XI

CLAUDE set to work again on the very next day, and months elapsed,

indeed the whole summer went by, in heavy quietude. He had found a job,

some little paintings of flowers for England, the proceeds of which

sufficed for their daily bread. All his available time was again devoted

to his large canvas, and he no longer went into the same fits of anger

over it, but seemed to resign himself to that eternal task, evincing

obstinate, hopeless industry. However, his eyes retained their crazy

expression--one could see the death of light, as it were, in them, when

they gazed upon the failure of his existence.

About this period Sandoz also experienced great grief. His mother died,

his whole life was upset--that life of three together, so homely in

its character, and shared merely by a few friends. He began to hate the

pavilion of the Rue Nollet, and, moreover, success suddenly declared

itself with respect to his books, which hitherto had sold but moderately

well. So, prompted by the advent of comparative wealth, he rented in the

Rue de Londres a spacious flat, the arrangements of which occupied him

and his wife for several months. Sandoz’s grief had drawn him closer to

Claude again, both being disgusted with everything. After the terrible

blow of the Salon, the novelist had felt very anxious about his old

chum, divining that something had irreparably snapped within him, that

there was some wound by which life ebbed away unseen. Then, however,

finding Claude so cold and quiet, he ended by growing somewhat

reassured.

Sandoz often walked up to the Rue Tourlaque, and whenever he found only

Christine at home, he questioned her, realising that she also lived in

apprehension of a calamity of which she never spoke. Her face bore a

look of worry, and now and again she started nervously, like a mother

who watches over her child and trembles at the slightest sound, with the

fear that death may be entering the chamber.

One July morning Sandoz asked her: ‘Well, are you pleased? Claude’s

quiet, he works a deal.’

She gave the large picture her usual glance, a side glance full of

terror and hatred.

‘Yes, yes, he works,’ she said. ‘He wants to finish everything else

before taking up the woman again.’ And without confessing the fear that

harassed her, she added in a lower tone: ‘But his eyes--have you noticed

his eyes? They always have the same wild expression. I know very well

that he lies, despite his pretence of taking things so easily. Pray,

come and see him, and take him out with you, so as to change the current

of his thoughts. He only has you left; help me, do help me!’

After that Sandoz diligently devised motives for various walks, arriving

at Claude’s early in the morning, and carrying him away from his work

perforce. It was almost always necessary to drag him from his steps,

on which he habitually sat, even when he was not painting. A feeling of

weariness stopped him, a kind of torpor benumbed him for long minutes,

during which he did not give a single stroke with the brush. In those

moments of mute contemplation, his gaze reverted with pious fervour to

the woman’s figure which he no longer touched: it was like a hesitating

desire combined with sacred awe, a passion which he refused to satisfy,

as he felt certain that it would cost him his life. When he set to work

again at the other figures and the background of the picture, he well

knew that the woman’s figure was still there, and his glance wavered

whenever he espied it; he felt that he would only remain master of

himself as long as he did not touch it again.

One evening, Christine, who now visited at Sandoz’s and never missed a

single Thursday there, in the hope of seeing her big sick child of an

artist brighten up in the society of his friends, took the novelist

aside and begged him to drop in at their place on the morrow. And on the

next day Sandoz, who, as it happened, wanted to take some notes for

a novel, on the other side of Montmartre, went in search of Claude,

carried him off and kept him idling about until night-time.

On this occasion they went as far as the gate of Clignancourt, where a

perpetual fair was held, with merry-go-rounds, shooting-galleries, and

taverns, and on reaching the spot they were stupefied to find themselves

face to face with Chaîne, who was enthroned in a large and stylish

booth. It was a kind of chapel, highly ornamented. There were four

circular revolving stands set in a row and loaded with articles in china

and glass, all sorts of ornaments and nick-nacks, whose gilding and

polish shone amid an harmonica-like tinkling whenever the hand of a

gamester set the stand in motion. It then spun round, grating against

a feather, which, on the rotatory movement ceasing, indicated what

article, if any, had been won. The big prize was a live rabbit, adorned

with pink favours, which waltzed and revolved unceasingly, intoxicated

with fright. And all this display was set in red hangings, scalloped at

the top; and between the curtains one saw three pictures hanging at the

rear of the booth, as in the sanctuary of some tabernacle. They were

Chaîne’s three masterpieces, which now followed him from fair to fair,

from one end of Paris to the other. The ‘Woman taken in Adultery’ in the

centre, the copy of the Mantegna on the left, and Mahoudeau’s stove

on the right. Of an evening, when the petroleum lamps flamed and the

revolving stands glowed and radiated like planets, nothing seemed

finer than those pictures hanging amid the blood-tinged purple of the

hangings, and a gaping crowd often flocked to view them.

The sight was such that it wrung an exclamation from Claude: ‘Ah, good

heavens! But those paintings look very well--they were surely intended

for this.’

The Mantegna, so naively harsh in treatment, looked like some faded

coloured print nailed there for the delectation of simple-minded

folk; whilst the minutely painted stove, all awry, hanging beside

the gingerbread Christ absolving the adulterous woman, assumed an

unexpectedly gay aspect.

However, Chaîne, who had just perceived the two friends, held out his

hand to them, as if he had left them merely the day before. He was calm,

neither proud nor ashamed of his booth, and he had not aged, having

still a leathery aspect; though, on the other hand, his nose had

completely vanished between his cheeks, whilst his mouth, clammy with

prolonged silence, was buried in his moustache and beard.

‘Hallo! so we meet again!’ said Sandoz, gaily. ‘Do you know, your

paintings have a lot of effect?’

‘The old humbug!’ added Claude. ‘Why, he has his little Salon all to

himself. That’s very cute indeed.’

Chaîne’s face became radiant, and he dropped the remark: ‘Of course!’

Then, as his artistic pride was roused, he, from whom people barely

wrung anything but growls, gave utterance to a whole sentence:

‘Ah! it’s quite certain that if I had had any money, like you fellows, I

should have made my way, just as you have done, in spite of everything.’

That was his conviction. He had never doubted of his talent, he had

simply forsaken the profession because it did not feed him. When he

visited the Louvre, at sight of the masterpieces hanging there he felt

convinced that time alone was necessary to turn out similar work.

‘Ah, me!’ said Claude, who had become gloomy again. ‘Don’t regret what

you’ve done; you alone have succeeded. Business is brisk, eh?’

But Chaîne muttered bitter words. No, no, there was nothing doing, not

even in his line. People wouldn’t play for prizes; all the money found

its way to the wine-shops. In spite of buying paltry odds and ends,

and striking the table with the palm of one’s hand, so that the feather

might not indicate one of the big prizes, a fellow barely had water to

drink nowadays. Then, as some people had drawn near, he stopped short in

his explanation to call out: ‘Walk up, walk up, at every turn you win!’

in a gruff voice which the two others had never known him to possess,

and which fairly stupefied them.

A workman who was carrying a sickly little girl with large covetous

eyes, let her play two turns. The revolving stands grated and the

nick-nacks danced round in dazzling fashion, while the live rabbit, with

his ears lowered, revolved and revolved so rapidly that the outline of

his body vanished and he became nothing but a whitish circle. There

was a moment of great emotion, for the little girl had narrowly missed

winning him.

Then, after shaking hands with Chaîne, who was still trembling with the

fright this had given him, the two friends walked away.

‘He’s happy,’ said Claude, after they had gone some fifty paces in

silence.

‘He!’ cried Sandoz; ‘why, he believes he has missed becoming a member of

the Institute, and it’s killing him.’

Shortly after this meeting, and towards the middle of August, Sandoz

devised a real excursion which would take up a whole day. He had met

Dubuche--Dubuche, careworn and mournful, who had shown himself plaintive

and affectionate, raking up the past and inviting his two old chums to

lunch at La Richaudière, where he should be alone with his two children

for another fortnight. Why shouldn’t they go and surprise him there,

since he seemed so desirous of renewing the old intimacy? But in vain

did Sandoz repeat that he had promised Dubuche on oath to bring

Claude with him; the painter obstinately refused to go, as if he were

frightened at the idea of again beholding Bennecourt, the Seine, the

islands, all the stretch of country where his happy years lay dead and

buried. It was necessary for Christine to interfere, and he finished

by giving way, although full of repugnance to the trip. It precisely

happened that on the day prior to the appointment he had worked at his

painting until very late, being taken with the old fever again. And so

the next morning--it was Sunday--being devoured with a longing to paint,

he went off most reluctantly, tearing himself away from his picture with

a pang. What was the use of returning to Bennecourt? All that was dead,

it no longer existed. Paris alone remained, and even in Paris there

was but one view, the point of the Cité, that vision which haunted him

always and everywhere, that one corner where he ever left his heart.

