A SWEET CONSOLER
She passed her arm about him and pressed him to her, and with arms
entwined they entered the study.
"How glad I am!" she said. "What a good idea I had!"
With a quick movement she took off her long gray cloak that enveloped her
from head to foot.
"And are you glad?" she asked, as she stood looking at him.
"Can you ask that?"
"Only to hear you say that you are."
"Are you not my only joy, the sweet lamp that gives me light in the
cavern where I work day and night?"
"Dear Victor!"
She was a tall, slender young woman with chestnut hair, whose thick curls
clustering about her forehead almost touched her eyebrows. Her beautiful
eyes were dark, her nose short, while her superb teeth and rich, ruby-
colored lips gave her the effect of a pretty doll; and she had gayety,
playful vivacity, gracious effrontery, and a passionate caressing glance.
Dressed extravagantly, like the Parisian woman who has not a sou, but who
adorns everything she wears, she had an ease, a freedom, a natural
elegance that was charming. With this she had the voice of a child, a
joyous laugh, and an expression of sensibility on her fresh face.
"I have come to dine with you," she said, gayly, "and I am so hungry."
He made a gesture that was not lost upon her.
"Do I disturb you?" she asked, uneasily.
"Not at all."
"Must you go out?"
"No."
"Then why did you make a gesture that showed indifference, or, at least,
embarrassment?"
"You are mistaken, my little Phillis."
"With any one else I might be mistaken, but with you it is impossible.
You know that between us words are not necessary; that I read in your
eyes what you would say, in your face what you think and feel. Is it not
always so when one loves--as I love you?"
He took her in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. Then going to
a chair on which he had thrown his coat, he drew from the pocket the
bread that he had bought.
"This is my dinner," he said, showing the bread.
"Oh! I must scold you. Work is making you lose your head. Can you not
take time to eat?"
He smiled sadly.
"It is not time that I want."
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out three big sous.
"I cannot dine at a restaurant with six sous."
She threw herself in his arms.
"O dearest, forgive me!" she cried. "Poor, dear martyr! Dear, great
man! It is I who accuse you, when I ought to embrace your knees. And
you do not scold me; a sad smile is your only reply. And it is really so
bad as that! Nothing to eat!"
"Bread is very good eating. If I might be assured that I shall always
have some!"
"Well, to-day you shall have something more and better. This morning,
seeing the storm, an idea came to me associated with you. It is quite
natural, since you are always in my heart and in my thoughts. I told
mamma that if the storm continued I would dine at the pension. You can
imagine with what joy I listened to the wind all day, and watched the
rain and leaves falling, arid the dead branches waving in the whirlwind.
Thank God, the weather was bad enough for mamma to believe me safe at the
pension; and here I am. But we must not fast. I shall go and buy
something to eat, and we will play at making dinner by the fire, which
will be far more amusing than going to a restaurant."
She put on her cloak quickly.
"Set the table while I make my purchases."
"I have my article to finish that will be sent for at eight o'clock.
Just think, I have three tonics to recommend, four preparations of iron,
a dye, two capillary lotions, an opiate, and I don't know how many soaps
and powders. What a business!"
"Very well, then, do not trouble yourself about the table; we will set it
together when you have finished, and that will be much more amusing."
"You take everything in good part."
"Is it better to look on the dark side? I shall soon return."
She went to the door.
"Do not be extravagant," he said.
"There is no danger," she replied, striking her pocket.
Then, returning to him, she embraced him passionately.
"Work!"
And she ran out.
They had loved each other for two years. At the time they met, Saniel
was giving a course of lectures on anatomy at a young ladies' school just
outside of Paris, and every time he went out there he saw a young woman
whom he could not help noticing. She came and went on the same trains
that he did, and gave lessons in a rival school. As she frequently
carried under her arm a large cartoon, and sometimes a plaster cast, he
concluded that she gave lessons in drawing. At first he paid no
attention to her. What was she to him? He had more important things in
his head than women. But little by little, and because she was reserved
and discreet, he was struck by the vivacity and gayety of her expression.
He really enjoyed looking at this pretty and pleasing young woman.
However, his looks said nothing; if their eyes smiled when they met, that
was all; they did not make each other's acquaintance. When they left the
train they did not notice each other; if he took the left side of the
street, she took the other, and vice versa. This state of things lasted
several months without a word having been exchanged between them; in due
time they learned each other's names and professions. She was a
professor of drawing, as he supposed, the daughter of an artist who had
been dead several years, and was called Mademoiselle Phillis Cormier.
