SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN
The Countess and her daughter, dressed in black crape, had just seated
themselves opposite each other, for breakfast, in the large dining-room
at Roncieres. The portraits of many ancestors, crudely painted, one in a
cuirass, another in a tight-fitting coat, this a powdered officer of the
French Guards, that a colonel of the Restoration, hung in line on the
walls, a collection of deceased Guilleroys, in old frames from which the
gilding was peeling. Two servants, stepping softly, began to serve the
two silent women, and the flies made a little cloud of black specks,
dancing and buzzing around the crystal chandelier that hung over the
center of the table.
“Open the windows,” said the Countess, “It is a little cool here.”
The three long windows, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and
large as bay-windows, were opened wide. A breath of soft air, bearing
the odor of warm grass and the distant sounds of the country, swept in
immediately through these openings, mingling with the slightly damp air
of the room, inclosed by the thick walls of the castle.
“Ah, that is good!” said Annette, taking a full breath.
The eyes of the two women had turned toward the outside and now gazed,
beneath the blue sky, lightly veiled by the midday haze which was
reflected on the meadows impregnated with sunshine, at the long and
verdant lawns of the park, with its groups of trees here and there, and
its perspective opening to the yellow fields, illuminated as far as the
eye could see by the golden gleam of ripe grain.
“We will take a long walk after breakfast,” said the Countess. “We might
walk as far as Berville, following the river, for it will be too warm on
the plain.”
“Yes, mamma, and let us take Julio to scare up some partridges.”
“You know that your father forbids it.”
“Oh, but since papa is in Paris!--it is so amusing to see Julio pointing
after them. There he is now, worrying the cows! Oh, how funny he is, the
dear fellow!”
Pushing back her chair, she jumped up and ran to the window, calling
out: “Go on, Julio! After them!”
Upon the lawn three heavy cows, gorged with grass and overcome with
heat, lay on their sides, their bellies protruding from the pressure of
the earth. Rushing from one to another, barking and bounding wildly, in
a sort of mad abandon, partly real, partly feigned, a hunting spaniel,
slender, white and red, whose curly ears flapped at every bound, was
trying to rouse the three big beasts, which did not wish to get up. It
was evidently the dog's favorite sport, with which he amused himself
whenever he saw the cows lying down. Irritated, but not frightened, they
gazed at him with their large, moist eyes, turning their heads to watch
him.
Annette, from her window, cried:
“Fetch them, Julio, fetch them!”
The excited spaniel, growing bolder, barked louder and ventured as far
as their cruppers, feigning to be about to bite them. They began to
grow uneasy, and the nervous twitching of their skin, to get rid of the
flies, became more frequent and protracted.
Suddenly the dog, carried along by the impetus of a rush that he could
not check in time, bounced so close to one cow that, in order not to
fall against her, he was obliged to jump over her. Startled by the
bound, the heavy animal took fright, and first raising her head she
finally raised herself slowly on her four legs, sniffing loudly. Seeing
her erect, the other two immediately got up also, and Julio began to
prance around them in a dance of triumph, while Annette praised him.
“Bravo, Julio, bravo!”
“Come,” said the Countess, “come to breakfast, my child.”
But the young girl, shading her eyes with one hand, announced:
“There comes a telegraph messenger!”
Along the invisible path among the wheat and the oats a blue blouse
appeared to be gliding along the top of the grain, and it came toward
the castle with the firm step of a man.
“Oh, heavens!” murmured the Countess; “I hope he does not bring bad
news!”
She was still shaken with that terror which remains with us a long time
after the death of some loved one has been announced by a telegram.
Now she could not remove the gummed band to open the little blue paper
without feeling her fingers tremble and her soul agitated, believing
that from those folds which it took so long to open would come a grief
that would cause her tears to flow afresh.
Annette, on the contrary, full of girlish curiosity, was delighted to
meet with the unknown mystery that comes to all of us at times. Her
heart, which life had just saddened for the first time, could anticipate
only something joyful from that black and ominous bag hanging from the
side of the mail-carrier, who saw so many emotions through the city
streets and the country lanes.
The Countess ceased to eat, concentrating her thoughts on the man who
was approaching, bearer of a few written words that might wound her as
if a knife had been thrust in her throat. The anguish of having known
that experience made her breathless, and she tried to guess what this
hurried message might be. About what? From whom? The thought of Olivier
flashed through her mind. Was he ill? Dead, perhaps, too!
The ten minutes she had to wait seemed interminable to her; then, when
she had torn open the despatch and recognized the name of her husband,
she read: “I telegraph to tell you that our friend Bertin leaves for
Roncieres on the one o'clock train. Send Phaeton station. Love.”
“Well, mamma?” said Annette.
“Monsieur Olivier Bertin is coming to see us.”
“Ah, how lucky! When?”
“Very soon.”
“At four o'clock?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, how kind he is!”
But the Countess had turned pale, for a new anxiety had lately troubled
her, and the sudden arrival of the painter seemed to her as painful a
menace as anything she might have been able to foresee.
“You will go to meet him with the carriage,” she said to her daughter.
“And will you not come, too, mamma?”
“No, I will wait for you here.”
“Why? That will hurt him.”
“I do not feel very well.”
“You wished to walk as far as Berville just now.”
“Yes, but my breakfast has made me feel ill.”
“You will feel better between now and the time to go.”
“No, I am going up to my room. Let me know as soon as you arrive.”
