the strings as best she could. With her
arms uplifted, she leisurely arranged and smoothed the ribbons, her face
turned towards the golden rays of the sun. Somewhat surprised, Claude
looked in vain for the traits of childish softness that he had just
portrayed; the upper part of her face, her clear forehead, her gentle
eyes had become less conspicuous; and now the lower part stood out, with
its somewhat sensual jaw, ruddy mouth, and superb teeth. And still she
smiled with that enigmatical, girlish smile, which was, perhaps, an
ironical one.
‘At any rate,’ he said, in a vexed tone, ‘I do not think you have
anything to reproach me with.’
At which she could not help laughing, with a slight, nervous laugh.
‘No, no, monsieur, not in the least.’
He continued staring at her, fighting the battle of inexperience and
bashfulness over again, and fearing that he had been ridiculous. Now
that she no longer trembled before him, had she become contemptuously
surprised at having trembled at all? What! he had not made the slightest
attempt at courtship, not even pressed a kiss on her finger-tips. The
young fellow’s bearish indifference, of which she had assuredly been
conscious, must have hurt her budding womanly feelings.
‘You were saying,’ she resumed, becoming sedate once more, ‘that the
cabstand is at the end of the bridge on the opposite quay?’
‘Yes; at the spot where there is a clump of trees.’
She had finished tying her bonnet strings, and stood ready gloved,
with her hands hanging by her side, and yet she did not go, but stared
straight in front of her. As her eyes met the big canvas turned to
the wall she felt a wish to see it, but did not dare to ask. Nothing
detained her; still she seemed to be looking around as if she had
forgotten something there, something which she could not name. At last
she stepped towards the door.
Claude was already opening it, and a small loaf placed erect against the
post tumbled into the studio.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘you ought to have stopped to breakfast with me. My
doorkeeper brings the bread up every morning.’
She again refused with a shake of the head. When she was on the landing
she turned round, and for a moment remained quite still. Her gay smile
had come back; she was the first to hold out her hand.
‘Thank you, thank you very much.’
He had taken her small gloved hand within his large one, all
pastel-stained as it was. Both hands remained like that for a few
moments, closely and cordially pressed. The young girl was still smiling
at him, and he had a question on the tip of his tongue: ‘When shall I
see you again?’ But he felt ashamed to ask it, and after waiting a while
she withdrew her hand.
‘Good-bye, monsieur.’
‘Good-bye, mademoiselle.’
Christine, without another glance, was already descending the steep
ladder-like stairway whose steps creaked, when Claude turned abruptly
into his studio, closing the door with a bang, and shouting to himself:
‘Ah, those confounded women!’
He was furious--furious with himself, furious with everyone. Kicking
about the furniture, he continued to ease his feelings in a loud voice.
Was not he right in never allowing them to cross his threshold? They
only turned a fellow’s head. What proof had he after all that yonder
chit with the innocent look, who had just gone, had not fooled him most
abominably? And he had been silly enough to believe in her cock-and-bull
stories! All his suspicions revived. No one would ever make him swallow
that fairy tale of the general’s widow, the railway accident, and
especially the cabman. Did such things ever happen in real life?
Besides, that mouth of hers told a strange tale, and her looks had
been very singular just as she was going. Ah! if he could only have
understood why she had told him all those lies; but no, they were
profitless, inexplicable. It was art for art’s sake. How she must be
laughing at him by this time.
He roughly folded up the screen and sent it flying into a corner. She
had no doubt left all in disorder. And when he found that everything was
in its proper place--basin, towel, and soap--he flew into a rage because
she had not made the bed. With a great deal of fuss he began to make it
himself, lifting the mattress in his arms, banging the pillow about with
his fists, and feeling oppressed by the pure scent of youth that rose
from everything. Then he had a good wash to cool himself, and in the
damp towel he found the same virgin fragrance, which seemed to spread
through the studio. Swearing the while, he drank his chocolate from
the saucepan, so excited, so eager to set to work, as to swallow large
mouthfuls of bread without taking breath.
‘Why, it’s enough to kill one here,’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘It must be
this confounded heat that’s making me ill.’
After all, the sun had shifted, and it was far less hot. But he opened
a small window on a level with the roof, and inhaled, with an air of
profound relief, the whiff of warm air that entered. Then he took up his
sketch of Christine’s head and for a long while he lingered looking at
it.