Sandoz, finding him nervous in the railway carriage, and seeing that

his eyes remained fixed on the window as if he had been leaving the

city--which had gradually grown smaller and seemed shrouded in mist--for

years, did all he could to divert his mind, telling him, for instance,

what he knew about Dubuche’s real position. At the outset, old

Margaillan, glorifying in his bemedalled son-in-law, had trotted him

about and introduced him everywhere as his partner and successor. There

was a fellow who would conduct business briskly, who would build houses

more cheaply and in finer style than ever, for hadn’t he grown pale

over books? But Dubuche’s first idea proved disastrous; on some land

belonging to his father-in-law in Burgundy he established a brickyard

in so unfavourable a situation, and after so defective a plan, that the

venture resulted in the sheer loss of two hundred thousand francs. Then

he turned his attention to erecting houses, insisting upon bringing

personal ideas into execution, a certain general scheme of his which

would revolutionise the building art. These ideas were the old theories

he held from the revolutionary chums of his youth, everything that he

had promised he would realise when he was free; but he had not properly

reduced the theories to method, and he applied them unseasonably, with

the awkwardness of a pupil lacking the sacred fire; he experimented with

terra-cotta and pottery ornamentation, large bay windows, and especially

with the employment of iron--iron girders, iron staircases, and iron

roofings; and as the employment of these materials increased the outlay,

he again ended with a catastrophe, which was all the greater as he was

a pitiful manager, and had lost his head since he had become rich,

rendered the more obtuse, it seemed, by money, quite spoilt and at

sea, unable even to revert to his old habits of industry. This time

Margaillan grew angry; he for thirty years had been buying ground,

building and selling again, estimating at a glance the cost and return

of house property; so many yards of building at so much the foot having

to yield so many suites of rooms at so much rent. He wouldn’t have

anything more to do with a fellow who blundered about lime, bricks,

millstones, and in fact everything, who employed oak when deal would

have suited, and who could not bring himself to cut up a storey--like a

consecrated wafer--into as many little squares as was necessary. No, no,

none of that! He rebelled against art, after having been ambitious

to introduce a little of it into his routine, in order to satisfy a

long-standing worry about his own ignorance. And after that matters

had gone from bad to worse, terrible quarrels had arisen between the

son-in-law and the father-in-law, the former disdainful, intrenching

himself behind his science, and the latter shouting that the commonest

labourer knew more than an architect did. The millions were in

danger, and one fine day Margaillan turned Dubuche out of his offices,

forbidding him ever to set foot in them again, since he did not even

know how to direct a building-yard where only four men worked. It was a

disaster, a lamentable failure, the School of Arts collapsing, derided

by a mason!

At this point of Sandoz’s story, Claude, who had begun to listen to his

friend, inquired:

‘Then what is Dubuche doing now?’

‘I don’t know--nothing probably,’ answered Sandoz. ‘He told me that he

was anxious about his children’s health, and was taking care of them.’

That pale woman, Madame Margaillan, as slender as the blade of a knife,

had died of tubercular consumption, which was plainly the hereditary

disease, the source of the family’s degeneracy, for her daughter,

Régine, had been coughing ever since her marriage. She was now drinking

the waters at Mont-Dore, whither she had not dared to take her children,

as they had been very poorly the year before, after a season spent

in that part, where the air was too keen for them. This explained the

scattering of the family: the mother over yonder with her maid;

the grandfather in Paris, where he had resumed his great building

enterprises, battling amid his four hundred workmen, and crushing the

idle and the incapable beneath his contempt; and the father in exile at

La Richaudière, set to watch over his son and daughter, shut up there,

after the very first struggle, as if it had broken him down for life. In

a moment of effusion Dubuche had even let Sandoz understand that as his

wife was so extremely delicate he now lived with her merely on friendly

terms.

‘A nice marriage,’ said Sandoz, simply, by way of conclusion.

It was ten o’clock when the two friends rang at the iron gate of La

Richaudière. The estate, with which they were not acquainted, amazed

them. There was a superb park, a garden laid out in the French style,

with balustrades and steps spreading away in regal fashion; three huge

conservatories and a colossal cascade--quite a piece of folly, with its

rocks brought from afar, and the quantity of cement and the number of

conduits that had been employed in arranging it. Indeed, the owner had

sunk a fortune in it, out of sheer vanity. But what struck the friends

still more was the melancholy, deserted aspect of the domain; the gravel

of the avenues carefully raked, with never a trace of footsteps; the

distant expanses quite deserted, save that now and then a solitary

gardener passed by; and the house looking lifeless, with all its windows

closed, excepting two, which were barely set ajar.

However, a valet who had decided to show himself began to question

them, and when he learnt that they wished to see ‘monsieur,’ he became

insolent, and replied that ‘monsieur’ was behind the house in the

gymnasium, and then went indoors again.

Sandoz and Claude followed a path which led them towards a lawn, and

what they saw there made them pause. Dubuche, who stood in front of a

trapeze, was raising his arms to support his son, Gaston, a poor sickly

boy who, at ten years of age, still had the slight, soft limbs of early

childhood; while the girl, Alice, sat in a perambulator awaiting her

turn. She was so imperfectly developed that, although she was six years

old, she could not yet walk. The father, absorbed in his task, continued

exercising the slim limbs of his little boy, swinging him backwards and

forwards, and vainly trying to make him raise himself up by his wrists.

Then, as this slight effort sufficed to bring on perspiration, he

removed the little fellow from the trapeze and rolled him in a rug. And

all this was done amid complete silence, alone under the far expanse of

sky, his face wearing a look of distressful pity as he knelt there in

that splendid park. However, as he rose up he perceived the two friends.

‘What! it’s you? On a Sunday, and without warning me!’

He had made a gesture of annoyance, and at once explained that the maid,

the only woman to whom he could trust the children, went to Paris on

Sundays, and that it was consequently impossible for him to leave Gaston

and Alice for a minute.

‘I’ll wager that you came to lunch?’ he added.

As Claude gave Sandoz an imploring glance, the novelist made haste to

answer:

‘No, no. As it happens, we only have time enough to shake hands with

you. Claude had to come down here on a business matter. He lived at

Bennecourt, as you know. And as I accompanied him, we took it into our

heads to walk as far as here. But there are people waiting for us, so

don’t disturb yourself in the least.’

Thereupon, Dubuche, who felt relieved, made a show of detaining them.

They certainly had an hour to spare, dash it all! And they all three

began to talk. Claude looked at Dubuche, astonished to find him so aged;

his flabby face had become wrinkled--it was of a yellowish hue, and

streaked with red, as if bile had splashed his skin; whilst his hair

and his moustaches were already growing grey. In addition, his figure

appeared to have become more compact; a bitter weariness made each of

his gestures seem an effort. Were defeats in money matters as hard to

bear, then, as defeats in art? Everything about this vanquished man--his

voice, his glance--proclaimed the shameful dependency in which he had to

live: the bankruptcy of his future which was cast in his teeth, with the

accusation of having allowed a talent he did not possess to be set down

as an asset in the marriage contract. Then there was the family money

which he nowadays stole, the money spent on what he ate, the clothes he

wore, and the pocket-money he needed--in fact, the perpetual alms which

were bestowed upon him, just as they might have been bestowed upon some

vulgar swindler, whom one unluckily could not get rid of.

‘Wait a bit,’ resumed Dubuche; ‘I have to stop here five minutes longer

with one of my poor duckies, and afterwards we’ll go indoors.’

Gently, and with infinite motherly precautions, he removed little Alice

from the perambulator and lifted her to the trapeze. Then, stammering

coaxing words and smiling, he encouraged her, and left her hanging for

a couple of minutes, so as to develop her muscles; but he remained with

open arms, watching each movement with the fear of seeing her smashed to

pieces, should her weak little wax-like hands relax their hold. She

did not say anything, but obeyed him in spite of the terror that this

exercise caused her; and she was so pitifully light in weight that

she did not even fully stretch the ropes, being like one of those poor

scraggy little birds which fall from a young tree without as much as

bending it.

At this moment, Dubuche, having given Gaston a glance, became distracted

on remarking that the rug had slipped and that the child’s legs were

uncovered.

‘Good heavens! good heavens! Why, he’ll catch cold on this grass! And I,

who can’t move! Gaston, my little dear! It’s the same thing every day;

you wait till I’m occupied with your sister. Sandoz, pray cover him

over! Ah, thanks! Pull the rug up more; don’t be afraid!’