“Yes, mamma.”
After giving orders that the phaeton should be ready at the proper hour,
and that a room be prepared, the Countess returned to her own room, and
shut herself in.
Up to this time her life had passed almost without suffering, affected
only by Olivier's love and concerned only by her anxiety to retain
it. She had succeeded, always victorious in that struggle. Her heart,
soothed by success and by flattery, had become the exacting heart of a
beautiful worldly woman to whom are due all the good things of earth,
and, after consenting to a brilliant marriage, with which affection had
nothing to do, after accepting love later as the complement of a happy
existence, after taking her part in a guilty intimacy, largely from
inclination, a little from a leaning toward sentiment itself as a
compensation for the prosaic hum-drum of daily life, had barricaded
itself in the happiness that chance had offered her, with no other
desire than to defend it against the surprises of each day. She had
therefore accepted with the complacency of a pretty woman the agreeable
events that occurred; and, though she ventured little, and was troubled
little by new necessities and desires for the unknown; though she
was tender, tenacious, and farseeing, content with the present, but
naturally anxious about the morrow, she had known how to enjoy the
elements that Destiny had furnished her with wise and economical
prudence.
Now, little by little, without daring to acknowledge it even to herself,
the vague preoccupation of passing time, of advancing age, had glided
into her soul. In her consciousness it had the effect of a gnawing
trouble that never ceased. But, knowing well that this descent of life
was without an end, that once begun it never could be stopped, and
yielding to the instinct of danger, she closed her eyes in letting
herself glide along, that she might retain her dream, that she might not
be seized with dizziness at sight of the abyss or be made desperate by
her impotence.
She lived, then, smiling, with a sort of factitious pride in remaining
beautiful so long, and when Annette appeared at her side with the
freshness of her eighteen years, instead of suffering from this
contrast, she was proud, on the contrary, of being able to command
preference, in the ripe grace of her womanhood, over that blooming young
girl in the radiant beauty of first youth.
She had even believed that she had entered upon the beginning of a
happy, tranquil period when the death of her mother struck a blow at
her heart. During the first few days she was filled with that profound
despair that leaves no room for any other thought. She remained from
morning until night buried in grief, trying to recall a thousand things
of the dead, her familiar words, her face in earlier days, the gowns she
used to wear, as if she had stored her memory with relics; and from the
now buried past she gathered all the intimate and trivial recollections
with which to feed her cruel reveries. Then, when she had arrived at
such paroxysms of despair that she fell into hysterics and swooned, all
her accumulated grief broke forth in tears, flowing from her eyes by day
and by night.
One morning, when her maid entered, and opened the shutters after
raising the shades, asking: “How does Madame feel to-day?” she answered,
feeling exhausted from having wept so much: “Oh, not at all well!
Indeed, I can bear no more.”
The servant, who was holding a tea-tray, looked at her mistress, and,
touched to see her lying so pale amide the whiteness of the bed, she
stammered, in a tone of genuine sadness: “Madame really looks very ill.
Madame would do well to take care of herself.”
The tone in which this was said pierced the Countess's heart like a
sharp needle, and as soon as the maid had gone she rose to go and look
at her face in her large dressing-mirror.
She was stupefied at the sight of herself, frightened by her hollow
cheeks, her red eyes, the ravages produced in her by these days of
suffering. Her face, which she knew so well, which she had often looked
at in so many different mirrors, of which she knew all the expressions,
all the smiles, the pallor which she had already corrected so many
times, smoothing away the marks of fatigue, and the tiny wrinkles at the
corners of the eyes, visible in too strong a light--her face suddenly
seemed to her that of another woman, a new face that was distorted and
irreparably ill.
In order to see herself better, to be surer with regard to this
unexpected misfortune, she approached near enough to the mirror to touch
it with her forehead, so that her breath, spreading a light mist over
the glass, almost obscured the pale image she was contemplating. She was
compelled to take a handkerchief to wipe away this mist, and, trembling
with a strange emotion, she made a long and patient examination of the
alterations in her face. With a light finger she stretched the skin of
her cheeks, smoothed her forehead, pushed back her hair, and turned the
eyelids to look at the whites of her eyes. Then she opened her mouth and
examined her teeth which were a little tarnished where the gold fillings
shone, and she was disturbed to note the livid gums and the yellow tint
of the flesh above the cheeks and at the temples.
She was so lost in this examination of her fading beauty that she did
not hear the door open, and was startled when her maid, standing behind
her, said:
“Madame has forgotten to take her tea.”
The Countess turned, confused, surprised, ashamed, and the servant,
guessing her thoughts continued:
“Madame has wept too much; there is nothing worse to spoil the skin.
One's blood turns to water.”
And as the Countess added sadly: “There is age also,” the maid
exclaimed: “Oh, but Madame has not reached that time yet! With a few
days of rest not a trace will be left. But Madame must go to walk, and
take great care not to weep.”
As soon as she was dressed the Countess descended to the park, and for
the first time since her mother's death she visited the little orchard
where long ago she had liked to cultivate and gather flowers; then she
went to the river and strolled beside the stream until the hour for
breakfast.
She sat down at the table opposite her husband, and beside her daughter,
and remarked, that she might know what they thought: “I feel better
today. I must be less pale.”
“Oh, you still look very ill,” said the Count.
Her heart contracted and she felt like weeping, for she had fallen into
the habit of it.
