“And what became of Pauline?”
“Pauline? Ah! Do you sometimes spend a pleasant winter evening by your
own fireside, and give yourself up luxuriously to memories of love or
youth, while you watch the glow of the fire where the logs of oak are
burning? Here, the fire outlines a sort of chessboard in red squares,
there it has a sheen like velvet; little blue flames start up and
flicker and play about in the glowing depths of the brasier. A
mysterious artist comes and adapts that flame to his own ends; by
a secret of his own he draws a visionary face in the midst of those
flaming violet and crimson hues, a face with unimaginable delicate
outlines, a fleeting apparition which no chance will ever bring back
again. It is a woman’s face, her hair is blown back by the wind, her
features speak of a rapture of delight; she breathes fire in the midst
of the fire. She smiles, she dies, you will never see her any more.
Farewell, flower of the flame! Farewell, essence incomplete and
unforeseen, come too early or too late to make the spark of some
glorious diamond.”
“But, Pauline?”
“You do not see, then? I will begin again. Make way! make way! She
comes, she is here, the queen of illusions, a woman fleeting as a kiss,
a woman bright as lightning, issuing in a blaze like lightning from the
sky, a being uncreated, of spirit and love alone. She has wrapped her
shadowy form in flame, or perhaps the flame betokens that she exists
but for a moment. The pure outlines of her shape tell you that she
comes from heaven. Is she not radiant as an angel? Can you not hear the
beating of her wings in space? She sinks down beside you more lightly
than a bird, and you are entranced by her awful eyes; there is a magical
power in her light breathing that draws your lips to hers; she flies and
you follow; you feel the earth beneath you no longer. If you could but
once touch that form of snow with your eager, deluded hands, once twine
the golden hair round your fingers, place one kiss on those shining
eyes! There is an intoxicating vapor around, and the spell of a siren
music is upon you. Every nerve in you is quivering; you are filled with
pain and longing. O joy for which there is no name! You have touched the
woman’s lips, and you are awakened at once by a horrible pang. Oh! ah!
yes, you have struck your head against the corner of the bedpost, you
have been clasping its brown mahogany sides, and chilly gilt ornaments;
embracing a piece of metal, a brazen Cupid.”
“But how about Pauline, sir?”
“What, again? Listen. One lovely morning at Tours a young man, who held
the hand of a pretty woman in his, went on board the _Ville d’Angers_.
Thus united they both looked and wondered long at a white form that rose
elusively out of the mists above the broad waters of the Loire, like
some child of the sun and the river, or some freak of air and cloud.
This translucent form was a sylph or a naiad by turns; she hovered in
the air like a word that haunts the memory, which seeks in vain to grasp
it; she glided among the islands, she nodded her head here and there
among the tall poplar trees; then she grew to a giant’s height; she
shook out the countless folds of her drapery to the light; she shot
light from the aureole that the sun had litten about her face; she
hovered above the slopes of the hills and their little hamlets, and
seemed to bar the passage of the boat before the Chateau d’Usse. You
might have thought that _La dame des belles cousines_ sought to protect
her country from modern intrusion.”
“Well, well, I understand. So it went with Pauline. But how about
Foedora?”
“Oh! Foedora, you are sure to meet with her! She was at the Bouffons
last night, and she will go to the Opera this evening, and if you like
to take it so, she is Society.”