So this was the outcome of his splendid marriage--those two poor, weak

little beings, whom the least breath from the sky threatened to kill

like flies. Of the fortune he had married, all that remained to him was

the constant grief of beholding those woeful children stricken by

the final degeneracy of scrofula and phthisis. However, this big,

egotistical fellow showed himself an admirable father. The only energy

that remained to him consisted in a determination to make his children

live, and he struggled on hour after hour, saving them every morning,

and dreading to lose them every night. They alone existed now amid his

finished existence, amid the bitterness of his father-in-law’s insulting

reproaches, the coldness of his sorry, ailing wife. And he kept to his

task in desperation; he finished bringing those children into the world,

as it were, by dint of unremitting tenderness.

‘There, my darling, that’s enough, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You’ll soon see

how big and pretty you’ll become.’

He then placed Alice in the perambulator again, took Gaston, who was

still wrapped up, on one of his arms; and when his friends wished to

help him, he declined their offer, pushing the little girl’s vehicle

along with his right hand, which had remained free.

‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I’m accustomed to it. Ah! the poor darlings are not

heavy; and besides, with servants one can never be sure of anything.’

On entering the house, Sandoz and Claude again saw the valet who had

been so insolent; and they noticed that Dubuche trembled before him. The

kitchen and the hall shared the contempt of the father-in-law, who

paid for everything, and treated ‘madame’s’ husband like a beggar whose

presence was merely tolerated out of charity. Each time that a shirt

was got ready for him, each time that he asked for some more bread, the

servants’ impolite gestures made him feel that he was receiving alms.

‘Well, good-bye, we must leave you,’ said Sandoz, who suffered at the

sight of it all.

‘No, no, wait a bit. The children are going to breakfast, and afterwards

I’ll accompany you with them. They must go for their outing.’

Each day was regulated hour by hour. Of a morning came the baths and

the gymnastics; then the breakfast, which was quite an affair, as the

children needed special food, which was duly discussed and weighed. And

matters were carried to such a point that even their wine and water was

slightly warmed, for fear that too chilly a drop might give them a cold.

On this occasion they each partook of the yolk of an egg diluted in some

broth, and a mutton cutlet, which the father cut up into tiny morsels.

Then, prior to the siesta, came the promenade.

Sandoz and Claude found themselves once more out-of-doors, walking

down the broad avenues with Dubuche, who again propelled Alice’s

perambulator, whilst Gaston walked beside him. They talked about the

estate as they went towards the gate. The master glanced over the park

with timid, nervous eyes, as if he did not feel at home. Besides he did

not know anything; he did not occupy himself about anything. He appeared

even to have forgotten the profession which he was said to be ignorant

of, and seemed to have gone astray, to be bowed down by sheer inaction.

‘And your parents, how are they?’ asked Sandoz.

A spark was once more kindled in Dubuche’s dim eyes.

‘Oh! my parents are happy,’ he said; ‘I bought them a little house,

where they live on the annuity which I had specified in my marriage

contract. Well, you see, mamma had advanced enough money for my

education, and I had to return it to her, as I had promised, eh? Yes, I

can at least say that my parents have nothing to reproach me with.’

Having reached the gate, they tarried there for a few minutes. At last,

still looking crushed, Dubuche shook hands with his old comrades; and

retaining Claude’s hand in his, he concluded, as if making a simple

statement of fact quite devoid of anger:

‘Good-bye; try to get out of worry! As for me, I’ve spoilt my life.’

And they watched him walk back towards the house, pushing the

perambulator, and supporting Gaston, who was already stumbling with

fatigue--he, Dubuche, himself having his back bent and the heavy tread

of an old man.

One o’clock was striking, and they both hurried down towards Bennecourt,

saddened and ravenous. But mournfulness awaited them there as well; a

murderous blast had swept over the place, both Faucheurs, husband and

wife, and old Porrette, were all dead; and the inn, having fallen into

the hands of that goose Mélie, was becoming repugnant with its filth and

coarseness. An abominable repast was served them, an omelette with hairs

in it, and cutlets smelling of grease, in the centre of the common room,

to which an open window admitted the pestilential odour of a dung heap,

while the place was so full of flies that they positively blackened the

tables. The heat of the burning afternoon came in with the stench, and

Claude and Sandoz did not even feel the courage to order any coffee;

they fled.

‘And you who used to extol old Mother Faucheur’s omelettes!’ said

Sandoz. ‘The place is done for. We are going for a turn, eh?’

Claude was inclined to refuse. Ever since the morning he had had but

one idea--that of walking on as fast as possible, as if each step would

shorten the disagreeable task and bring him back to Paris. His heart,

his head, his whole being had remained there. He looked neither to right

nor to left, he glided along without distinguishing aught of the

fields or trees, having but one fixed idea in his brain, a prey to such

hallucinations that at certain moments he fancied the point of the

Cité rose up and called to him from amid the vast expanse of stubble.

However, Sandoz’s proposal aroused memories in his mind; and, softening

somewhat, he replied:

‘Yes, that’s it, we’ll have a look.’

But as they advanced along the river bank, he became indignant and

grieved. He could scarcely recognise the place. A bridge had been built

to connect Bennecourt with Bonnières: a bridge, good heavens! in the

place of the old ferry-boat, grating against its chain--the old black

boat which, cutting athwart the current, had been so full of interest to

the artistic eye. Moreover, a dam established down-stream at Port-Villez

had raised the level of the river, most of the islands of yore were

now submerged, and the little armlets of the stream had become broader.

There were no more pretty nooks, no more rippling alleys amid which one

could lose oneself; it was a disaster that inclined one to strangle all

the river engineers!

‘Why, that clump of pollards still emerging from the water on the left,’

cried Claude, ‘was the Barreux Island, where we used to chat together,

lying on the grass! You remember, don’t you? Ah! the scoundrels!’

Sandoz, who could never see a tree felled without shaking his fist at

the wood-cutter, turned pale with anger, and felt exasperated that the

authorities had thus dared to mutilate nature.

Then, as Claude approached his old home, he became silent, and his teeth

clenched. The house had been sold to some middle-class folk, and

now there was an iron gate, against which he pressed his face. The

rose-bushes were all dead, the apricot trees were dead also; the garden,

which looked very trim, with its little pathways and its square-cut beds

of flowers and vegetables, bordered with box, was reflected in a large

ball of plated glass set upon a stand in the very centre of it; and the

house, newly whitewashed and painted at the corners and round the doors

and windows, in a manner to imitate freestone, suggested some clownish

parvenu awkwardly arrayed in his Sunday toggery. The sight fairly

enraged the painter. No, no, nothing of himself, nothing of Christine,

nothing of the great love of their youth remained there! He wished to

look still further; he turned round behind the house, and sought for

the wood of oak trees where they had left the living quiver of their

embraces; but the wood was dead, dead like all the rest, felled, sold,

and burnt! Then he made a gesture of anathema, in which he cast all his

grief to that stretch of country which was now so changed that he could

not find in it one single token of his past life. And so a few years

sufficed to efface the spot where one had laboured, loved, and suffered!

What was the use of man’s vain agitation if the wind behind him swept

and carried away all the traces of his footsteps? He had rightly

realised that he ought not to return thither, for the past is simply

the cemetery of our illusions, where our feet for ever stumble against

tombstones!

‘Let us go!’ he cried; ‘let us go at once! It’s stupid to torture one’s

heart like this!’

When they were on the new bridge, Sandoz tried to calm him by showing

him the view which had not formerly existed, the widened bed of the

Seine, full to the brim, as it were, and the water flowing onward,

proudly and slowly. But this water failed to interest Claude, until he

reflected that it was the same water which, as it passed through Paris,

had bathed the old quay walls of the Cité; and then he felt touched, he

leant over the parapet of the bridge for a moment, and thought that he

could distinguish glorious reflections in it--the towers of Notre-Dame,

and the needle-like spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, carried along by the

current towards the sea.

The two friends missed the three o’clock train, and it was real torture

to have to spend two long hours more in that region, where everything

weighed so heavily on their shoulders. Fortunately, they had forewarned

Christine and Madame Sandoz that they might return by a night train

if they were detained. So they resolved upon a bachelor dinner at a

restaurant on the Place du Havre, hoping to set themselves all right

again by a good chat at dessert as in former times. Eight o’clock was

about to strike when they sat down to table.

Claude, on leaving the terminus, with his feet once more on the Paris

pavement, had lost his nervous agitation, like a man who at last finds

himself once more at home. And with the cold, absent-minded air which he

now usually displayed, he listened to Sandoz trying to enliven him.

The novelist treated his friend like a mistress whose head he wished to

turn; they partook of delicate, highly spiced dishes and heady wines.

But mirth was rebellious, and Sandoz himself ended by becoming gloomy.