Until evening, and the next day, and all the following days, whether she
thought of her mother or of herself, every moment she felt her throat
swelling with sobs and her eyes filling with tears, but to prevent them
from overflowing and furrowing her cheeks she repressed them, and by
a superhuman effort of will turned her thoughts in other directions,
mastered them, ruled them, separated them from her sorrow, forced
herself to feel consoled, tried to amuse herself and to think of sad
things no more, in order to regain the hue of health.
Above all, she did not wish to return to Paris and to receive Olivier
Bertin until she had become more like her former self. Realizing that
she had grown too thin, that the flesh of women of her age needs to be
full in order to keep fresh, she sought to create appetite by walking
in the woods and along the roads; and though she returned weary and not
hungry she forced herself to eat a great deal.
The Count, who wished to go away, could not understand her obstinacy.
Finally, as her resistance seemed invincible, he declared that he would
go alone, leaving the Countess free to return when she might feel so
disposed.
The next day she received the telegram announcing Olivier's arrival.
A desire to flee seized her, so much did she fear his first look. She
would have preferred to wait another week or two. In a week, with care
one may change the face completely, since women, even when young and in
good health, under the least change of influence become unrecognizable
from one day to another. But the idea of appearing in broad daylight
before Olivier, in the open fields, in the heat of August, beside
Annette, so fresh and blooming, disturbed her so much that she
decided immediately not to go to the station, but to await him in the
half-darkened drawing-room.
She went up to her room and fell into a dream. Breaths of warm air
stirred the curtains from time to time; the song of the crickets filled
the air. Never before had she felt so sad. It was no more the great
grief that had shattered her heart, overwhelming her before the soulless
body of her beloved old mother. That grief, which she had believed
incurable, had in a few days become softened, and was now but a sorrow
of the memory; but now she felt herself swept away on a deep wave of
melancholy into which she had entered gradually, and from which she
never would emerge.
She had an almost irresistible desire to weep--and would not. Every time
she felt her eyelids grow moist she wiped them away quickly, rose, paced
about the room, looked out into the park and gazed at the tall trees,
watched the slow, black flight of the crows against the background of
blue sky. Then she passed before her mirror, judged her appearance with
one glance, effaced the trace of a tear by touching the corner of her
eye with rice powder, and looked at the clock, trying to guess at what
point of the route he must have reached.
Like all women who are carried away by a distress of soul, whether real
or unreasonable, she clung to her lover with a sort of frenzy. Was he
not her all--all, everything, more than life, all that anyone must be
who has come to be the sole affection of one who feels the approach of
age?
Suddenly she heard in the distance the crack of a whip; she ran to the
window and saw the phaeton as it made the turn round the lawn, drawn
by two horses. Seated beside Annette, in the back seat of the carriage,
Olivier waved his handkerchief as he saw the Countess, to which she
responded by waving him a salutation from the window. Then she went down
stairs with a heart throbbing fast but happy now, thrilled with joy at
knowing him so near, of speaking to him and seeing him.
They met in the antechamber, before the drawing-room door.
He opened his arms to her with an irresistible impulse, and in a voice
warmed by real emotion, exclaimed: “Ah, my poor Countess, let me embrace
you!”
She closed her eyes, leaned toward him and pressed against him, lifted
her cheek to him, and as he pressed his lips upon it, she murmured in
his ear: “I love thee!”
Then Olivier, without dropping the hands he clasped in his own, looked
at her, saying: “Let us see that sad face.”
She felt ready to faint.
“Yes, a little pale,” said he, “but that is nothing.”
To thank him for saying that, she said brokenly,
“Ah, dear friend, dear friend!” finding nothing else to say.
But he turned, looking behind her in search of Annette, who had
disappeared.
“Is it not strange,” he said abruptly, “to see your daughter in
mourning?”
“Why?” inquired the Countess.
“What? You ask why?” he exclaimed, with extraordinary animation.
“Why, it is your own portrait painted by me--it is my portrait. It is
yourself, such as you were when I met you long ago when I entered the
Duchess's house! Ah, do you remember that door where you passed under my
gaze, as a frigate passes under a cannon of a fort? Good heavens! when
I saw the little one, just now, at the railway station, standing on the
platform, all in black, with the sun shining on her hair massed around
her face, the blood rushed to my head. I thought I should weep. I tell
you, it is enough to drive one mad, when one has known you as I have,
who has studied you as no one else has, and reproduced you in painting,
Madame. Ah, I thought that you had sent her alone to meet me at the
station in order to give me that surprise. My God! but I was surprised,
indeed! I tell you, it is enough to drive one mad.”
He called: “Annette! Nane!”
The young girl's voice replied from outside, where she was giving sugar
to the horses:
“Yes, yes, I am here!”
“Come in here!”
She entered quickly.
“Here, stand close beside your mother.”
She obeyed, and he compared the two, but repeated mechanically, “Yes,
it is astonishing, astonishing!” for they resembled each other less when
side by side than they did before leaving Paris, the young girl having
acquired a new expression of luminous youth in her black attire, while
the mother had for a long time lost that radiance of hair and complexion
that had dazzled and entranced the painter when they met for the first
time.
Then the Countess and Olivier entered the drawing-room. He seemed in
high spirits.
“Ah, what a good plan it was to come here!” he said. “But it was your
husband's idea that I should come, you know. He charged me to take you
back with me. And I--do you know what I propose? You have no idea, have
you? Well, I propose, on the contrary, to remain here! Paris is odious
in this heat, while the country is delicious. Heavens! how sweet it is
here!”
