THE PROMENADE OF SIN
"This curl of hair belongs to a daughter of
Ra-Hor-Xuti, who has in her every essence
of divinity."
_ Orbiney Papyrus, Pl._ xi. 4.
A prisoner in her abbatial seat, she had quite the air of a fourteenth
century person. Dressed in red, her feet rested on a black cushion;
her fingers, lit with garnets and opals, perhaps with cassidony, and
with agates, played with the white girdle which tied a robe with heavy
purple undulations; her head, a pale flower, leaned against the carved
wainscot; the shadow of the ogive framed the blonde aureole.
Altogether nonplussed by the attitude which seemed to demand the
genuflexion of a worshiper, instead of the cordial greeting of a
friend, he remained standing near the door, seeking some word to begin.
For a few seconds Sixtine enjoyed the astonishment she had anticipated,
then skilfully rose and, with a trace of lingering vanity, offered her
hand. He took it coldly, seeing that she had tried to deceive him with
a _mise en scène_.
The thread broke and all the pearls of the embroidery fell one after
the other; it was the work of this evening to fill the silken thread,
to put the scattered jewels back into their design.
Both busied themselves with good will over the task and Sixtine, who
felt the peril of having travestied, even with a worthy attire, the
primitive image remaining in the eyes of Entragues, quickly became
again the simple and sincerely strange woman of the first hour. At
least Hubert, at the sight of some gestures, at the sound of some
words, so recreated her; he gradually recovered his ease and renewed
with Sixtine the chat commenced in the country place.
The heavy branches of the firs drooped above their heads; a stag
passed, hounds passed, Diana, on a golden crescent, passed.
Sixtine threw a veil of green silk over the rose-colored shade. She
remarked:
"Diana provides her own light. The hunt will continue by moonlight. Is
it dreamlike enough, thus?"
"It is in such a light that I beheld you one night, a surprising night
of revery or vision: _E par chie sia una cosa venuta_...."
"_Da cielo in terro_," continued Sixtine. "My mother was Venetian; she
made me read a few Italian poets. Some scraps of it have remained; she
did not even give me her hair, for I am blond like my father, a pale
blond that is my despair, for I have not a blond soul."
"Do you think that the soul and the hair are always of the same color,
almost to the nuance? It is true that nuances are of consequence.
The feminine hair assumes more than thirty tints that are entirely
different and can be depicted by precise words, half of which are daily
used, but at random. These tints blend and intermingle to infinity and
the very eye can hardly define them by immediate comparison. This is
so true that, as you know, you can never match hair. Would it not be
amusing to make a classification of feminine characters according to
the terms of the nuances of their hair? It would suffice to determine
the exact tone so as to be able to pronounce upon the character, the
passional faculties, the inclination towards friendship or love,
the sentiment of duty, the maternal tenderness, and the like. Those
_somnambulists_ who make use of this principle without method and
without preliminary studies, occasionally reach curious revelations.
In five or six years, this science will be perfected, and those who
possess it to perfection will be able to determine a man's character
through a lock of hair, and will know what to do in order to take
advantage of him. But fools and the ignorant always escape the power
of intelligence; they will acquire the facile ruse of shaving their
skulls, and this will once more prove the futility of all knowledge and
the vanity of mind."
"Apply to me the science of to-morrow. What is the color of my soul?"
asked Sixtine, wishing to make use, like all women, of the least
general idea.
"A changing blond, a flame blond, or if you wish to decompose the
nuance, tawny, ash and gold. Tawny is savagery, ash is nonchalance,
gold is passion. Your horoscope will be like this: a woman fluctuating
between the desire to be enchained to tenderness and her love of
independence, but who will resign herself to the choice which
circumstances make for her; as indolence is a bad body guard, it is
probable that she will be won...."
"Taken!" cried Sixtine, "taken! I told you so. I await the robber!"
"Indeed, it amounts to the same thing. Won or taken by some one she
perhaps will not love, but who will have been finer and stronger than
the others. Conclusion: the final acquiescence of her nonchalance."
"No! not that. The robber must please me. But why the future? Perhaps
the destinies are already accomplished? What do you know of that?"
"Oh! nothing," said Entragues, somewhat troubled. "Only, men always
dream in a woman's presence of the morrow, never of the day before. It
seems that the morrow belongs to them, as a necessary consequence of
the present moment, and when they cannot regulate it for their personal
profit, vanity, at least, will not be displeased to adapt it somewhat
by insinuation. The most foolish among them believes himself born to
be the director of conscience; and, in fact, since they cannot govern
themselves, it is perhaps their true vocation."
"It is certain," Sixtine answered, "that women are not happier for
having won the liberty of the bridle on their necks. They generally
want too many things at one time to wish seriously for any one thing,
and it is rendering them a service to fix the road where their desires
can gallop more at ease. Unfortunately, tyranny is neighbor to good
counsel; one cannot always distinguish one from the other. That is why
we have revolted. Then it is a great temptation to a man to legislate
upon all things, as soon as a woman has accepted some of his advice;
orders follow, despotism commences, and insurrection is justified."
"You speak, Madame, like a statesman, and I am astonished that you are
not somewhat of an Egeria!"
"I was and I wearied of the rôle. So your jest is not to the purpose.
It is perhaps amusing to lead women, but not men. The Egeria they
want holds in leash a tiny plump creature with drooping ears; Rops
has designed it, and while I do not frequent the private museums, I
have seen it. An Egeria by day, and it is always the same one, whose
soul becomes visible to their spirituality under the most secret and
revealing hair. It is there they go to seek the soul's color."
Sixtine had spoken with a juvenile warmth which discouraged Entragues.
It was the indignation of a woman whose intelligence has been disdained
and who, considering herself a political collaborator, has seen her
rôle reduced to that of a carnal instrument. He pretended to have only
remarked the lively side of her talk, and replied:
"I did not dare, in my theory of the science of hair, to put all the
possible harmonies in line. The clothes, moreover, make a further
research altogether puerile, partaking of a sickly curiosity. Yet,
though the agreement of tones is far from being perfect always, one
must take account of it. Confess, too, Madame, that if it is not the
palace and residence of Psyche, it is at least her country house."
"Well," said Sixtine, laughing good-naturedly, "I pardon you for that
last word, but do not begin again."
"But it was you...."
"That is not the same thing. I did not insist. Hush! you will spoil
for me all the verses in which tresses are mentioned, and even those
of Berenice will become suspect. You have seen me 'under the ephemeral
moon.' I would like to know just when."
"Seen? Yes! I have particular faculties of vision and sometimes I
evoked you near me by magic. The object I strongly think about is
incorporated before my eyes in a visible form and often becomes
palpable to the touch. I have felt presences of persons who were
actually quite remote from me. And this does not at all astonish me,
for regular sensation is only a true hallucination. For me, it is a
matter of indifference whether it be true or false. I hardly worry
about it."
"Then all women are at your mercy? If a woman you loved shunned your
entreaties, would imagination ... would imagination suffice?"
"No, that would be the vilest of sins, the most sacrilegious, and
the most useless. Of what avail is an unshared carnal pleasure?
No, such acts as those are only too dismal. I am not the unchaste
passerby of the poet, I do not delight in ridiculous, incomplete and
dull profanations. No more am I a Jean-Jacques. The Most High has not
favored me with a gift that would be fatal to the women of my time."
"Do you believe that these hallucinations would be so disagreeable
to them? For when one wishes to please, one wishes to please in
everything."
"There are feminine perversities," Entragues returned, "that are
sufficiently frightful to content one with the metaphysics of pleasure.
But I see beyond. Parallel dreams strive, at the same moment, towards
the same end. Result: mutual possession at a distance. What a triumph
for love! What a resource for separated lovers!"
"It is not for you to speak of our perversity, you who are endowed with
such a perverse imagination."
She gasped a little for breath and fanned herself, oh! without fear,
the feeble sex, and with a firm head.
A short silence followed.
This unusual costume which had first broken Entragues chain of
sensation, now delighted him. He was thankful to Sixtine for not having
appeared in a house robe of the latest style, for this would have
swerved the talk to the vulgar stupidity of Parisian gossip or of a
dialogue in modern comedy. A somewhat different intimacy with Sixtine
seemed extremely desirable; a second and identical bifurcation led his
sentiment, starting from curiosity, to desire.
"Introduce me to your history." He repeated to himself the first
measure of the symphonic sonnet, and the very affright, in its recall,
pursued the heels of the desire.
She reflectively watched him, not without little impatient movements of
her fingers.
"She who would make him her slave, would doubtless make him wise."
"Yes, doubtless."
Sixtine pronounced these few words gravely, in a cordial manner.
Under the green of the old tapestry that hung from the ceiling and
covered a whole side of the wall, in the still and cool room, a warmth
of spring was diffused in golden waves; it was suddenly wafted from the
vaporized intimacy.
Uttering the appropriate trifles, to which Entragues lightly replied,
Sixtine rose, lit a blue flame under the copper kettle, opened a box of
cigarettes, moved about in such an adorable setting that he smiled with
joy to see her go and come, lavishing pretty movements and beautifully
arched gestures.
She poured tea.
"Now recollect. You owe me my commentary. What is that vision in which
I appeared with 'the brow studded with stars?'"
He told of the astonishing apparition, adding that there was a story
which Monsieur de B----. knew.
Sixtine interrupted him and pronounced the already familiar words:
"If you wish, I shall tell you the story of the portrait chamber."
Entragues started and grew pale. This exceeded the bounds of
probability. With a weak voice, he answered:
"I really would like to hear it."
Sixtine began:
HISTORY OF THE PORTRAIT CHAMBER
"It is a tragic and rather strange story...." She stopped, seeming to
summon her memory. Then:
"No, I should indeed prefer not to tell you it."
"Oh! please," urged Entragues, like a child who opens two wide, curious
eyes.
"No, sometime later, perhaps. If you had asked it down there, before
those verses, before a coincidence which I guess and which disturbs me!
I cannot just now. When you learn it, you will understand, and this
very reticence will seem clear to you.... It is said that it has never
lied.... Well, listen: 'The Château de Rabodange at one time was the
hereditary domain....' It is too much for me.... Childishness? Don't
say that!"
"But I said nothing. The emotion I see you in does not suggest such
words to me. Let us forget the story...."
"Well," replied Sixtine, "try to guess it. You can. I give you
permission. Perhaps you will tell it to me. Let us talk no more of it
and please go. I get up early and I must sleep. You see that I treat
you like a friend."
She had such a nervous air that Hubert asked for nothing better than
to obey her, not wishing to spoil his evening by the blunder of a
reserve which henceforth might be necessary before the woman who no
longer seemed mistress of herself. It was the moment for retreat or
the moment for a bold stroke. He pursued the first course, the second
not having entered his mind. When it was a matter of other persons,
or when he reflected at leisure on his own sentimental adventures,
Entragues possessed a remarkable lucidity of mind; before the cause
itself--the cause in person, throbbing and eloquent--he was confused,
like a school-boy, and obeyed, unaware of his stupidity, those false
insinuations of women who ask for a violet so as to get a rose. He
therefore made ready to leave, saying:
"I would not wish to oppose such good habits."
"Is it not written," she responded in the same light tone, "'flee all
occasions of sinning?'"
"And even Saint Bernard, in his _Meditations_, considers the
contemplated sin as serious as the perpetrated one. Not to flee the
occasion is to anticipate the offense and render it inexcusable. But I
do not see how early rising specially agrees with this precept. On the
contrary, it seems to me that the longer the day, the more numerous are
the stones on the road. Then, can it be that you want to travel along
the road of perfection?"
"I am anxious not to soil my life with any chance entanglement. Are not
evil connections less to be feared from seven o'clock until noon, than
from seven o'clock until midnight? The most elementary reasoning would
easily demonstrate this, I fancy."
"Ah!" Hubert said, feeling the need of a mischievous air. "You know the
hours when Sin promenades, and have you encountered Sin?"
"Often," Sixtine jestingly responded, "often and Her Highness always
favors me with a smile. She is not proud and she willingly offers her
hand; you can see that she loves men in a friendly rather than in a
princely way; between them is an old familiarity. Daily she returned
with joy to the legitimate bed fallen to her lot. By an astonishing
multiplicity of faces, statures, gestures, voices, Sin courts women,
clothing herself in the dreamed-of form, and that is why I would rather
bring to an end my promenade before she commences hers. But, I pray
you, please go. Yes, come occasionally, at the same hour. _A bientôt_."