All his hopes of immortality were shaken by his excursion to that

ungrateful country village, that Bennecourt, so loved and so forgetful,

where he and Claude had not found a single stone retaining any

recollection of them. If things which are eternal forget so soon, can

one place any reliance for one hour on the memory of man?

‘Do you know, old fellow,’ said the novelist, ‘it’s that which sometimes

sends me into a cold sweat. Have you ever reflected that posterity may

not be the faultless dispenser of justice that we dream of? One consoles

oneself for being insulted and denied, by relying on the equity of the

centuries to come; just as the faithful endure all the abominations of

this earth in the firm belief of another life, in which each will be

rewarded according to his deserts. But suppose Paradise exists no

more for the artist than it does for the Catholic, suppose that future

generations prolong the misunderstanding and prefer amiable little

trifles to vigorous works! Ah! what a sell it would be, eh? To have led

a convict’s life--to have screwed oneself down to one’s work--all for a

mere delusion! Please notice that it’s quite possible, after all.

There are some consecrated reputations which I wouldn’t give a rap for.

Classical education has deformed everything, and has imposed upon us as

geniuses men of correct, facile talent, who follow the beaten track.

To them one may prefer men of free tendencies, whose work is at times

unequal; but these are only known to a few people of real culture,

so that it looks as if immortality might really go merely to the

middle-class “average” talent, to the men whose names are forced into

our brains at school, when we are not strong enough to defend ourselves.

But no, no, one mustn’t say those things; they make me shudder! Should I

have the courage to go on with my task, should I be able to remain erect

amid all the jeering around me if I hadn’t the consoling illusion that I

shall some day be appreciated?’

Claude had listened with his dolorous expression, and he now made a

gesture of indifference tinged with bitterness.

‘Bah! what does it matter? Well, there’s nothing hereafter. We are even

madder than the fools who kill themselves for a woman. When the earth

splits to pieces in space like a dry walnut, our works won’t add one

atom to its dust.’

‘That’s quite true,’ summed up Sandoz, who was very pale. ‘What’s the

use of trying to fill up the void of space? And to think that we know

it, and that our pride still battles all the same!’

They left the restaurant, roamed about the streets, and foundered again

in the depths of a café, where they philosophised. They had come by

degrees to raking up the memories of their childhood, and this ended

by filling their hearts with sadness. One o’clock in the morning struck

when they decided to go home.

However, Sandoz talked of seeing Claude as far as the Rue Tourlaque.

That August night was a superb one, the air was warm, the sky studded

with stars. And as they went the round by way of the Quartier de

l’Europe, they passed before the old Café Baudequin on the Boulevard des

Batignolles. It had changed hands three times. It was no longer arranged

inside in the same manner as formerly; there were now a couple of

billiard tables on the right hand; and several strata of customers had

followed each other thither, one covering the other, so that the old

frequenters had disappeared like buried nations. However, curiosity, the

emotion they had derived from all the past things they had been raking

up together, induced them to cross the boulevard and to glance into the

café through the open doorway. They wanted to see their table of yore,

on the left hand, right at the back of the room.

‘Oh, look!’ said Sandoz, stupefied.

‘Gagnière!’ muttered Claude.

It was indeed Gagnière, seated all alone at that table at the end of the

empty café. He must have come from Melun for one of the Sunday concerts

to which he treated himself; and then, in the evening, while astray in

Paris, an old habit of his legs had led him to the Café Baudequin. Not

one of the comrades ever set foot there now, and he, who had beheld

another age, obstinately remained there alone. He had not yet touched

his glass of beer; he was looking at it, so absorbed in thought that

he did not even stir when the waiters began piling the chairs on

the tables, in order that everything might be ready for the morrow’s

sweeping.

The two friends hurried off, upset by the sight of that dim figure,

seized as it were with a childish fear of ghosts. They parted in the Rue

Tourlaque.

‘Ah! that poor devil Dubuche!’ said Sandoz as he pressed Claude’s hand,

‘he spoilt our day for us.’

As soon as November had come round, and when all the old friends were

back in Paris again, Sandoz thought of gathering them together at one

of those Thursday dinners which had remained a habit with him. They were

always his greatest delight. The sale of his books was increasing, and

he was growing rich; the flat in the Rue de Londres was becoming quite

luxurious compared with the little house at Batignolles; but he himself

remained immutable. On this occasion, he was anxious, in his good

nature, to procure real enjoyment for Claude by organising one of the

dear evenings of their youth. So he saw to the invitations; Claude and

Christine naturally must come; next Jory and his wife, the latter of

whom it had been necessary to receive since her marriage, then Dubuche,

who always came alone, with Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, and finally Gagnière.

There would be ten of them--all the men comrades of the old band,

without a single outsider, in order that the good understanding and

jollity might be complete.

Henriette, who was more mistrustful than her husband, hesitated when

this list of guests was decided upon.

‘Oh! Fagerolles? You believe in having Fagerolles with the others? They

hardly like him--nor Claude either; I fancied I noticed a coolness--’

But he interrupted her, bent on not admitting it.

‘What! a coolness? It’s really funny, but women can’t understand that

fellows chaff each other. All that doesn’t prevent them from having

their hearts in the right place.’

Henriette took especial care in preparing the menu for that Thursday

dinner. She now had quite a little staff to overlook, a cook, a

man-servant, and so on; and if she no longer prepared any of the dishes

herself, she still saw that very delicate fare was provided, out of

affection for her husband, whose sole vice was gluttony. She went to

market with the cook, and called in person on the tradespeople. She

and her husband had a taste for gastronomical curiosities from the four

corners of the world. On this occasion they decided to have some ox-tail

soup, grilled mullet, undercut of beef with mushrooms, _raviolis_ in

the Italian fashion, hazel-hens from Russia, and a salad of truffles,

without counting caviare and _kilkis_ as side-dishes, a _glace

pralinée_, and a little emerald-coloured Hungarian cheese, with fruit

and pastry. As wine, some old Bordeaux claret in decanters, chambertin

with the roast, and sparkling moselle at dessert, in lieu of champagne,

which was voted commonplace.

At seven o’clock Sandoz and Henriette were waiting for their guests, he

simply wearing a jacket, and she looking very elegant in a plain dress

of black satin. People dined at their house in frock-coats, without

any fuss. The drawing-room, the arrangements of which they were now

completing, was becoming crowded with old furniture, old tapestry,

nick-nacks of all countries and all times--a rising and now overflowing

stream of things which had taken source at Batignolles with an old pot

of Rouen ware, which Henriette had given her husband on one of his fête

days. They ran about to the curiosity shops together; a joyful passion

for buying possessed them. Sandoz satisfied the longings of his youth,

the romanticist ambitions which the first books he had read had

given birth to. Thus this writer, so fiercely modern, lived amid the

worm-eaten middle ages which he had dreamt of when he was a lad of

fifteen. As an excuse, he laughingly declared that handsome modern

furniture cost too much, whilst with old things, even common ones, you

immediately obtained something with effect and colour. There was nothing

of the collector about him, he was entirely concerned as to decoration

and broad effects; and to tell the truth, the drawing-room, lighted by

two lamps of old Delft ware, had quite a soft warm tint with the dull

gold of the dalmaticas used for upholstering the seats, the yellowish

incrustations of the Italian cabinets and Dutch show-cases, the faded

hues of the Oriental door-hangings, the hundred little notes of the

ivory, crockery and enamel work, pale with age, which showed against the

dull red hangings of the room.

Claude and Christine were the first to arrive. The latter had put on

her only silk dress--an old, worn-out garment which she preserved with

especial care for such occasions. Henriette at once took hold of

both her hands and drew her to a sofa. She was very fond of her, and

questioned her, seeing her so strange, touchingly pale, and with anxious

eyes. What was the matter? Did she feel poorly? No, no, she answered

that she was very gay and very pleased to come; but while she spoke, she

kept on glancing at Claude, as if to study him, and then looked away. He

seemed excited, evincing a feverishness in his words and gestures which

he had not shown for a month past. At intervals, however, his agitation

subsided, and he remained silent, with his eyes wide open, gazing

vacantly into space at something which he fancied was calling him.

‘Ah! old man,’ he said to Sandoz, ‘I finished reading your book last

night. It’s deucedly clever; you have shut up their mouths this time!’

They both talked standing in front of the chimney-piece, where some logs

were blazing. Sandoz had indeed just published a new novel, and although

his critics did not disarm, there was at last that stir of success which

establishes a man’s reputation despite the persistent attacks of his

adversaries. Besides, he had no illusions; he knew very well that the

battle, even if it were won, would begin again at each fresh book he

wrote. The great work of his life was advancing, that series of novels

which he launched forth in volumes one after another in stubborn,

regular fashion, marching towards the goal he had selected without

letting anything, obstacles, insults, or fatigue, conquer him.