The dews of evening impregnated the park with freshness, the soft breeze
made the trees tremble, and the earth exhaled imperceptible vapors
which threw a light, transparent veil over the horizon. The three cows,
standing with drooping heads, cropped the grass with avidity, and four
peacocks, with a loud rustling of wings, flew up into their accustomed
perch in a cedar-tree under the windows of the castle. The barking of
dogs in the distance came to the ear, and in the quiet air of the close
of day the calls of human voices were heard, in phrases shouted across
the fields, from one meadow to another, and in those short, guttural
cries used in driving animals.
The painter, with bared head and shining eyes, breathed deeply, and, as
he met the Countess's look, he said:
“This is happiness!”
“It never lasts,” she answered, approaching nearer.
“Let us take it when it comes,” said he.
“You never used to like the country until now,” the Countess replied,
smiling.
“I like it to-day because I find you here. I do not know how to live any
more where you are not. When one is young, he may be in love though far
away, through letters, thoughts, or dreams, perhaps because he feels
that life is all before him, perhaps too because passion is stronger
than pure affection; at my age, on the contrary, love has become like
the habit of an invalid; it is a binding up of the soul, which flies now
with only one wing, and mounts less frequently into the ideal. The heart
knows no more ecstasy, only selfish wants. And then I know quite well
that I have no time to lose to enjoy what remains for me.”
“Oh, old!” she remonstrated, taking his hand tenderly.
“Yes, yes, I am old,” he repeated. “Everything shows it, my hair, my
changing character, the coming sadness. Alas! that is something I never
have known till now--sadness. If someone had told me when I was thirty
that a time would come when I should be sad without cause, uneasy,
discontented with everything, I should not have believed it. That proves
that my heart also has grown old.”
The Countess replied with an air of profound certainty:
“Oh, as for me, my heart is still young. It never has changed. Yes, it
has grown younger, perhaps. Once it was twenty; now it is only sixteen!”
They remained a long while thus, talking in the open window, mingled
with the spirit of evening, very near each other, nearer than they ever
had been, in this hour of tenderness, this twilight of love, like that
of the day.
A servant entered, announcing:
“Madame la Comtesse is served.”
“Have you called my daughter?” the Countess asked.
“Mademoiselle is in the dining-room.”
All three sat down at the table. The shutters were closed, and two large
candelabra with six candles each illumined Annette's face and seemed
to powder her hair with gold dust. Bertin, smiling, looked at her
continually.
“Heavens, now pretty she is in black!” he said.
And he turned toward the Countess while admiring the daughter, as if to
thank the mother for having given him this pleasure.
When they returned to the drawing-room the moon had risen above the
trees in the park. Their somber mass appeared like a great island, and
the country round about like a sea hidden under the light mist that
floated over the plains.
“Oh, mamma, let us take a walk,” said Annette.
The Countess consented.
“I will take Julio.”
“Very well, if you wish.”
They set out. The young girl walked in front, amusing herself with the
dog. When they crossed the lawn they heard the breathing of the cows,
which, awake and scenting their enemy, raised their heads to look.
Under the trees, farther away, the moon was pouring among the branches
a shower of fine rays that fell to earth, seeming to wet the leaves that
were spread out on the path in little patches of yellow light. Annette
and Julio ran along, each seeming to have on this serene night, the same
joyful and unburdened hearts, the gaiety of which expressed itself in
graceful gambols.
In the little openings, where the wave of moonlight descended as into
a well, the young girl looked like a spirit, and the painter called her
back, marveling at this dark vision with its clear and brilliant face.
Then when she darted away again, he took the Countess's hand and pressed
it, often seeking her lips as they traversed the deeper shadows, as if
the sight of Annette had revived the impatience of his heart.
At last they reached the edge of the plain, where they could just
discern, afar, here and there, the groups of trees belonging to the
farms. Through the milky mist that bathed the fields the horizon
appeared illimitable, and the soft silence, the living silence of that
vast space, so warm and luminous, was full of inexpressible hope, of
that indefinable expectancy which makes summer nights so sweet. Far
up in the heavens a few long slender clouds looked like silver shells.
Standing still for a few seconds, one could hear in that nocturnal peace
a confused, continuous murmur of life, a thousand slight sounds, the
harmony of which seemed like silence.
A quail in a neighboring field uttered her double cry, and Julio, his
ears erect, glided furtively toward the two flute-like notes of the
bird, Annette following, as softly as he, holding her breath and
crouching low.
“Ah,” said the Countess, standing alone with the painter, “why do
moments like this pass so quickly? We can hold nothing, keep nothing. We
have not even time to taste what is good. It is over already.”
Olivier kissed her hand, and replied, smiling:
“Oh, I cannot philosophize this evening! I belong to the present hour
entirely.”
“You do not love me as I love you,” she murmured.
“Ah, do not--”
“No,” she interrupted, “in me you love, as you said very truly before
dinner, a woman who satisfies the needs of your heart, a woman who never
has caused you a pain, and who has put a little happiness into your
life. I know that; I feel it. Yes, I have the good consciousness, the
ardent joy of having been good, useful, and helpful to you. You have
loved, you still love all that you find agreeable in me, my attentions
to you, my admiration, my wish to please you, my passion, the complete
gift I made to you of my whole being. But it is not I you really love,
do you know? Oh, I feel that as one feels a cold current of air. You
love a thousand things about me--my beauty, which is fast leaving me, my
devotion, the wit they say I possess, the opinion the world has of me,
and that which I have of you in my heart; but it is not _I_--I, nothing
but myself--do you understand?”