He was a physician for whom a brilliant future was prophesied, a man of
power, who would some day be famous; and, very naturally, their attitude
remained the same. There was no particular reason why it should change.
But accident made a reason. One summer day, at the hour when they
ordinarily took the train back to Paris, the sky suddenly became
overcast, and it was evident that a violent storm was approaching.
Saniel saw Phillis hurrying to the station without an umbrella, and, as
some friend had lent him one, he decided to speak to her for the first
time.
"It seems as if the storm would overtake us before we reach the station.
As you have no umbrella, will you permit me to walk beside you, and to
shelter you with mine?"
She replied with a smile, and they walked side by side until the rain
began to fall, when she drew nearer to him, and they entered the station
talking gayly.
"Your umbrella is better than Virginia's skirt," she said.
"And what is Virginia's skirt?"
"Have you not read Paul and Virginia?"
"No."
She looked at him with a mocking smile, wondering what superior men read.
Not only had he not read Bernardin de Saint-Pierre's romance, nor any
others, but he had never been in love. He knew nothing of the affairs of
the heart nor of the imagination. Leisure must be had for light reading,
and even more for love, for they require a liberty of mind and an
independence of life that he had not. Where could he find time to read
novels? When and how could he pay attention to a woman? Those that he
had known since his arrival in Paris had not had the slightest influence
over him, and he retained only faint memories of them. On the contrary,
thinking of this walk in the rain, he remembered this young girl with a
vividness entirely new to him. She made a strong impression on him, and
it remained. He saw her again, with her smile that showed her brilliant
teeth, he heard the music of her voice, and the bare plain that he had
walked so many times now seemed the most beautiful country in the world
to him. Evidently there was a change in him; something was awakened in
his soul; for the first time he discovered that the hollow and muscular
conoid organ called the heart had a use besides for the circulation of
blood.
What a surprise and what a disappointment! Was he going to be simpleton
enough to love this young girl and entangle his life, already so hard and
heavily weighted, with a woman? A fine thing, truly, and nature had
built him to play the lover! It is true that only those who wish it fall
in love, and he knew the power of will by experience.
But he soon lost confidence in himself. Away from Phillis he could do as
he wished, but with her it was as she wished. With one look she mastered
him. He met her, furious at the influence she exercised over him, and
against which he had struggled since their last meeting; he left her,
ravished at feeling how profoundly he loved her.
To a man whose life had been ruled by reason and logic until this moment,
these contradictions were exasperating; and he only excused himself for
submitting to them by saying that they could in no way modify the line of
conduct that he had traced out for himself, nor make him deviate from the
road that he followed.
Rich, or even with a small fortune, he might--when he was with her and in
her power--let himself be carried away; but when he was dying of hunger
he was not going to commit the folly of taking a wife. What would he
have to give her? Misery, nothing but misery; and shame, in default of
any other reason, would forever prevent him from offering himself to her.
She was the daughter of an artist who, after years of struggle, died at
the moment when fortune was beginning to smile upon him. Ten years more
of work, and he would have left his family, if not rich, at least in
comfortable circumstances. In reality, he left nothing but ruin. The
hotel he built was sold, and, after the debts were paid, nothing remained
but some furniture. His widow, son, and daughter must work. The widow,
having no trade, took in sewing; the son left college to become the clerk
of a money-lender named Caffie; the daughter, who, happily for her, had
learned to draw and paint under her father's direction, obtained pupils,
and designed menacs for the stationers, and painted silk fans and boxes.
They lived with great economy, submitting to many privations. The
brother, weary of his monotonous existence and of the exactions of his
master, left them to try his fortunes in America.
If Saniel ever married, which he doubted, certainly he would not marry a
woman situated as Phillis was.
This reflection was reassuring, and he was more devoted to her. Why
should he not enjoy the delicious pleasure of seeing her and listening to
her? His life was neither gay nor happy; he felt perfectly sure of
himself, and, as he knew her now, he was also sure of her--a brave and
honest girl. Otherwise, how had she divined that he loved her?
They continued to see each other with a pleasure that seemed equal on
both sides, meeting in the station, arranging to take the same trains,
and talking freely and gayly.
Things went on this way until the approach of vacation, when they decided
to take a walk after their last lesson, instead of returning immediately
to Paris.
When the day came the sun was very hot; they had walked some distance,
when Phillis expressed a wish to rest for a few minutes. They seated
themselves in a shady copse, and soon found themselves in each other's
arms.
Since then Saniel had never spoken of marriage, and neither had Phillis.
They loved each other.