‘It’s true,’ he gaily replied, ‘they are weakening this time. There’s

even one who has been foolish enough to admit that I’m an honest man!

See how everything degenerates! But they’ll make up for it, never fear!

I know some of them whose nuts are too much unlike my own to let

them accept my literary formula, my boldness of language, and my

physiological characters acting under the influence of circumstances;

and I refer to brother writers who possess self-respect; I leave the

fools and the scoundrels on one side. For a man to be able to work on

pluckily, it is best for him to expect neither good faith nor justice.

To be in the right he must begin by dying.’

At this Claude’s eyes abruptly turned towards a corner of the

drawing-room, as if to pierce the wall and go far away yonder, whither

something had summoned him. Then they became hazy and returned from

their journey, whilst he exclaimed:

‘Oh! you speak for yourself! I should do wrong to kick the bucket. No

matter, your book sent me into a deuced fever. I wanted to paint to-day,

but I couldn’t. Ah! it’s lucky that I can’t get jealous of you, else you

would make me too unhappy.’

However, the door had opened, and Mathilde came in, followed by Jory.

She was richly attired in a tunic of nasturtium-hued velvet and a skirt

of straw-coloured satin, with diamonds in her ears and a large bouquet

of roses on her bosom. What astonished Claude the most was that he did

not recognise her, for she had become plump, round, and fair skinned,

instead of thin and sunburnt as he had known her. Her disturbing

ugliness had departed in a swelling of the face; her mouth, once

noted for its black voids, now displayed teeth which looked over-white

whenever she condescended to smile, with a disdainful curling of the

upper lip. You could guess that she had become immoderately respectable;

her five and forty summers gave her weight beside her husband, who was

younger than herself and seemed to be her nephew. The only thing of yore

that clung to her was a violent perfume; she drenched herself with the

strongest essences, as if she had been anxious to wash from her skin the

smell of all the aromatic simples with which she had been impregnated

by her herbalist business; however, the sharpness of rhubarb, the

bitterness of elder-seed, and the warmth of peppermint clung to her;

and as soon as she crossed the drawing-room, it was filled with an

undefinable smell like that of a chemist’s shop, relieved by an acute

odour of musk.

Henriette, who had risen, made her sit down beside Christine, saying:

‘You know each other, don’t you? You have already met here.’

Mathilde gave but a cold glance at the modest attire of that woman

who had lived for a long time with a man, so it was said, before being

married to him. She herself was exceedingly rigid respecting such

matters since the tolerance prevailing in literary and artistic circles

had admitted her to a few drawing-rooms. Henriette hated her, however,

and after the customary exchange of courtesies, not to be dispensed

with, resumed her conversation with Christine.

Jory had shaken hands with Claude and Sandoz, and, standing near them,

in front of the fireplace, he apologised for an article slashing the

novelist’s new book which had appeared that very morning in his review.

‘As you know very well, my dear fellow, one is never the master in one’s

own house. I ought to see to everything, but I have so little time! I

hadn’t even read that article, I relied on what had been told me

about it. So you will understand how enraged I was when I read it this

afternoon. I am dreadfully grieved, dreadfully grieved--’

‘Oh, let it be! It’s the natural order of things,’ replied Sandoz,

quietly. ‘Now that my enemies are beginning to praise me, it’s only

proper that my friends should attack me.’

The door again opened, and Gagnière glided in softly, like a

will-o’-the-wisp. He had come straight from Melun, and was quite alone,

for he never showed his wife to anybody. When he thus came to dinner he

brought the country dust with him on his boots, and carried it back with

him the same night on taking the last train. On the other hand, he did

not alter; or, rather, age seemed to rejuvenate him; his complexion

became fairer as he grew old.

‘Hallo! Why, Gagnière’s here!’ exclaimed Sandoz.

Then, just as Gagnière was making up his mind to bow to the ladies,

Mahoudeau entered. He had already grown grey, with a sunken,

fierce-looking face and childish, blinking eyes. He still wore trousers

which were a good deal too short for him, and a frock-coat which creased

in the back, in spite of the money which he now earned; for the bronze

manufacturer for whom he worked had brought out some charming statuettes

of his, which one began to see on middle-class mantel-shelves and

consoles.

Sandoz and Claude had turned round, inquisitive to witness the meeting

between Mahoudeau and Mathilde. However, matters passed off very

quietly. The sculptor bowed to her respectfully, while Jory, the

husband, with his air of serene unconsciousness, thought fit to

introduce her to him, for the twentieth time, perhaps.

‘Eh! It’s my wife, old fellow. Shake hands together.’

Thereupon, both very grave, like people of society who are forced

somewhat over-promptly into familiarity, Mathilde and Mahoudeau shook

hands. Only, as soon as the latter had got rid of the job and had found

Gagnière in a corner of the drawing-room, they both began sneering and

recalling, in terrible language, all the abominations of yore.

Dubuche was expected that evening, for he had formally promised to come.

‘Yes,’ explained Henriette, ‘there will only be nine of us. Fagerolles

wrote this morning to apologise; he is forced to go to some official

dinner, but he hopes to escape, and will join us at about eleven

o’clock.’

At that moment, however, a servant came in with a telegram. It was from

Dubuche, who wired: ‘Impossible to stir. Alice has an alarming cough.’

‘Well, we shall only be eight, then,’ resumed Henriette, with the

somewhat peevish resignation of a hostess disappointed by her guests.

And the servant having opened the dining-room door and announced that

dinner was ready, she added:

‘We are all here. Claude, offer me your arm.’

Sandoz took Mathilde’s, Jory charged himself with Christine, while

Mahoudeau and Gagnière brought up the rear, still joking coarsely about

what they called the beautiful herbalist’s padding.

The dining-room which they now entered was very spacious, and the light

was gaily bright after the subdued illumination of the drawing-room. The

walls, covered with specimens of old earthenware, displayed a gay medley

of colours, reminding one of cheap coloured prints. Two sideboards,

one laden with glass and the other with silver plate, sparkled like

jewellers’ show-cases. And in the centre of the room, under the

big hanging lamp girt round with tapers, the table glistened like a

_catafalque_ with the whiteness of its cloth, laid in perfect style,

with decorated plates, cut-glass decanters white with water or

ruddy with wine, and symmetrical side-dishes, all set out around the

centre-piece, a silver basket full of purple roses.

They sat down, Henriette between Claude and Mahoudeau, Sandoz with

Mathilde and Christine beside him, Jory and Gagnière at either end; and

the servant had barely finished serving the soup, when Madame Jory made

a most unfortunate remark. Wishing to show herself amiable, and not

having heard her husband’s apologies, she said to the master of the

house:

‘Well, were you pleased with the article in this morning’s number?

Edouard personally revised the proofs with the greatest care!’

On hearing this, Jory became very much confused and stammered:

‘No, no! you are mistaken! It was a very bad article indeed, and you

know very well that it was “passed” the other evening while I was away.’

By the silent embarrassment which ensued she guessed her blunder. But

she made matters still worse, for, giving her husband a sharp glance,

she retorted in a very loud voice, so as to crush him, as it were, and

disengage her own responsibility:

‘Another of your lies! I repeat what you told me. I won’t allow you to

make me ridiculous, do you hear?’

This threw a chill over the beginning of the dinner. Henriette

recommended the _kilkis_, but Christine alone found them very nice.

When the grilled mullet appeared, Sandoz, who was amused by Jory’s

embarrassment, gaily reminded him of a lunch they had had together at

Marseilles in the old days. Ah! Marseilles, the only city where people

know how to eat!

Claude, who for a little while had been absorbed in thought, now seemed

to awaken from a dream, and without any transition he asked:

‘Is it decided? Have they selected the artists for the new decorations

of the Hôtel de Ville?’

‘No,’ said Mahoudeau, ‘they are going to do so. I sha’n’t get anything,

for I don’t know anybody. Fagerolles himself is very anxious. If he

isn’t here to-night, it’s because matters are not going smoothly. Ah!

he has had his bite at the cherry; all that painting for millions is

cracking to bits!’

There was a laugh, expressive of spite finally satisfied, and even

Gagnière at the other end of the table joined in the sneering. Then they

eased their feelings in malicious words, and rejoiced over the sudden

fall of prices which had thrown the world of ‘young masters’ into

consternation. It was inevitable, the predicted time was coming,

the exaggerated rise was about to finish in a catastrophe. Since the

amateurs had been panic-stricken, seized with consternation like that

of speculators when a ‘slump’ sweeps over a Stock Exchange, prices were

giving way day by day, and nothing more was sold. It was a sight to

see the famous Naudet amid the rout; he had held out at first, he had

invented ‘the dodge of the Yankee’--the unique picture hidden deep in

some gallery, in solitude like an idol--the picture of which he would

not name the price, being contemptuously certain that he could never

find a man rich enough to purchase it, but which he finally sold for two

or three hundred thousand francs to some pig-dealer of Chicago, who

felt glorious at carrying off the most expensive canvas of the year. But

those fine strokes of business were not to be renewed at present, and

Naudet, whose expenditure had increased with his gains, drawn on and

swallowed up in the mad craze which was his own work, could now hear

his regal mansion crumbling beneath him, and was reduced to defend it

against the assault of creditors.

‘Won’t you take some more mushrooms, Mahoudeau?’ obligingly interrupted

Henriette.

The servant was now handing round the undercut. They ate, and emptied

the decanters; but their bitterness was so great that the best things

were offered without being tasted, which distressed the master and

mistress of the house.

‘Mushrooms, eh?’ the sculptor ended by repeating. ‘No, thanks.’ And he

added: ‘The funny part of it all is, that Naudet is suing Fagerolles.

Oh, quite so! he’s going to distrain on him. Ah! it makes me laugh! We

shall see a pretty scouring in the Avenue de Villiers among all those

petty painters with mansions of their own. House property will go for

nothing next spring! Well, Naudet, who had compelled Fagerolles to build

a house, and who furnished it for him as he would have furnished a place

for a hussy, wanted to get hold of his nick-nacks and hangings again.

But Fagerolles had borrowed money on them, so it seems. You can imagine

the state of affairs; the dealer accuses the artist of having spoilt his

game by exhibiting with the vanity of a giddy fool; while the painter

replies that he doesn’t mean to be robbed any longer; and they’ll end by

devouring each other--at least, I hope so.’

Gagnière raised his voice, the gentle but inexorable voice of a dreamer

just awakened.

‘Fagerolles is done for. Besides, he never had any success.’

The others protested. Well, what about the hundred thousand francs’

worth of pictures he had sold a year, and his medals and his cross

of the Legion of Honour? But Gagnière, still obstinate, smiled with

a mysterious air, as if facts could not prevail against his inner

conviction. He wagged his head and, full of disdain, replied:

‘Let me be! He never knew anything about chiaroscuro.’

Jory was about to defend the talent of Fagerolles, whom he considered to

be his own creation, when Henriette solicited a little attention for

the _raviolis_. There was a short slackening of the quarrel amid the

crystalline clinking of the glasses and the light clatter of the forks.

The table, laid with such fine symmetry, was already in confusion, and

seemed to sparkle still more amid the ardent fire of the quarrel. And

Sandoz, growing anxious, felt astonished. What was the matter with them

all that they attacked Fagerolles so harshly? Hadn’t they all begun

together, and were they not all to reach the goal in the same victory?

For the first time, a feeling of uneasiness disturbed his dream of

eternity, that delight in his Thursdays, which he had pictured following

one upon another, all alike, all of them happy ones, into the far

distance of the future. But the feeling was as yet only skin deep, and

he laughingly exclaimed:

‘Husband your strength, Claude, here are the hazel-hens. Eh! Claude,

where are you?’

Since silence had prevailed, Claude had relapsed into his dream, gazing

about him vacantly, and taking a second help of _raviolis_ without

knowing what he was about; Christine, who said nothing, but sat there

looking sad and charming, did not take her eyes off him. He started when

Sandoz spoke, and chose a leg from amid the bits of hazel-hen now being

served, the strong fumes of which filled the room with a resinous smell.

‘Do you smell that?’ exclaimed Sandoz, amused; ‘one would think one were

swallowing all the forests of Russia.’

But Claude returned to the matter which worried him.

‘Then you say that Fagerolles will be entrusted with the paintings for

the Municipal Council’s assembly room?’

And this remark sufficed; Mahoudeau and Gagnière, set on the track, at

once started off again. Ah! a nice wishy-washy smearing it would be

if that assembly room were allotted to him; and he was doing plenty of

dirty things to get it. He, who had formerly pretended to spit on

orders for work, like a great artist surrounded by amateurs, was basely

cringing to the officials, now that his pictures no longer sold.

Could anything more despicable be imagined than a painter soliciting

a functionary, bowing and scraping, showing all kinds of cowardice and

making all kinds of concessions? It was shameful that art should be

dependent upon a Minister’s idiotic good pleasure! Fagerolles, at that

official dinner he had gone to, was no doubt conscientiously licking the

boots of some chief clerk, some idiot who was only fit to be made a guy

of.

‘Well,’ said Jory, ‘he effects his purpose, and he’s quite right. _You_

won’t pay his debts.’

‘Debts? Have I any debts, I who have always starved?’ answered Mahoudeau

in a roughly arrogant tone. ‘Ought a fellow to build himself a palace

and spend money on creatures like that Irma Bécot, who’s ruining

Fagerolles?’

At this Jory grew angry, while the others jested, and Irma’s name went

flying over the table. But Mathilde, who had so far remained reserved

and silent by way of making a show of good breeding, became intensely

indignant. ‘Oh! gentlemen, oh! gentlemen,’ she exclaimed, ‘to talk

before _us_ about that creature. No, not that creature, I implore you!

After that Henriette and Sandoz, who were in consternation, witnessed

the rout of their menu. The truffle salad, the ice, the dessert,

everything was swallowed without being at all appreciated amidst the

rising anger of the quarrel; and the chambertin and sparkling moselle

were imbibed as if they had merely been water. In vain did Henriette

smile, while Sandoz good-naturedly tried to calm them by making

allowances for human weakness. Not one of them retreated from his

position; a single word made them spring upon each other. There was

none of the vague boredom, the somniferous satiety which at times had

saddened their old gatherings; at present there was real ferocity in the

struggle, a longing to destroy one another. The tapers of the hanging

lamp flared up, the painted flowers of the earthenware on the walls

bloomed, the table seemed to have caught fire amid the upsetting of its

symmetrical arrangements and the violence of the talk, that demolishing

onslaught of chatter which had filled them with fever for a couple of

hours past.

And amid the racket, when Henriette made up her mind to rise so as to

silence them, Claude at length remarked:

‘Ah! if I only had the Hôtel de Ville work, and if I could! It used to

be my dream to cover all the walls of Paris!’

They returned to the drawing-room, where the little chandelier and the

bracket-candelabra had just been lighted. It seemed almost cold there in

comparison with the kind of hot-house which had just been left; and

for a moment the coffee calmed the guests. Nobody beyond Fagerolles was

expected. The house was not an open one by any means, the Sandozes

did not recruit literary dependents or muzzle the press by dint of

invitations. The wife detested society, and the husband said with a

laugh that he needed ten years to take a liking to anybody, and then he

must like him always. But was not that real happiness, seldom realised?

A few sound friendships and a nook full of family affection. No

music was ever played there, and nobody had ever read a page of his

composition aloud.

On that particular Thursday the evening seemed a long one, on account

of the persistent irritation of the men. The ladies had begun to chat

before the smouldering fire; and when the servant, after clearing the

table, reopened the door of the dining-room, they were left alone, the

men repairing to the adjoining apartment to smoke and sip some beer.

Sandoz and Claude, who were not smokers, soon returned, however, and sat

down, side by side, on a sofa near the doorway. The former, who was glad

to see his old friend excited and talkative, recalled the memories

of Plassans apropos of a bit of news he had learnt the previous day.

Pouillaud, the old jester of their dormitory, who had become so grave

a lawyer, was now in trouble over some adventure with a woman. Ah! that

brute of a Pouillaud! But Claude did not answer, for, having heard his

name mentioned in the dining-room, he listened attentively, trying to

understand.

Jory, Mahoudeau, and Gagnière, unsatiated and eager for another bite,

had started on the massacre again. Their voices, at first mere whispers,

gradually grew louder, till at last they began to shout.

‘Oh! the man, I abandon the man to you,’ said Jory, who was speaking of

Fagerolles. ‘He isn’t worth much. And he out-generalled you, it’s true.

Ah! how he did get the better of you fellows, by breaking off from you

and carving success for himself on your backs! You were certainly not at

all cute.’

Mahoudeau, waxing furious, replied:

‘Of course! It sufficed for us to be with Claude, to be turned away

everywhere.’

‘It was Claude who did for us!’ so Gagnière squarely asserted.

And thus they went on, relinquishing Fagerolles, whom they reproached

for toadying the newspapers, for allying himself with their enemies and

wheedling sexagenarian baronesses, to fall upon Claude, who now became

the great culprit. Well, after all, the other was only a hussy, one of

the many found in the artistic fraternity, fellows who accost the public

at street corners, leave their comrades in the lurch, and victimise them

so as to get the bourgeois into their studios. But Claude, that abortive

great artist, that impotent fellow who couldn’t set a figure on its legs

in spite of all his pride, hadn’t he utterly compromised them, hadn’t he

let them in altogether? Ah! yes, success might have been won by breaking

off. If they had been able to begin over again, they wouldn’t have been

idiots enough to cling obstinately to impossible principles! And they

accused Claude of having paralysed them, of having traded on them--yes,

traded on them, but in so clumsy and dull-witted a manner that he

himself had not derived any benefit by it.

‘Why, as for me,’ resumed Mahoudeau, ‘didn’t he make me quite idiotic at

one moment? When I think of it, I sound myself, and remain wondering

why I ever joined his band. Am I at all like him? Was there ever any one

thing in common between us, eh? Ah! it’s exasperating to find the truth

out so late in the day!’

‘And as for myself,’ said Gagnière, ‘he robbed me of my originality. Do

you think it has amused me, each time I have exhibited a painting during

the last fifteen years, to hear people saying behind me, “That’s a

Claude!” Oh! I’ve had enough of it, I prefer not to paint any more.

All the same, if I had seen clearly in former times, I shouldn’t have

associated with him.’

It was a stampede, the snapping of the last ties, in their stupefaction

at suddenly finding that they were strangers and enemies, after a long

youth of fraternity together. Life had disbanded them on the road, and

the great dissimilarity of their characters stood revealed; all that

remained in them was the bitterness left by the old enthusiastic dream,

that erstwhile hope of battle and victory to be won side by side, which

now increased their spite.

‘The fact is,’ sneered Jory, ‘that Fagerolles did not let himself be

pillaged like a simpleton.’

But Mahoudeau, feeling vexed, became angry. ‘You do wrong to laugh,’ he

said, ‘for you are a nice backslider yourself. Yes, you always told us

that you would give us a lift up when you had a paper of your own.’

‘Ah! allow me, allow me--’

Gagnière, however, united with Mahoudeau: ‘That’s quite true!’ he said.

‘You can’t say any more that what you write about us is cut out, for you

are the master now. And yet, never a word! You didn’t even name us in

your articles on the last Salon.’

Then Jory, embarrassed and stammering, in his turn flew into a rage.

‘Ah! well, it’s the fault of that cursed Claude! I don’t care to lose my

subscribers simply to please you fellows. It’s impossible to do anything

for you! There! do you understand? You, Mahoudeau, may wear yourself

out in producing pretty little things; you, Gagnière, may even never do

anything more; but you each have a label on the back, and you’ll need

ten years’ efforts before you’ll be able to get it off. In fact, there

have been some labels that would never come off! The public is amused

by it, you know; there were only you fellows to believe in the genius of

that big ridiculous lunatic, who will be locked up in a madhouse one of

these fine mornings!’

Then the dispute became terrible, they all three spoke at once, coming

at last to abominable reproaches, with such outbursts, and such furious

motion of the jaw, that they seemed to be biting one another.

Sandoz, seated on the sofa, and disturbed in the gay memories he was

recalling, was at last obliged to lend ear to the tumult which reached

him through the open doorway.

‘You hear them?’ whispered Claude, with a dolorous smile; ‘they are

giving it me nicely! No, no, stay here, I won’t let you stop them; I

deserve it, since I have failed to succeed.’

And Sandoz, turning pale, remained there, listening to that bitter

quarrelling, the outcome of the struggle for life, that grappling of

conflicting personalities, which bore all his chimera of everlasting

friendship away.

Henriette, fortunately, became anxious on hearing the violent shouting.

She rose and went to shame the smokers for thus forsaking the ladies

to go and quarrel together. They then returned to the drawing-room,

perspiring, breathing hard, and still shaken by their anger. And as

Henriette, with her eyes on the clock, remarked that they certainly

would not see Fagerolles that evening, they, began to sneer again,

exchanging glances. Ah! he had a fine scent, and no mistake; he wouldn’t

be caught associating with old friends, who had become troublesome, and

whom he hated.

In fact, Fagerolles did not come. The evening finished laboriously. They

once more went back to the dining-room, where the tea was served on a

Russian tablecloth embroidered with a stag-hunt in red thread; and under

the tapers a plain cake was displayed, with plates full of sweetstuff

and pastry, and a barbarous collection of liqueurs and spirits, whisky,

hollands, Chio raki, and kummel. The servant also brought some punch,

and bestirred himself round the table, while the mistress of the house

filled the teapot from the samovar boiling in front of her. But all the

comfort, all the feast for the eyes and the fine perfume of the tea did

not move their hearts. The conversation again turned on the success that

some men achieved and the ill-luck that befell others. For instance, was

it not shameful that art should be dishonoured by all those medals, all

those crosses, all those rewards, which were so badly distributed to

boot? Were artists always to remain like little boys at school? All

the universal platitude came from the docility and cowardice which were

shown, as in the presence of ushers, so as to obtain good marks.

They had repaired to the drawing-room once more, and Sandoz, who was

greatly distressed, had begun to wish that they would take themselves

off, when he noticed Mathilde and Gagnière seated side by side on a sofa

and talking languishingly of music, while the others remained exhausted,

lacking saliva and power of speech. Gagnière philosophised and poetised

in a state of ecstasy, while Mathilde rolled up her eyes and went into

raptures as if titillated by some invisible wing. They had caught sight

of each other on the previous Sunday at the concert at the Cirque, and

they apprised each other of their enjoyment in alternate, far-soaring

sentences.

‘Ah! that Meyerbeer, monsieur, the overture of “Struensee,” that

funereal strain, and then that peasant dance, so full of dash and

colour; and then the mournful burden which returns, the duo of the

violoncellos. Ah! monsieur, the violoncellos, the violoncellos!’

‘And Berlioz, madame, the festival air in “Romeo.” Oh! the solo of the

clarionets, the beloved women, with the harp accompaniment! Something

enrapturing, something white as snow which ascends! The festival

bursts upon you, like a picture by Paul Veronese, with the tumultuous

magnificence of the “Marriage of Cana”; and then the love-song begins

again, oh, how softly! Oh! always higher! higher still--’

‘Did you notice, monsieur, in Beethoven’s Symphony in A, that knell

which ever and ever comes back and beats upon your heart? Yes, I see

very well, you feel as I do, music is a communion--Beethoven, ah, me!

how sad and sweet it is to be two to understand him and give way--’

‘And Schumann, madame, and Wagner, madame--Schumann’s “Reverie,” nothing

but the stringed instruments, a warm shower falling on acacia leaves, a

sunray which dries them, barely a tear in space. Wagner! ah, Wagner! the

overture of the “Flying Dutchman,” are you not fond of it?--tell me you

are fond of it! As for myself, it overcomes me. There is nothing left,

nothing left, one expires--’

Their voices died away; they did not even look at each other, but sat

there elbow to elbow, with their faces turned upward, quite overcome.

Sandoz, who was surprised, asked himself where Mathilde could have

picked up that jargon. In some article of Jory’s, perhaps. Besides, he

had remarked that women talk music very well, even without knowing a

note of it. And he, whom the bitterness of the others had only grieved,

became exasperated at sight of Mathilde’s languishing attitude. No, no,

that was quite enough; the men tore each other to bits; still that might

pass, after all; but what an end to the evening it was, that feminine

fraud, cooing and titillating herself with thoughts of Beethoven’s and

Schumann’s music! Fortunately, Gagnière suddenly rose. He knew what

o’clock it was even in the depths of his ecstasy, and he had only just

time left him to catch his last train. So, after exchanging nerveless

and silent handshakes with the others, he went off to sleep at Melun.

‘What a failure he is!’ muttered Mahoudeau. ‘Music has killed painting;

he’ll never do anything!’

He himself had to leave, and the door had scarcely closed behind his

back when Jory declared:

‘Have you seen his last paperweight? He’ll end by sculpturing

sleeve-links. There’s a fellow who has missed his mark! To think that he

prided himself on being vigorous!’

But Mathilde was already afoot, taking leave of Christine with a curt

little inclination of the head, affecting social familiarity with

Henriette, and carrying off her husband, who helped her on with her

cloak in the ante-room, humble and terrified at the severe glance she

gave him, for she had an account to settle.

Then, the door having closed behind them, Sandoz, beside himself,

cried out: ‘That’s the end! The journalist was bound to call the others

abortions--yes, the journalist who, after patching up articles, has

fallen to trading upon public credulity! Ah! luckily there’s Mathilde

the Avengeress!’

Of the guests Christine and Claude alone were left. The latter, since

the drawing-room had been growing empty, had remained ensconced in the

depths of an arm-chair, no longer speaking, but overcome by that species

of magnetic slumber which stiffened him, and fixed his eyes on something

far away beyond the walls. He protruded his face, a convulsive kind

of attention seemed to carry it forward; he certainly beheld something

invisible, and heard a summons in the silence.

Christine having risen in her turn, and apologised for being the last

to leave, Henriette took hold of her hands, repeated how fond she was of

her, begged her to come and see her frequently, and to dispose of her

in all things as she would with a sister. But Claude’s sorrowful wife,

looking so sadly charming in her black dress, shook her head with a pale

smile.

‘Come,’ said Sandoz in her ear, after giving a glance at Claude, ‘you

mustn’t distress yourself like that. He has talked a great deal, he has

been gayer this evening. He’s all right.’

But in a terrified voice she answered:

‘No, no; look at his eyes--I shall tremble as long as he has his eyes

like that. You have done all you could, thanks. What you haven’t done no

one will do. Ah! how I suffer at being unable to hope, at being unable

to do anything!’

Then in a loud tone she asked:

‘Are you coming, Claude?’

She had to repeat her question twice, for at first he did not hear her;

he ended by starting, however, and rose to his feet, saying, as if he

had answered the summons from the horizon afar off:

‘Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming.’

When Sandoz and his wife at last found themselves alone in the

drawing-room, where the atmosphere now was stifling--heated by the

lights and heavy, as it were, with melancholy silence after all the

outbursts of the quarrelling--they looked at one another and let their

arms fall, quite heart-rent by the unfortunate issue of their dinner

party. Henrietta tried to laugh it off, however, murmuring:

‘I warned you, I quite understood--’

But he interrupted her with a despairing gesture. What! was that, then,

the end of his long illusion, that dream of eternity which had made

him set happiness in a few friendships, formed in childhood, and shared

until extreme old age? Ah! what a wretched band, what a final rending,

what a terrible balance-sheet to weep over after that bankruptcy of the

human heart! And he grew astonished on thinking of the friends who had

fallen off by the roadside, of the great affections lost on the way,

of the others unceasingly changing around himself, in whom he found no

change. His poor Thursdays filled him with pity, so many memories were

in mourning, it was the slow death of all that one loves! Would his

wife and himself have to resign themselves to live as in a desert, to

cloister themselves in utter hatred of the world? Ought they rather to

throw their doors wide open to a throng of strangers and indifferent

folk? By degrees a certainty dawned in the depths of his grief:

everything ended and nothing began again in life. He seemed to yield to

evidence, and, heaving a big sigh, exclaimed:

‘You were right. We won’t invite them to dinner again--they would devour

one another.’

As soon as Claude and Christine reached the Place de la Trinite on their

way home, the painter let go of his wife’s arm; and, stammering that

he had to go somewhere, he begged her to return to the Rue Tourlaque

without him. She had felt him shuddering, and she remained quite scared

with surprise and fear. Somewhere to go at that hour--past midnight!

Where had he to go, and what for? He had turned round and was making

off, when she overtook him, and, pretending that she was frightened,

begged that he would not leave her to climb up to Montmartre alone at

that time of night. This consideration alone brought him back. He took

her arm again; they ascended the Rue Blanche and the Rue Lepic, and at

last found themselves in the Rue Tourlaque. And on reaching their door,

he rang the bell, and then again left her.

‘Here you are,’ he said; ‘I’m going.’

He was already hastening away, taking long strides, and gesticulating

like a madman. Without even closing the door which had been opened, she

darted off, bent on following him. In the Rue Lepic she drew near; but

for fear of exciting him still more she contented herself with keeping

him in sight, walking some thirty yards in the rear, without his knowing

that she was behind him. On reaching the end of the Rue Lepic he went

down the Rue Blanche again, and then proceeded by way of the Rue de

la Chaussée-d’Antin and the Rue du Dix Decembre as far as the Rue de

Richelieu. When she saw him turn into the last-named thoroughfare, a

mortal chill came over her: he was going towards the Seine; it was the

realisation of the frightful fear which kept her of a night awake, full

of anguish! And what could she do, good Lord? Go with him, hang upon his

neck over yonder? She was now only able to stagger along, and as each

step brought them nearer to the river, she felt life ebbing from her

limbs. Yes, he was going straight there; he crossed the Place du

Théâtre Français, then the Carrousel, and finally reached the Pont des

Saints-Pères. After taking a few steps along the bridge, he approached

the railing overlooking the water; and at the thought that he was about

to jump over, a loud cry was stifled in her contracted throat.

But no; he remained motionless. Was it then only the Cité over yonder

that haunted him, that heart of Paris which pursued him everywhere,

which he conjured up with his fixed eyes, even through walls, and which,

when he was leagues away, cried out the constant summons heard by him

alone? She did not yet dare to hope it; she had stopped short, in the

rear, watching him with giddy anxiety, ever fancying that she saw him

take the terrible leap, but resisting her longing to draw nearer, for

fear lest she might precipitate the catastrophe by showing herself.

Oh, God! to think that she was there with her devouring passion, her

bleeding motherly heart--that she was there beholding everything,

without daring to risk one movement to hold him back!

He stood erect, looking very tall, quite motionless, and gazing into the

night.

It was a winter’s night, with a misty sky of sooty blackness, and was

rendered extremely cold by a sharp wind blowing from the west. Paris,

lighted up, had gone to sleep, showing no signs of life save such as

attached to the gas-jets, those specks which scintillated and grew

smaller and smaller in the distance till they seemed but so much starry

dust. The quays stretched away showing double rows of those luminous

beads whose reverberation glimmered on the nearer frontages. On the left

were the houses of the Quai du Louvre, on the right the two wings of the

Institute, confused masses of monuments and buildings, which became lost

to view in the darkening gloom, studded with sparks. Then between those

cordons of burners, extending as far as the eye could reach, the bridges

stretched bars of lights, ever slighter and slighter, each formed of a

train of spangles, grouped together and seemingly hanging in mid-air.

And in the Seine there shone the nocturnal splendour of the animated

water of cities; each gas-jet there cast a reflection of its flame, like

the nucleus of a comet, extending into a tail. The nearer ones, mingling

together, set the current on fire with broad, regular, symmetrical fans

of light, glowing like live embers, while the more distant ones, seen

under the bridges, were but little motionless sparks of fire. But the

large burning tails appeared to be animated, they waggled as they spread

out, all black and gold, with a constant twirling of scales, in which

one divined the flow of the water. The whole Seine was lighted up by

them, as if some fête were being given in its depths--some mysterious,

fairy-like entertainment, at which couples were waltzing beneath the

river’s red-flashing window-panes. High above those fires, above the

starry quays, the sky, in which not a planet was visible, showed a ruddy

mass of vapour, that warm, phosphorescent exhalation which every night,

above the sleep of the city, seems to set the crater of a volcano.

The wind blew hard, and Christine, shivering, her eyes full of tears,

felt the bridge move under her, as if it were bearing her away amid a

smash up of the whole scene. Had not Claude moved? Was he not climbing

over the rail? No; everything became motionless again, and she saw him

still on the same spot, obstinately stiff, with his eyes turned towards

the point of the Cité, which he could not see.

It had summoned him, and he had come, and yet he could not see it in

the depths of the darkness. He could only distinguish the bridges, with

their light framework standing out blackly against the sparkling water.

But farther off everything became confused, the island had disappeared,

he could not even have told its exact situation if some belated cabs

had not passed from time to time over the Pont-Neuf, with their lamps

showing like those shooting sparks which dart at times through embers.

A red lantern, on a level with the dam of the Mint, cast a streamlet of

blood, as it were, into the water. Something huge and lugubrious, some

drifting form, no doubt a lighter which had become unmoored, slowly

descended the stream amid the reflections. Espied for a moment, it was

immediately afterwards lost in the darkness. Where had the triumphal

island sunk? In the depths of that flow of water? Claude still gazed,

gradually fascinated by the great rushing of the river in the night. He

leant over its broad bed, chilly like an abyss, in which the mysterious

flames were dancing. And the loud, sad wail of the current attracted

him, and he listened to its call, despairing, unto death.

By a shooting pain at her heart, Christine this time realised that the

terrible thought had just occurred to him. She held out her quivering

hands which the wind was lashing. But Claude remained there, struggling

against the sweetness of death; indeed he did not move for another hour,

he lingered there unconscious of the lapse of time, with his eyes still

turned in the direction of the Cité, as if by a miracle of power they

were about to create light, and conjure up the island so that he might

behold it.

When Claude at last left the bridge, with stumbling steps, Christine had

to pass in front and run in order to be home in the Rue Tourlaque before

him.