He laughed in a soft and friendly way.
“No, I do not understand you very well. You make a reproachful attack
which is quite unexpected.”
“Oh, my God! I wish I could make you understand how I love you! I am
always seeking, but cannot find a means. When I think of you--and I am
always thinking of you--I feel in the depths of my being an unspeakable
intoxication of longing to be yours, an irresistible need of giving
myself to you even more completely. I should like to sacrifice myself in
some absolute way, for there is nothing better, when one loves, than to
give, to give always, all, all, life, thought, body, all that one has,
to feel that one is giving, to be ready to risk anything to give still
more. I love you so much that I love to suffer for you, I love even my
anxieties, my torments, my jealousies, the pain I feel when I realize
that you are not longer tender toward me. I love in you a someone that
only I have discovered, a you which is not the you of the world that
is admired and known, a you which is mine, which cannot change nor grow
old, which I cannot cease to love, for I have, to look at it, eyes that
see it alone. But one cannot say these things. There are no words to
express them.”
He repeated softly, over and over:
“Dear, dear, dear Any!”
Julio came back, bounding toward them, without having found the quail,
which had kept still at his approach; Annette followed him, breathless
from running.
“I can't run any more,” said she. “I will prop myself up with you,
Monsieur painter!”
She leaned on Olivier's free arm, and they returned, walking thus, he
between them, under the shadow of the trees. They spoke no more. He
walked on, possessed by them, penetrated by a sort of feminine essence
with which their contact filled him. He did not try to see them, since
he had them near him; he even closed his eyes that he might feel their
proximity the better. They guided him, conducted him, and he walked
straight before him, fascinated by them, with the one on the left as
well as the one on the right, without knowing, indeed, which was on the
left or which on the right, which was mother, which was daughter.
He abandoned himself willingly to the pleasure of unpremeditated and
exquisite sensuous delight. He even tried to mingle them in his heart,
not to distinguish them in his thought, and quieted desire with the
charm of this confusion. Was it not only one woman beside him, composed
of this mother and daughter, so much alike? And did not the daughter
seem to have come to earth only for the purpose of reanimating his
former love for the mother?
When he opened his eyes on entering the castle, it seemed to him that he
had just passed through the most delicious moments of his life; that he
had experienced the strangest, the most puzzling, yet complete emotion
a man might feel, intoxicated with the same love by the seductiveness
emanating from two women.
“Ah, what an exquisite evening!” said he, as soon as he found himself
between them in the lamplight.
“I am not at all sleepy,” said Annette; “I could pass the whole night
walking when the weather is fine.”
The Countess looked at the clock.
“Oh, it is half after eleven. You must go to bed, my child.”
They separated, and went to their own apartments. The young girl who did
not wish to go to bed was the only one that went to sleep at once.
The next morning, at the usual hour, when the maid, after opening the
curtains and the shutters, brought the tea and looked at her mistress,
who was still drowsy, she said:
“Madame looks better to-day, already.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes. Madame's face looks more rested.”
Though she had not yet looked at herself, the Countess knew that this
was true. Her heart was light, she did not feel it throb, and she felt
once more as if she lived. The blood flowing in her veins was no longer
coursing so rapidly as on the day before, hot and feverish, sending
nervousness and restlessness through all her body, but gave her a sense
of well-being and happy confidence.
When the maid had gone she went to look at herself in the mirror. She
was a little surprised, for she felt so much better that she expected
to find herself rejuvenated by several years in a single night. Then
she realized the childishness of such a hope, and, after another glance,
resigned herself to the knowledge that her complexion was only clearer,
her eyes less fatigued, her lips a little redder than on the day
before. As her soul was content, she could not feel sad, and she smiled,
thinking: “Yes, in a few days I shall be quite myself again. I have gone
through too much to recover so quickly.”
But she remained seated a very long time before her toilet-table, upon
which were laid out in graceful order on a muslin scarf bordered
with lace, before a beautiful mirror of cut crystal, all her little
ivory-handled instruments of coquetry, bearing her arms surmounted by a
coronet. There they were, innumerable, pretty, all different, destined
for delicate and secret use, some of steel, fine and sharp, of strange
shapes, like surgical instruments for operations on children, others
round and soft, of feathers, of down, of the skins of unknown animals,
made to lay upon the tender skin the caresses of fragrant powders or of
powerful liquid perfumes.
She handled them a long time with practised fingers, carrying them from
her lips to her temples with touches softer than a kiss, correcting
imperfections, underlining the eyes, beautifying the eyelashes. At last,
when she went down stairs, she felt almost sure that the first glance
cast upon her would not be too unfavorable.
“Where is Monsieur Bertin?” she inquired of a servant she met in the
vestibule.
“Monsieur Bertin is in the orchard, playing tennis with Mademoiselle,”
the man replied.
She heard them from a distance counting the points. One after the other,
the deep voice of the painter and the light one of the young girl,
called: “Fifteen, thirty, forty, vantage, deuce, vantage, game!”
