Mme. Chambannes was waiting for him in the smoking-room, which had been
arranged as a study.
In the center stood a large table, on a dark red carpet. There was an
English crystal inkstand, bought for the occasion, Oriental cigarettes
in a cup, a note-book bound in morocco and gold, and on each side of the
table, an Empire armchair. To the Iris perfume emanating from Zozé was
added an aroma of incense which pervaded the house, even to the hall.
Mme. Chambannes took M. Raindal's hat and gloves, which he hesitated to
deposit on the table.
They sat facing each other and the lesson began.
First of all, M. Raindal dictated a list of books which Zozé was to get.
Mme. Chambannes wrote rapidly, her lips moving a little. The pale rose
of the electric lamp left the top of her hair in the shadow; but her
clear-cut oval face remained in full light. Powder, spread with a light
hand, covered her flesh so artfully that it seemed a natural velvet.
Rays of light skimmed it without being reflected, and they touched
likewise the soft, thin silk of her afternoon dress. The shades were
pale, its pattern indistinct, being covered with a quantity of creamy
lace. The white tone of it gave to her face a revived brilliancy of
early morning purity. She seemed hardly dressed at all under the ample
folds of her robe and as fresh as if she had just emerged from her bath.
She looked up whenever M. Raindal paused. Her watching eyes spread an
overflowing tenderness around the master. M. Raindal coughed to cover
his discomfort; he brought his forearms and hanging hands closer to his
frame and seemed anxious to withdraw further back.
When he had dictated his list, Zozé asked him:
"And now?"
"Now, well, you will have to work, dear lady, and to learn to work
alone! In spite of my eagerness to help you, you must realize that there
will be weeks when...."
Zozé interrupted him. "I know, my dear master, I know.... They will not
be lessons; ... we shall have our little talks ... friendly advice, when
you can, when you are free...."
M. Raindal nodded his approval and drew towards himself one of the large
volumes of Ebers's work on Egypt. He turned the pages and pushed the
volume towards Zozé whenever he found an illustration or when he had to
give an explanation. She bent over the table. The soft curls of her hair
sometimes lightly tickled the forehead of M. Raindal. Quickly, he would
fall back; and his anxiety amused her. She soon felt ashamed of herself
for teasing him and said abruptly:
"Oh! we are very uncomfortable!... Will you allow me, dear master, to
sit beside you?"
"Of course, dear lady!"
Nevertheless, they had barely taken up again the study of the engravings
when M. Raindal deplored his ready willingness.
Zozé's perfume, now so close to him, made him feel dizzy with its
effluvia. Whenever she bent down, the light texture of her floating
dress released a stronger whiff. But it was no longer iris or violet; it
was a sweet, warm odor like the scent of fruit, the live perfume of her
flesh, married to that of the scent. And M. Raindal's comments became
muddled.
Of course, he knew that a chosen few possessed the gift of radiating a
delightful fragrance through their epidermis. Several personages of
antiquity were thus favored; there was, notably Cleopatra, according to
a papyrus found at Boulaq, and quoted by M. Raindal in his book;
Plutarch was no less precise concerning the skin of Alexander.
But, in recollecting these facts, and other similar instances, the
master was but increasing the confusion of his ideas. He vainly groped
for words. Each time that the perfume struck his nostrils, he pinched
them shyly, as if they were threatened with a poisonous gas. He often
remained speechless before a picture, unable to complete his
interpretation of it. Absentmindedly, he dreamed of Alexander's skin and
the flesh of Cleopatra; he wished also that Zozé would not keep her
gilded armchair so close to his.
"One word, may I say one tiny word, if I am not disturbing you?"
Mme. de Marquesse it was who made this appeal; she merely slipped
between the hanging portières her profile with its powerful chin and the
one white-gloved hand that held the curtain back.
"Come in, dear!" Mme. Chambannes said.
The two women kissed each other. M. Raindal saluted Mme. de Marquesse,
and casually noticed that she wore a blue coat and skirt, black-braided
and with a girth about the hips like a riding-habit. They begged his
permission and retired to the next drawing-room. M. Raindal sighed
deeply. Now that he found himself in calm solitude he suddenly lost all
his anxiety. His impression was one of hidden pleasure, danger overcome
and flattering mystery. In this new mood, he would even have thought it
not unpleasant if his colleagues of the Academy had seen him in this
luxurious room and near two such charming persons who treated him with
so much respect. He was standing before the mirror, smoothing down his
beard, his lower jaw brought forward, when the ladies returned.
Mme. de Marquesse wished to go. Zozé gracefully stood in her way, her
arms stretched across the portière in a Sarah Bernhardt attitude.
"No! not yet!... Am I not right, dear master? Mme. de Marquesse cannot
go like this?"
M. Raindal agreed silently. Zozé rang the bell and had port wine and
biscuits brought in. The latter had a taste of vanilla for which M.
Raindal showed great partiality. Mme. Chambannes wrote down for him the
address of the confectioner who sold them. Mme. de Marquesse pretended
to know a better brand. Each of the two praised her own dealer. The port
wine had enlivened them--and, laughingly, forefingers stretched out,
they taxed each other with appalling cases of _gourmandise_. They called
upon the master to act as referee but he gallantly declined. The
argument made him laugh--and also the port wine, for he had drunk two
glasses in quick succession, and his temples were warming up.
"Well, we are forgetting our work!" Zozé exclaimed suddenly.
Before M. Raindal had time to word a reply, the curtain was once more
drawn aside. A bald, corpulent ecclesiastic, who seemed to be in his
fifties and wore a broad smile under his broad spectacles, advanced
slowly into the room.
"Ah! it is you, my dear abbé!" Zozé exclaimed in a tone which showed so
much sincere surprise that it was hard to guess whether the priest's
visit had been planned beforehand or brought about by mere hazard.
She introduced the men to each other:
"M. l'abbé Touronde, director of the Villedouillet orphanage, our
neighbor in the country and one of our best friends ... M. Raindal...."
The master bowed with the ceremonious affectation he always showed in
order to dissimulate his aversion towards those of the cloth.
Respectfully, the abbé asked, with a slight Southern accent:
"M. Raindal, the author of the _Life of Cleopatra_?"
"Quite so!" Zozé confirmed.
The abbé Touronde congratulated him profusely. He was not acquainted
with the book itself, but had read enough accounts of it in the
newspapers, to speak of it freely. He praised the master upon some
particular chapters. M. Raindal thanked him with modest gestures of his
hand as if he were fending off the compliments.
But the abbé went on, in a slightly droning voice. The book appealed to
him all the more because he was no stranger to its subject matter. He
had once studied Egyptian history thoroughly for a brochure he was
preparing concerning the sect of the United Coptic Church. He had,
moreover, published in the _Annals of Christian Archeology_, two
articles dealing with the Hagiographs of the Thebaid. M. Raindal
confessed he had not read them; and the abbé volunteered "if it were not
too indiscreet" to send the issues of the periodical that contained
them.
His head was oval yet chubby, all flesh, as it were, but for a crown of
brown hair around his baldness. M. Raindal thought he had a good-natured
smile. Gradually the master thawed out. He imparted to the abbé some
picturesque details concerning the Thebaid which, from professional
instinct, he had explored. The priest listened studiously, showed him
deference and solemnly nodded from the back of his head. Zozé took
advantage of a pause to ask:
"You will stay for dinner, M. l'abbé?"
"Well, yes, madame," he replied without hesitation, his round cheeks
distended in a cordial smile. "Yes, surely, if you will have me!"
"And you, dear master?" Zozé pursued. "Will you join the party?"
"Oh, it is impossible, dear lady," M. Raindal sighed. "I am expected....
Believe me, I am very sorry...."
He ceased abruptly as Chambannes entered, wearily caressing his thick
hinge-like mustache. Everyone stood up. He shook hands with M. Raindal
and asked, patting Zozé's neck, as one might do to a school-girl:
"Well, how did the lesson go, my dear sir?... Are you satisfied with
your pupil?"
"Very much gratified, monsieur ... an excellent beginning."
"Oh, we have not accomplished very much!" Zozé said. "But you are coming
next Thursday!... Thursday, I shall forbid the door.... I shall be at
home to no one.... You promise to come, don't you, dear master?"
M. Raindal promised. Zozé and Germaine went with him into the
drawing-room and the latter left with him. They shook hands as they
parted, Mme. de Marquesse pulling his arm so sharply that he felt a
cramp in the shoulder. He looked at his watch under a lamp-post. It was
a quarter to seven.
"Sapristi!" he murmured, horrified.
And once more he hailed a cab.
* * * * *
The boldness of fear moved him to anticipate irony or unwelcome queries
by an affectation of jovial talkativeness.
In a light vein, he told of his visit as if it had been a séance at the
Institute or a lecture at the Collège de France. He multiplied the
details, described the dresses and even gave an imitation of the abbé's
southern accent.
Thérèse affected to be interested and replied with good humor; she
seemed to have forgotten the morning's quarrel.
Mme. Raindal was silent. Why should she protest? Why should she wish to
dissuade her husband from this fatal intercourse with people devoid of
religion? Did she not know that he was irrevocably damned, marked
beforehand, because of his own atheism, for eternal torments? She
remembered, moreover, the master's anger at the occasion of the
Chambannes' dinner party: it was still alive in her mind and closed her
mouth with wise caution.
She only allowed herself a frown when M. Raindal gave a parody of the
abbé; her pained expression made Thérèse laugh so much that her father
began to have his suspicions concerning her good-natured remarks.
This gayety of hers, this sweetness--were they truly frank? Was not
Thérèse laughing at him? M. Raindal examined her furtively; then, waxing
cautious, brusquely cut short his narrative.
He was more reserved the next Thursday. He barely mentioned his visit to
the rue de Prony more than to transmit Zozé's compliments to the ladies;
and the following Thursday, he said nothing at all.
On the fourth Thursday, towards half past six, a telegram-card from M.
Raindal was received in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. He asked his
family not to expect him, as he was detained by the gracious entreaties
of Mme. Chambannes. Under his signature, Zozé had written in her large
handwriting: _Approved_.
To be quite frank, when M. Raindal had left home that day, he was not
altogether unaware that he would not return for dinner, since he had, on
his last visit, almost promised to be the guest of his pupil for the
following Thursday. Nevertheless, he had done his best beforehand to
consider this escapade as if it were to be an impromptu, which he had no
cause to expect.
It was Thérèse who opened the message. She read it, shrugged her
shoulders and threw it into the fire.
"What is it?" Mme. Raindal asked, coming in at that moment.
Thérèse replied sarcastically.
"A telegram from father who is staying over there to dinner!"
Over there! At these words the two women instinctively exchanged
glances. Then, at once, seeing her mother's alarmed expression, Thérèse
bent down over her notes. What was the use of saying more? They had
never had any possible communion of the spirit; they had never formed
against M. Raindal one of those little jocular alliances of the kind
that amused the master and his daughter at the expense of Mme. Raindal!
Bah! she must needs perforce resign herself to a solitary
enjoyment--alone as usual, alone as she was everywhere--of the humorous
side of this adventure!
"So, he is dining there?" the old lady repeated disconsolately.
"Yes, mother; as I told you!" Thérèse replied impatiently.
"And you think he will go there every Thursday?"
"I don't know."
In the same vexed tone, Mme. Raindal went on:
"Oh! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!... I do hope these Chambannes will bring him
into no danger!... Tell me, you ... don't you think you could say
something to him?...
"Say _what_ to him?"
"Tell him ... tell him ... to take care, for instance, not to entangle
himself too deeply.... Dear, you know better than I do how to speak to
him.... You are ... you are better friends!"
With this veiled reproach the old lady complained unwittingly of her
isolation, of her life-long relegation with her God, and her fears
moved the heart of Thérèse.
"Listen!" she said more affectionately.... "Listen to me, mother! I
assure you that there is as yet no danger.... Therefore, don't worry
before there is any need to.... And if you'll believe me, let us meet
father with pleasant faces; we mustn't tease him.... I know him; we
would only succeed in pushing him still deeper into the intimacy of
those people."
"And later?..."
"Later?... we shall see. We shall discuss it together and find out what
is best under the circumstances."
"Then you are willing that I should talk with you now and then
about...."
She hesitated.
"Well ... of this ... of this affair?"
Thérèse rose to kiss her mother and held her tightly.
"Of course, dear mother!... You are so funny!... Why not?"
A tear rolled down the cheek of Mme. Raindal.
"I don't know.... You have such a wicked air, you and your father ...
sometimes, each at your desk, with never a word for me when I come
in.... Upon my word I am afraid of you both!"
And she left, taking short, weary steps, to warn Brigitte in time.
At the same time, Mme. Chambannes, to please M. Raindal, was giving him
the names of her guests.
"I assure you, dear master; it will be absolutely among ourselves.... My
Uncle and Aunt Panhias, our friend, young M. de Meuze, and perhaps the
abbé Touronde...."
She had hardly said his name when the latter entered the smoking-room.
He evinced great pleasure at meeting M. Raindal. Behind his spectacles,
his eyes shone with joy. Zozé started them in conversation and ran out
to dress.
"Yes," M. Raindal said politely, "your articles seemed to me excellent,
well thought out, replete with learning.... I am surprised--should I
admit it?--that with this obvious gift for science, you have not made a,
what shall I say? a more voluminous, more considerable literary
output...."
"Oh, dear master, you are too indulgent, too ... too kind!..." the abbé
stammered, his voice quivering with satisfaction.
He then justified himself eloquently for his lack of literary
production. Could anyone rightly charge him with being lazy? No, his
sterility was due to other causes. First of all, there was the orphanage
which required his assiduous, daily care, care of all sorts, financial
as well as moral, literary as much as administrative. Then, there were
his enemies, his numberless enemies who, had he published more works,
would not have failed to discover in that fact a new motive for calumny,
as they found some in every act of his, even the most virtuous, even
the most innocent!
For there was no doubt about it, the abbé was, alas, the most
calumniated priest of Seine-et-Oise. All the parties hated him! They all
rivaled in ill-using him, in bringing him into discredit. Under the
pretext that he was sought for at the neighboring châteaux--that of Mme.
Chambannes, for instance, the Château des Frettes--the radicals of the
region accused him before the prefect of carrying on a reactionary
propaganda. On the other hand, anonymous denunciations poured in at the
bishop's palace, and they bore the clerical hall-mark. They asserted
that the abbé Touronde compromised daily--here the abbé's voice was
lowered and became confidential--the supereminent dignity of his cloth
in worldly frivolity and association with heretics.
"Heretics!" the priest repeated with indignation. "Hah! can I pick and
choose? Can I ask the donors for their regular baptism certificate?
Should I decline the money of the Israelites who help me bring up my
children?... Poor little things! Were it not for them, Heaven knows that
the world, mundane frivolities, would not see much of me...."
He paused suddenly, as if he had heard the voice of his own conscience:
"Yes, yes, Bastien Touronde, you would still go there, because you enjoy
good dinners, the sight of pretty women, luxury and comfort, and also
because in the midst of this society, which knows little of dogmas, you
are aware that your presence among the temptations causes much less
scandal than it would elsewhere...."
And the abbé's lips whispered softly, as they did on his visits to the
bishop, when Monseigneur blamed him for his worldly behavior:
"Non culpabiliter! non culpabiliter!"
"I beg your pardon?" said M. Raindal, who had listened only with half an
ear to these long complaints.
The abbé Touronde started.
"I was thinking of these bad men, dear master. In my own mind I was
abusing them.... You know, we of the South, we are warm-blooded and our
tongue is not always sufficiently Christian!..."
The return of Mme. Chambannes, followed by her Uncle and Aunt Panhias,
brought the dialogue to an end. The introductions were made. Panhias was
in evening clothes with a black tie. His head hung down, like that of a
thinker, but the expression was that of a gray-headed bookkeeper. His
gait, the way he stood and the folds of his bearded face showed the
fatigue of one of those office clerks to whom money has come too late.
Mme. Panhias, on the other hand, seemed optimistic and jovial. She wore
a brown silk dress tightly stretched around her ample shape. She rolled
her _r_'s more than Mme. Chambannes did, and only a connoisseur could
have perceived the Oriental in her, through her semi-Spanish,
semi-South-American accent.
A few minutes later Gerald and, behind him, George Chambannes entered
the smoking-room. Both were in evening dress. Instinctively M. Raindal
lowered his eyes to examine his own frock coat. The butler announced
that Madame was served and the party went into the dining-room.
The dinner was cordial and merry. M. Raindal felt no longer the shyness
and the self-consciousness of an unwelcome stranger which had made him
stiff at first. From so much intercourse with the Chambannes, he had
become familiar with the names of their relations, the ways of the house
and the tastes of the guests. In consequence, there were very few
conversations in which he now hesitated to take his share owing to
discretion, fear of a faux-pas or ignorance of the subject. Nothing
seemed to trouble him any more. The ogling and the perfume of Mme.
Chambannes now proved to be nothing more than stimulants to his ready
tongue. They addressed each other as comrades, with a slight touch of
fatherly superiority on the part of M. Raindal and of willing
submissiveness on that of Mme. Chambannes. Even Chambannes made use,
when he spoke to the master, of such turns of speech as were reserved as
a rule for old friends. How different from the first dinner, when M.
Raindal had felt himself so awkward and slow in recovering his
heartiness. When Uncle Panhias admitted, absent-mindedly or under the
effect of the wines, that Smyrna was his native town, the master almost
congratulated him! Smyrna, the pearl of Tonia, was an exquisite city;
its Greek name meant myrrh or incense, the perfume beloved of the gods.
He never stopped until dessert was served, praising the city, supporting
his theory with anecdotes and historical reminiscences. Aunt Panhias
thanked him with enthusiastic replies that were to each of his sentences
as the rolling of a drum.
When they went to the smoking-room, Zozé asked M. Raindal's leave to
light a cigarette. Then, by slow degrees, she went over to Gerald. He
had let himself fall down on the divan and was sending spirals of smoke
to the ceiling through his pouting lips. She sat beside him and asked
coaxingly:
"What are you making a face for?"
He did not reply at first but, after a while, he grunted. "Is this
kangaroo going to be here often?"
Zozé suppressed a smile.
"I don't know! I hope you are not jealous."
Gerald sneered contemptuously.
"Jealous!... Well.... No!... But he does bore me somewhat!... Your
little friend is too fond of hearing himself talk."
He rose and joined Chambannes, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy
in front of the liqueur cabinet.
M. Raindal was unconsciously gratified when he saw their conversation
ended. He was taking careful stock of "young M. de Meuze," as Zozé had
termed him; young Gerald was in the light of a lamp over which he bent
in order to relight his cigar. Well, he was not so very young, in spite
of appearances! The light now revealed at the corners of his eyes, of
his lips and of his nostrils, through his still firm, youthful face,
undefined lineaments, the colorless signs of forthcoming lines; and the
veins were beginning to stand out on his temples.
This put M. Raindal in good humor, a feeling that confused him, since he
had pretentions to generosity and magnanimity. Was it any reason,
because M. de Meuze did not bestow admiring glances upon him, because
the man's face had worn a constant expression of bored peevishness, to
rejoice in these signs of the fatal decrepitude which advancing
years....
Mme. Chambannes interrupted him in the midst of this return to fairness.
"Tell me, dear master!... What about our great visit to the Louvre?"
Alas, they must give up the idea of it for this week, as they had had to
the previous weeks for a month, the "great" visit had been put off from
week to week. Zozé's every day was taken up. They finally decided to
wait and settle upon the date at the next lesson. The conversation
turned to less serious subjects. Aunt Panhias, as if she were relieved
from a professional secret, let herself go on the subject of Smyrna.
Fearing to fall asleep, M. Raindal withdrew at eleven. Downstairs, Mme.
Chambannes asked him to invite the ladies on her behalf; would they join
him and come to dinner on the forthcoming Thursday? He thanked her
profusely but, once he was in the street, he could not repress the
annoyance which this difficult mission caused him.
"What an idea!" he said to himself.... "Ah, yes, how easy _that_ will
be!"
He delayed risking the attack for three days; and as soon as he ventured
to broach it, the two sharp refusals cut his words short. A rush of
blood colored his brow. Of course they agreed; their joint refusal was
only a concerted maneuver, a deceitful manifestation of disapproval.
He retorted scornfully:
"Very well! As you please!... Nevertheless, I have no intention of being
a party to your fancies!... I give you warning; I shall go alone...."
Neither of them took up his challenge. He renewed it on the Thursday
morning but obtained no further reply. His anger prompted him to leave
the house at three, an hour earlier than usual. He had donned his
evening clothes and, because his dress tie showed in the opening of his
overcoat, a few gazers turned round to look at him. This increased his
displeasure. He hurried on and arrived half-an-hour too soon.
Conversely, and quite against her custom, Mme. Chambannes was
half-an-hour late. He waited a whole hour in the smoking-room while
daylight gradually faded. The servants had forgotten to turn on the
lights. M. Raindal, daring neither to ring for them, nor to tamper with
the electric lamps, remained in darkness. Bitter and violent ideas
harassed him. Why were Thérèse and Mme. Raindal embittered against the
Chambannes? What was it they had on their minds against these people?
What did they say of him when he was away? His fury was exasperated by
the venomous sting of these queries.
"You here, in the dark, dear master!... Is it possible? I am late, am I
not?... Do you forgive me?"
At the same time that he heard her affectionate voice, the room was
flooded with light. Mme. Chambannes came in, muff in hand, her veil
drawn up above her eyebrows. Her dainty little nose was pink at the tip,
owing to the cold weather outside--or perhaps to the recent caresses.
She renewed her apologies and threw on a chair her sable coat and her
flowery hat, in which two hatpins vibrated an instant. Then she
declared:
"Do you know, master.... I have an idea, a new combination.... Let me
tell it quickly!... At five o'clock, we are forever being disturbed....
First it is one; then it is another who drops in and, between you and
me, we do nothing of any value...."
M. Raindal's face was serene once more; he nodded his benevolent
approval.
"Well, then, here is my idea.... We could fix the hour of the lesson for
six.... We'd work from six to seven ... and you'd stay to dinner every
Thursday.... Are you willing?"
M. Raindal had a rapid vision of Thérèse, with the sarcastic smile, and
the contemptuous tightening of her thin lips with which she would
receive the news of this new arrangement. A longing came over him to
defy her, to have his revenge on her and to reduce her silent irony with
an audacious coup. He coughed, seemed to debate with himself, and
finally said in a clear voice:
"Well, yes, that suits me.... It is agreed, dear Madame!"
But a remnant of caution made him add:
"Unless, of course, anything unforeseen occurs, unless there is some
major impediment."
Mme. Chambannes pouted reproachfully.
"Oh, dear master, it is very wrong to lay down conditions!... Are you
not free, absolutely free?... Do you think that your little pupil would
wish to encroach upon your occupations?"
"Your little pupil!"... How sweetly she had said that! M. Raindal was
moved and apologized for himself; then he apologized equally for the
ladies. Zozé did not seem offended by their defection. Had she not
gained something that would console her? She was saving one hour for her
dressmakers, for social calls and for Gerald, and this without losing
the master's friendship. Only within herself, she thought:
"Oh! this Mlle. Raindal is getting on my nerves."
* * * * *
From that day, M. Raindal was the guest of the Chambannes every
Thursday.
Towards five o'clock he slipped on his evening clothes or a frock-coat,
according to his inclination, since Zozé had left him free to dress as
he pleased. He then hailed a cab and arrived in the rue de Prony at
six. He stopped on his way usually at a florist and bought two or three
large roses, some orchids, a very large bunch of violets or early lilac
and offered them to Mme. Chambannes, whom he knew to be very fond of
rare flowers. She thanked him chidingly, placed the flowers in a vase
or, if they were short, kept them in her hand. Then the lesson would
begin.
It was usually regulated according to certain points raised haphazard by
Mme. Chambannes. The master replied with ingenuity, illustrating the
past with facts from contemporary life, smoothing it over, thinning it
down to the precise dimensions of his little pupil's brains. Zozé
smelled the flowers as she listened to him, or arched her eyebrows in
order to accentuate her zeal.
Gradually, however, the teaching turned into a chat. Egypt, its
chronology, mysteries and hieroglyphics were put aside. Mme. Chambannes
confided to the master her amusements of the past few days or bits of
social gossip, or she sketched for his benefit the character of some of
her chief women friends. M. Raindal had no curious details to give of
his own daily life and went back to the hard times of his youth. Zozé
expressed much pity for him because he had greatly suffered from want
and opened her tender eyes wide when he told her of certain privations
he had undergone.
Sometimes--and this with a persistence which was only worn out one day
to reappear the next--she begged M. Raindal to translate the footnotes
of his _Life of Cleopatra_ for her. Invariably the master refused,
alleging that if he did, Mme. Chambannes would be the first to regret
his compliance. Moreover, the greater number of the words belonged to
what was termed low Latin and were untranslatable.
He felt strangely oppressed when, one night, after dinner, the abbé
Touronde called him aside and informed him that Mme. Chambannes had
almost succeeded in becoming acquainted with the meaning of the
forbidden annotations.
"Would you believe it? The day before yesterday, she asked me if there
existed a dictionary of low-Latin! I replied, 'Yes, Madame; there is the
Dictionary of Du Cange.' ... 'Well, my dear abbé, please be so kind as
to buy it for me!'... I smelled an evil temptation and replied, with
some readiness of wit, I may well say: 'Alas, Madame! it is no longer on
sale.... It has been out of print these forty years.' Later she admitted
that she wanted it to translate your notes. You will agree that but for
me...."
M. Raindal warmly pressed the hand of the cautious ecclesiastic.
Apart from the abbé Touronde, and in accordance with the particular
desire of the master, Mme. Chambannes invited only her near relatives on
Thursdays, such as her Uncle and Aunt Panhias or the Marquis de Meuze,
who had solicited the favor of being a guest at those select dinners.
Gerald was afraid of being bored and scarcely ever attended them. Zozé
took pride in this constant abstention, taking it for a symptom of a
jealousy she had never hoped to arouse.
Who could have foretold that these conversations, sprung from an idle
caprice, a fortuitous inspiration, were to serve, one day, as reprisals
against the perpetual coquetry of the young Count! Moreover, these were
harmless reprisals and allowed Gerald, at the most, to take lessons from
an old lady!... Is there no equality in love, and are not the rights of
the one an exact replica of the rights of the other? Zozé, at least,
firmly held to this view.
It made her more attached to M. Raindal. He was an ally, as it were, a
show accomplice; when her friends asked her, in Gerald's presence, if
her flirtation with her "old savant" still endured, she defended herself
with malicious smiles, with a "how silly you are!" or a "leave me
alone!" which revealed her joy at the coincidence. How M. Raldo must
rage, how much more he must now love her!... Had not caution held her
back, she would, at those moments, have kissed him for sheer
gratefulness.
Again, the exclusive intimacy with which M. Raindal honored her brought
her daily flattering comments. The rumor of it spread among her guests.
People talked about it. They questioned Mme. Chambannes touching the
master's habits, as if they had been those of a savage she had
miraculously tamed. Many women thought this friendship a suspicious
one, this craze for learning incomprehensible, this preference on the
part of the master unaccountable, and they protested that "there must
surely be something behind all this." Others said of Zozé that she was
mad, and disparaged M. Raindal's personal appearance. The most faithful
pleaded and recalled the irreproachable tenderness of the young woman
for Gerald. But these arguments left Marquesse shrugging his shoulders
and Herschstein humming a hunting air, with this much to add to their
skepticism, that the master had twice already declined the pleasure of
appearing at their tables. These stories were good enough for women!
Facts were still facts. Let the Chambannes pride themselves upon
monopolizing père Raindal; nothing was more natural. But to come and
tell them that the old man came there for the sake of science, for the
love of art, oh! dear no, not to Herschstein or Marquesse! This much,
and no more, did they concede to the defense, that they did not specify
what the nature of the flirtation was, or its limits.... And yet, one
does see such strange things in life! It seemed therefore best to these
equitable men to remain on the ground of suppositions and to render no
decision.
Zozé was made acquainted with this gossip by Mme. Pums. She replied
proudly that she was "above such horrid things." She now neglected the
abbé Touronde, who was still the cherished hostage of her set, every
member of which vied with the others in pampering him, as if his black
robe had been a flag of guaranty and safeguard. She bestowed upon M.
Raindal all the delicate attentions and the kind deference she had once
shown to the conciliating ecclesiastic. She presented the master, on his
birthday, with a gorgeous scarf-pin made up of a turquoise scarab
mounted in pale gold. She had thought of this gift as much to please him
as in the hope of getting him to give up the narrow black ribbands which
he wore as a rule. Her attempt met with success. On the following
Thursday M. Raindal wore a wide, dark blue satin scarf enriched in its
center with the pale blue turquoise pin.
"You are wearing a very pretty tie!" Zozé remarked during the dinner.
M. Raindal's features assumed a modest expression.
"Do you think so?..." he asked.
However, he cared nothing for fashion. He dressed according to the ideas
of his tailor--a little tailor of the rue de Vaugirard, whose client he
had been for thirty years.
"You are wrong!" Zozé remarked. "Good tailors are not more expensive
than bad ones.... Why don't you go to Blacks, my husband's tailor?"
Chambannes agreed with her. M. Panhias joined them; the master gave in
and made an appointment with George to go and order a suit from Blacks.
The tailor was obsequious at first, when Chambannes mentioned the name
of M. Raindal of the Institute; he became peremptory and sharp when it
came to selecting the material. The master was dashed and dared not
oppose him. It was even worse when it came to trying on. M. Raindal did
not want any silk facings to his frock-coat. Blacks wished to force him.
M. Raindal lost his patience and rebelled. He did not want any facings
and he was not going to have any. Blacks bowed with a hypocritical
grimace, admitting that every client had his own taste. When, however,
the suit was delivered and M. Raindal opened the folds of his new
frock-coat, the silk facings struck his eyes with their shining
triangles.
The master softly complained of this impudence to his friends the
Chambannes. