It was all an accident, a pure accident. Tired of standing, Baron
d'Étraille went--as all the Princess's rooms were open on that particular
evening--into an empty bedroom, which appeared almost dark after
coming-out of the brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms.
He looked round for a chair in which to doze, as he was sure his wife
would not go away before daylight. As soon as he got inside the door he
saw the big bed with its azure-and-gold hangings, in the middle of the
great room, looking like a catafalque in which love was buried, for the
Princess was no longer young. Behind it, a large bright spot looked like a
lake seen at a distance from a window. It was a big looking-glass,
discreetly covered with dark draperies that were sometimes let down, and
often opened up, and it seemed to look at the bed, which was its
accomplice. One might almost fancy that it felt regrets, and that one was
going to see in it the charming shapes of the thighs of women and the
gentle movement of arms about to embrace them.
The Baron stood still for a moment, smiling and rather moved, on the
threshold of this chamber dedicated to love. But suddenly something
appeared in the looking-glass, as if the phantoms which he had evoked had
come up before him. A man and a woman who had been sitting on a low couch
hidden in the shade had risen, and the polished surface, reflecting their
figures, showed that they were kissing each other before separating.
The Baron recognised his wife and the Marquis de Cervigné. He turned and
went away like a man fully master of himself, and waited till it was day
before taking away the Baronne. But he had no longer any thoughts of
sleeping.
As soon as they were alone, he said:
"Madame, I saw you just now in the Princess de Raynes's room. I need
say no more, for I am not fond either of reproaches, acts of violence, or
of ridicule. As I wish to avoid all such things, we shall separate without
any scandal. Our lawyers will settle your position according to my orders.
You will be free to live as you please when you are no longer under my
roof; but, as you will continue to bear my name, I must warn you that
should any scandal arise, I shall show myself inflexible."
She tried to speak, but he stopped her, bowed, and left the room.
He was more astonished and sad than unhappy. He had loved her dearly
during the first period of their married life; but his ardour had cooled,
and now he often had a caprice, either in a theatre or in society, though
he always preserved a certain liking for the Baronne.
She was very young, hardly four-and-twenty, small, thin,--too thin,--and
very fair. She was a true Parisian doll: clever, spoiled, elegant,
coquettish, witty, with more charm than real beauty. He used to say
familiarly to his brother, when speaking of her:
"My wife is charming, attractive, but--there is nothing to lay hold of.
She is like a glass of champagne that is all froth--when you have got to
the wine it is very good, but there is too little of it, unfortunately."
He walked up and down the room in great agitation, thinking of a
thousand things. At one moment he felt in a great rage, and felt inclined
to give the Marquis a good thrashing, to horsewhip him publicly, in the
club. But he thought that would not do, it would not be the thing; _be_
would be laughed at, and not the other, and he felt that his anger
proceeded more from wounded vanity than from a broken heart. So he went to
bed, but could not get to sleep.
A few days afterward it was known in Paris that the Baron and Baronne
d'Étraille had agreed to an amicable separation on account of
incompatibility of temper. Nobody suspected anything, nobody laughed, and
nobody was astonished.
The Baron, however, to avoid meeting her, travelled for a year; then he
spent the summer at the seaside, and the autumn in shooting, returning to
Paris for the winter. He did not meet his wife once.
He did not even know what people said about her. At any rate, she took
care to save appearances, and that was all he asked for.
He got dreadfully bored, travelled again, restored his old castle of
Villebosc--which took him two years; then for over a year he received
relays of friends there, till at last, tired of all these commonplace,
so-called pleasures, he returned to his mansion in the Rue de Lilles,
just six years after their separation.
He was then forty-five, with a good crop of gray hair, rather stout,
and with that melancholy look of people who have been handsome, sought
after, much liked, and are deteriorating daily.
A month after his return to Paris he took cold on coming out of his
club, and had a bad cough, so his doctor ordered him to Nice for the rest
of the winter.
He started by the express on Monday evening. He was late, got to the
station only a very short time before the departure of the train, and had
barely time to get into a carriage, with only one other occupant, who was
sitting in a corner so wrapped in furs and cloaks that he could not even
make out whether it were a man or a woman, as nothing of the figure could
be seen. When he perceived that he could not find out, he put on his
travelling-cap, rolled himself up in his rugs, and stretched himself out
comfortably to sleep.
He did not wake up till the day was breaking, and looked immediately at
his fellow-traveller. He had not stirred all night, and seemed still to be
sound asleep.
M. d'Étraille made use of the opportunity to brush his hair and his
beard, and to try and freshen himself up a little generally, for a night's
travelling changes one's looks very much when one has attained a certain
age.
A great poet has said:
Quand on est jeune, on a des matins triomphants!
Then we wake up with a cool skin, a bright eye, and glossy hair. When
one grows older one wakes up in a very different state. Dull eyes, red,
swollen cheeks, dry lips, the hair and beard all disarranged, impart an
old, fatigued, worn-out look to the face.
The Baron opened his travelling dressing-case, made himself as tidy as
he could, and then waited.
The engine whistled and the train stopped, and his neighbour moved. No
doubt he was awake. They started off again, and then an oblique ray of
the sun shone into the carriage just on to the sleeper, who moved again,
shook himself, and then calmly showed his face.
It was a young, fair, pretty, stout woman, and the Baron looked at her
in amazement. He did not know what to believe. He could really have sworn
that it was his wife--but wonderfully changed for the better:
stouter--why, she had grown as stout as he was--only it suited her much
better than it did him.
She looked at him quietly, did not seem to recognise him, and then
slowly laid aside her wraps. She had that calm assurance of a woman who
is sure of herself, the insolent audacity of a first awaking, knowing and
feeling that she was in her full beauty and freshness.
The Baron really lost his head. Was it his wife, or somebody else who
was as like her as any sister could be? As he had not seen her for six
years he might be mistaken.
She yawned, and he knew her by the gesture. She turned and looked at
him again, calmly, indifferently, as if she scarcely saw him, and then
looked out at the country again.
He was upset and dreadfully perplexed, and waited, looking at her
sideways, steadfastly.
Yes; it was certainly his wife. How could he possibly have doubted?
There could certainly not be two noses like that, and a thousand
recollections flashed through him, slight details of her body, a
beauty-spot on one of her limbs and another on her back. How often he had
kissed them! He felt the old feeling of the intoxication of love stealing
over him, and he called to mind the sweet odour of her skin, her smile
when she put her arms on to his shoulders, the soft intonations of her
voice, all her graceful, coaxing ways.
But how she had changed and improved! It was she and yet not she. He
thought her riper, more developed, more of a woman, more seductive, more
desirable, adorably desirable.
And this strange, unknown woman, whom he had accidentally met in a
railway-carriage belonged to him; he had only to say to her:
"I insist upon it."
He had formerly slept in her arms, existed only in her love, and now
he had found her again certainly, but so changed that he scarcely knew
her. It was another, and yet she at the same time. It was another who had
been born, formed, and grown since he had left her. It was she, indeed;
she whom he had possessed but whom he found with her manners modified, her
features more formed, her smile less affected, her gestures surer. There
were two women in one, mingling a great deal of what was new and unknown
with many sweet recollections of the past. There was something
extraordinary, disturbing, exciting about it--a kind of mystery of love in
which there floated a delicious confusion. It was his wife in a new body
and in new flesh which his lips had never pressed.
And he remembered that in six or seven years everything changes in us,
only outlines can be recognised, and sometimes even they disappear.
The blood, the hair, the skin, all change, and are reconstituted, and
when people have not seen each other for a long time they find, when they
meet, another totally different being, although it be the same and bear
the same name.
And the heart also can change. Ideas may be modified and renewed,
so that in forty years of life we may, by gradual and constant
transformations, become four or five totally new and different beings.
He dwelt on this thought till it troubled him; it had first taken
possession of him when he surprised her in the Princess's room. He was
not the least angry; it was not the same woman that he was looking
at--that thin, excitable little doll of those days.
What was he to do? How should he address her? and what could he say
to her? Had she recognised him?
The train stopped again. He got up, bowed, and said: "Berthe, do you
want anything I can bring you?"
She looked at him from head to foot, and answered, without showing the
slightest surprise or confusion or anger, but with the most perfect
indifference:
"I do not want anything--thank you."
He got out and walked up and down the platform a little in order to
think, and, as it were, to recover his senses after a fall. What should
he do now? If he got into another carriage it would look as if he were
running away. Should he be gallant? That would look as if he were asking
for forgiveness. Should he speak as if he were her master? He would
look like a cad, and besides, he really had no right to do so.
He got in again and took his place.
During his absence she had hastily arranged her dress and hair, and was
now lying stretched out on the seat, radiant, but without showing any
emotion.
He turned to her, and said: "My dear Berthe, since this singular chance
has brought us together after a separation of six years--a quite friendly
separation--are we to continue to look upon each other as irreconcilable
enemies? We are shut up together, tête-à-tête, which is so much the better
or so much the worse. I am not going to get into another carriage, so
don't you think it is preferable to talk as friends till the end of our
journey?"
She answered quite calmly again:
"Just as you please."
Then he suddenly stopped, really not knowing what to say; but as he had
plenty of assurance, he sat down on the middle seat, and said:
"Well, I see I must court you; so much the better. It is, however,
really a pleasure, for you are charming. You cannot imagine how you have
improved in the last six years. I do not know any woman who could give me
that delightful sensation which I experienced just now when you emerged
from your wraps. I could really have thought such a change impossible."
Without moving her head or looking at him, she said: "I cannot say the
same with regard to you; you have certainly deteriorated a great deal."
He got red and confused, and then, with a smile of resignation, he said:
"You are rather hard."
"Why?" was her reply. "I am only stating facts. I don't suppose you
intend to offer me your love? It must, therefore, be a matter of perfect
indifference to you what I think about you. But I see it is a painful
subject, so let us talk of something else. What have you been doing since
I last saw you?"
He felt rather out of countenance, and stammered:
"I? I have travelled, hunted, and grown old, as you see. And you?"
She said, quite calmly: "I have always kept up appearances, as you
ordered me."
He was very nearly saying something brutal, but he checked himself, and
kissed his wife's hand:
"And I thank you," he said.
She was surprised. He was indeed strong and always master of himself.
He went on: "As you have acceded to my first request, shall we now talk
without any bitterness?"
She made a little gesture of disdain.
"Bitterness! I don't feel any; you are a complete stranger to me; I am
only trying to keep up a difficult conversation."
He was still looking at her, carried away in spite of her harshness,
and he felt seized with a brutal desire, the desire of the master.
Perceiving that she had hurt his feelings, she said:
"How old are you now? I thought you were younger than you look."
He grew rather pale:
"I am forty-five;" and then he added: "I forgot to ask after Princess
de Raynes. Are you still intimate with her?"
She looked at him as if she hated him:
"Yes, certainly I am. She is very well, thank you."
They remained sitting side by side, agitated and irritated. Suddenly
he said:
"My dear Berthe, I have changed my mind. You are my wife, and I expect
you to come with me to-day. You have, I think, improved both morally
and physically, and I am going to take you back again. I am your husband
and it is my right to do so."
She was quite taken aback, and looked at him, trying to divine his
thoughts; but his face was resolute and impenetrable.
"I am very sorry," she said, "but I have made other engagements."
"So much the worse for you," was his reply. "The law gives me the power,
and I mean to use it."
They were getting to Marseilles, and the train whistled and slackened
speed. The Baronne got up, carefully rolled up her wraps, and then turning
to her husband, she said:
"My dear Raymond, do not make a bad use of the tête-à-tête which I had
carefully prepared. I wished to take precautions, according to your
advice, so that I might have nothing to fear from you or from other
people, whatever might happen. You are going to Nice, are you not?"
"I shall go wherever you go."
"Not at all; just listen to me, and I am sure that you will leave me
in peace. In a few moments, when we get to the station, you will see the
Princess de Raynes and the Comtesse Henriot waiting for me with their
husbands. I wished them to see us, and to know that we had spent the night
together in the railway-carriage. Don't be alarmed; they will tell it
everywhere as a most surprising fact.
"I told you just now that I had most carefully followed your advice
and saved appearances. Anything else does not matter, does it? Well, in
order to do so, I wished to be seen with you. You told me carefully to
avoid any scandal, and I am avoiding it, for, I am afraid--I am afraid--"
She waited till the train had quite stopped, and as her friends ran up
to open the carriage door, she said:
"I am afraid that I am enceinte."
The Princess stretched out her arms to embrace her, and the Baronne
said, pointing to the Baron, who was dumb with astonishment, and trying to
get at the truth:
"You do not recognise Raymond? He has certainly changed a good deal,
and he agreed to come with me so that I might not travel alone. We take
little trips like this occasionally, like good friends who cannot live
together. We are going to separate here; he has had enough of me
already."
She put out her hand, which he took mechanically, and then she jumped
out on to the platform among her friends, who were waiting for her.
The Baron hastily shut the carriage door, for he was too much disturbed
to say a word or come to any determination. He heard his wife's voice, and
their merry laughter as they went away.
He never saw her again, nor did he ever discover whether she had told
him a lie or was speaking the truth.