The orchard, where a space had been leveled for a tennis-court, was
a great, square grass-plot, planted with apple-trees, inclosed by the
park, the vegetable-garden, and the farms belonging to the castle. Along
the slope that formed a boundary on three sides, like the defenses of
an intrenched camp, grew borders of various kinds of flowers, wild and
cultivated, roses in masses, pinks, heliotrope, fuchsias, mignonnette,
and many more, which as Bertin said gave the air a taste of honey.
Besides this, the bees, whose hives, thatched with straw, lined the
wall of the vegetable-garden, covered the flowery field in their yellow,
buzzing flight.
In the exact center of this orchard a few apple-trees had been cut down,
in order to make a good court for tennis, and a tarry net, stretched
across this space, separated it into two camps.
Annette, on one side, with bare head, her black skirt caught up, showing
her ankles and half way up to her knee when she ran to catch a ball,
dashed to and fro, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, tired, out of
breath with the sure and practised play of her adversary.
He, in white flannels, fitting tightly over the hips, a white shirt,
and a white tennis cap, his abdomen somewhat prominent in that costume,
awaited the ball coolly, judged its fall with precision, received and
returned it without haste, without running, with the elegant pose, the
passionate attention, and professional skill which he displayed in all
athletic sports.
It was Annette that spied her mother first.
“Good morning, mamma!” she cried, “wait till we have finished this
play.”
That second's distraction lost her the game. The ball passed against
her, almost rolling, touched the ground and went out of the game.
Bertin shouted “Won!” and the young girl, surprised, accused him of
having profited by her inattention. Julio, trained to seek and find the
lost balls, as if they were partridges fallen among the bushes, sprang
behind her to get the ball rolling in the grass, seized it in his jaws,
and brought it back, wagging his tail.
The painter now saluted the Countess, but, urged to resume the game,
animated by the contest, pleased to find himself so agile, he threw only
a short, preoccupied glance at the face prepared so carefully for him,
asking:
“Will you allow me, dear Countess? I am afraid of taking cold and having
neuralgia.”
“Oh, yes,” the Countess replied.
She sat down on a hay-stack, mowed that morning in order to give a clear
field to the players, and, her heart suddenly touched with sadness,
looked on at the game.
Her daughter, irritated at losing continually, grew more animated,
excited, uttered cries of vexation or of triumph, and flew impetuously
from one end of the court to the other. Often, in her swift movements,
little locks of hair were loosened, rolled down and fell upon her
shoulders. She seized them with impatient movements, and, holding the
racket between her knees, fastened them up in place, thrusting hairpins
into the golden mass.
And Bertin, from his position, cried to the Countess:
“Isn't she pretty like that, and fresh as the day?”
Yes, she was young, she could run, grow warm, become red, let her hair
fly, brave anything, dare everything, for all that only made her more
beautiful.
Then, when they resumed their play with ardor, the Countess, more and
more melancholy, felt that Olivier preferred that game, that childish
sport, like the play of kittens jumping after paper balls, to the
sweetness of sitting beside her that warm morning, and feeling her
loving pressure against him.
When the bell, far away, rang the first signal for breakfast, it seemed
to her that someone had freed her, that a weight had been lifted from
her heart. But as she returned, leaning on his arm, he said to her:
“I have been amusing myself like a boy. It is a great thing to be, or to
feel oneself, young. Ah, yes, there is nothing like that. When we do not
like to run any more, it is all over with us.”
When they left the table the Countess, who on the preceding day had for
the first time omitted her daily visit to the cemetery, proposed that
they should go there together; so all three set out for the village.
They were obliged to go through some woods, through which ran a stream
called “La Rainette,” no doubt because of the frogs that peopled it;
then they had to cross the end of a plain before arriving at the church,
situated in the midst of a group of houses that sheltered the grocer,
the baker, the butcher, the wine-merchant, and several other modest
tradesmen who supplied the needs of the peasants.
The walk was made in thoughtful silence, the recollection of the dead
weighing on their spirits. Arrived at the grave, the women knelt and
prayed a long time. The Countess, motionless, bent low, her handkerchief
at her eyes, for she feared to weep lest her tears run down her cheeks.
She prayed, but not as she had prayed before this day, in a sort of
invocation to her mother, a despairing appeal penetrating under the
marble of the tomb until she seemed to feel by the poignancy of her
own anguish that the dead must hear her, listen to her, but a simple,
hesitating, and earnest utterance of the consecrated words of the _Pater
Noster_ and the _Ave Maria_. She would not have had that day sufficient
strength and steadiness of nerve necessary for that cruel communion that
brought no response with what remained of that being who had disappeared
in the tomb where all that was left of her was concealed. Other
anxieties had penetrated her woman's heart, had agitated, wounded, and
distracted her; and her fervent prayer rose to Heaven, full of vague
supplications. She offered her adoration to God, the inexorable God who
has made all poor creatures on the earth, and begged Him to take pity on
her as well as on the one He had recalled to Himself.
She could not have told what she had asked of God, so vague and
confused were her fears still; but she felt the need of Divine aid, of a
superhuman support against approaching dangers and inevitable sorrows.
Annette, with closed eyes, having also murmured the formulas, sank into
a reverie, for she did not wish to rise before her mother.
Olivier Bertin looked at them, thinking that he never had seen a
more ravishing picture, and somewhat regretful that it was out of the
question for him to be permitted to make a sketch of the scene.
On their way back they talked of human life, softly stirring those
bitter and poetic ideas of a tender but pessimistic philosophy, which is
a frequent subject of conversation between men and women whom life has
wounded a little, and whose hearts mingle as they sympathize with each
other's grief.
Annette, who was not ripe for such thoughts, left them frequently to
gather wild flowers beside the road.
But Olivier, desiring to keep her near him, nervous at seeing her
continually darting away, never removed his eyes from her. He was
irritated that she should show more interest in the colors of the
plants than in the words he spoke. He experienced an inexpressible
dissatisfaction at not being able to charm her, to dominate her, as he
had captivated her mother; and he felt a desire to hold out his hand
and seize her, hold her, forbid her to go away. He felt that she was too
alert, too young, too indifferent, too free--free as a bird, or like
a little dog that will not come back, will not obey, which has
independence in its veins, that sweet instinct of liberty which neither
voice nor whip has yet vanquished.
In order to attract her he talked of gayer things, and at times he
questioned her, trying to awaken her feminine curiosity so that she
would listen; but one would think that the capricious wind of heaven
was blowing through Annette's head that day, as it blew across the
undulating grain, carrying away and dispersing her attention into space,
for she hardly uttered even the commonplace replies expected of her,
between her short digressions, and made them with an absent air, then
returned to her flowers. Finally he became exasperated, filled with a
childish impatience, and as she ran up to beg her mother to carry her
first bouquet so that she could gather another, he caught her by the
elbow and pressed her arm, so that she could not escape again. She
struggled, laughing, pulling with all her strength to get away from
him; then, moved by masculine instinct, he tried gentler means, and, not
being able to win her attention he tried to purchase it by tempting her
coquetry.
“Tell me,” said he, “what flower you prefer, and I will have a brooch
made of it for you.”
She hesitated, surprised.
“What, a brooch?”
“In stones of the same color; in rubies if it is the poppy; in sapphires
if it is the cornflower, with a little leaf in emeralds.”
Annette's face lighted up with that affectionate joy with which promises
and presents animate a woman's countenance.
“The cornflower,” said she, “it is so pretty.”
“The cornflower it shall be. We will go to order it as soon as we return
to Paris.”
She no longer tried to leave him, attracted by the thought of the jewel
she already tried to see, to imagine.
“Does it take very long to make a thing like that?” she asked.
He laughed, feeling that he had caught her.
“I don't know; it depends upon the difficulties. We will make the
jeweler do it quickly.”
A dismal thought suddenly crossed her mind.
“But I cannot wear it since I am in deep mourning!”
He had passed his arm under that of the young girl, and pressed it
against him.
“Well, you will keep the brooch until you cease to wear mourning,” said
he; “that will not prevent you from looking at it.”
As on the preceding evening, he was walking between them, held captive
between their shoulders, and in order to see their eyes, of a similar
blue dotted with tiny black spots, raised to his, he spoke to them in
turn, moving his head first toward the one, then toward the other. As
the bright sunlight now shone on them, he did not so fully confound the
Countess with Annette, but he did more and more associate the daughter
with the new-born remembrances of what the mother had been. He had a
strong desire to embrace both, the one to find again upon cheek and neck
a little of that pink and white freshness which he had already tasted,
and which he saw now reproduced as by a miracle; the other because he
loved her as he always had, and felt that from her came the powerful
appeal of long habit. He even realized at that moment that his desire
and affection for her, which for some time had been waning, had revived
at the sight of her resuscitated youth.
Annette went away again to gather more flowers. This time Olivier
did not call her back; it was as if the contact of her arm and the
satisfaction of knowing that he had given her pleasure had quieted him;
but he followed all her movements with the pleasure one feels in seeing
the persons or things that captivate and intoxicate our eyes. When
she returned, with a large cluster of flowers, he drew a deep breath,
seeking unconsciously to inhale something of her, a little of her breath
or the warmth of her skin in the air stirred by her running. He looked
at her, enraptured, as one watches the dawn, or listens to music, with
thrills of delight when she bent, rose again, or raised her arms to
arrange her hair. And then, more and more, hour by hour, she evoked in
him the memory of the past! Her laughter, her pretty ways, her motions,
brought back to his lips the savor of former kisses given and returned;
she made of the far-off past, of which he had forgotten the precise
sensation, something like a dream in the present; she confused epochs,
dates, the ages of his heart, and rekindling the embers of cooled
emotions, she mingled, without his realizing it, yesterday with
to-morrow, recollection with hope.
He asked himself as he questioned his memory whether the Countess in
her brightest bloom had had that fawn-like, supple grace, that bold,
capricious, irresistible charm, like the grace of a running, leaping
animal. No. She had had a riper bloom but was less untamed. First, a
child of the city, then a woman, never having imbibed the air of the
fields and lived in the grass, she had grown pretty under the shade of
the walls and not in the sunlight of heaven.
When they reentered the castle the Countess began to write letters at
her little low table in the bay-window; Annette went up to her own room,
and the painter went out again to walk slowly, cigar in mouth, hands
clasped behind him, through the winding paths of the park. But he did
not go away so far that he lost sight of the white facade or the pointed
roof of the castle. As soon as it disappeared behind groups of trees or
clusters of shrubbery, a shadow seemed to fall over his heart, as when a
cloud hides the sun; and when it reappeared through the apertures in
the foliage he paused a few seconds to contemplate the two rows of
tall windows. Then he resumed his walk. He felt agitated, but content.
Content with what? With everything.
The air seemed pure to him, life was good that day. His body felt once
more the liveliness of a small boy, a desire to run, to catch the yellow
butterflies fluttering over the lawn, as if they were suspended at the
end of elastic threads. He sang little airs from the opera. Several
times he repeated the celebrated phrase by Gounod: “_Laisse-moi
contempler ton visage_,” discovering in it a profoundly tender
expression which never before he had felt in the same way.
Suddenly he asked himself how it was that he had so soon become
different from his usual self. Yesterday, in Paris, dissatisfied
with everything, disgusted, irritated; to-day calm, satisfied with
everything--one would say that some benevolent god had changed his soul.
“That same kind god,” he thought, “might well have changed my body
at the same time, and rejuvenated me a little.” Suddenly he saw Julio
hunting among the bushes. He called him, and when the dog ran up to put
his finely formed head, with its curly ears, under his hand, he sat down
on the grass to pet him more comfortably, spoke gentle words to him,
laid him on his knees, and growing tender as he caressed the animal, he
kissed it, after the fashion of women whose hearts are easily moved to
demonstration.
After dinner, instead of going out as on the evening before, they spent
the hours in the drawing-room.
Suddenly the Countess said: “We must leave here soon.”
“Oh, don't speak of that yet!” Olivier exclaimed. “You would not leave
Roncieres when I was not here; now what I have come, you think only of
going away.”
“But, my dear friend,” said she, “we three cannot remain here
indefinitely.”
“It does not necessarily follow that we need stay indefinitely, but just
a few days. How many times have I stayed at your house for whole weeks?”
“Yes, but in different circumstances, when the house was open to
everyone.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Annette, coaxingly, “let us stay a few days more, just
two or three. He teaches me so well how to play tennis. It annoys me to
lose, but afterward I am glad to have made such progress.”
Only that morning the Countess had been planning to make this mysterious
visit of her friend's last until Sunday, and now she wished to go away,
without knowing why. That day which she had hoped would be such a
happy one had left in her soul an inexpressible but poignant sadness, a
causeless apprehension, as tenacious and confused as a presentiment.
When she was once more alone in her room she even sought to define this
new access of melancholy.
Had she experienced one of those imperceptible emotions whose touch has
been so slight that reason does not remember it, but whose vibrations
still stir the most sensitive chords of the heart? Perhaps? Which? She
recalled, certainly, some little annoyances, in the thousand degrees of
sentiment through which she had passed, each minute having its own. But
they were too petty to have thus disheartened her. “I am exacting,” she
thought. “I have no right to torment myself in this way.”
She opened her window, to breathe the night air, and leaned on the
window-sill, gazing at the moon.
A slight noise made her look down. Olivier was pacing before the castle.
“Why did he say that he was going to his room?” she thought; “why did he
not tell me he was going out again? Why did he not ask me to come with
him? He knows very well that it would have made me so happy. What is he
thinking of now?”
This idea that he had not wished to have her with him on his walk, that
he had preferred to go out alone this beautiful night, alone, with a
cigar in his mouth, for she could see its fiery-red point--alone, when
he might have given her the joy of taking her with him; this idea that
he had not continual need of her, that he did not desire her always,
created within her soul a new fermentation of bitterness.
She was about to close the window, that she might not see him or be
tempted to call to him, when he raised his eyes and saw her.
“Well, are you star-gazing, Countess?”
“Yes,” she answered. “You also, as it appears.”
“Oh, I am simply smoking.”
She could not resist the desire to ask: “Why did you not tell me you
were going out?”
“I only wanted to smoke a cigar. I am coming in now.”
“Then good-night, my friend.”
“Good-night, Countess.”
She retired as far as her low chair, sat down in it and wept; and her
maid, who was called to assist her to bed, seeing her red eyes said with
compassion:
“Ah, Madame is going to make a sad face for herself again to-morrow.”
The Countess slept badly; she was feverish and had nightmare. As soon as
she awoke she opened her window and her curtains to look at herself
in the mirror. Her features were drawn, her eyelids swollen, her skin
looked yellow; and she felt such violent grief because of this that
she wished to say she was ill and to keep her bed, so that she need not
appear until evening.
Then, suddenly, the necessity to go away entered her mind, to depart
immediately, by the first train, to quit the country, where one could
see too clearly by the broad light of the fields the ineffaceable marks
of sorrow and of life itself. In Paris one lives in the half shadow
of apartments, where heavy curtains, even at noontime, admit only a
softened light. She would herself become beautiful again there, with the
pallor one should have in that discreetly softened light. Then Annette's
face rose before her eyes--so fresh and pink, with slightly disheveled
hair, as when she was playing tennis. She understood then the unknown
anxiety from which her soul had suffered. She was not jealous of her
daughter's beauty! No, certainly not; but she felt, she acknowledged for
the first time that she must never again show herself by Annette's side
in the bright sunlight.
She rang, and before drinking her tea she gave orders for departure,
wrote some telegrams, even ordering her dinner for that evening
by telegraph, settled her bills in the country, gave her final
instructions, arranged everything in less than an hour, a prey to
feverish and increasing impatience.
When she went down stairs, Annette and Olivier, who had been told of her
decision, questioned her with surprise. Then, seeing that she would
not give any precise reason for this sudden departure, they grumbled a
little and expressed their dissatisfaction until they separated at the
station in Paris.
The Countess, holding out her hand to the painter, said: “Will you dine
with us to-morrow?”
“Certainly, I will come,” he replied, rather sulkily. “All the same,
what you have done was not nice. We were so happy down there, all three
of us.”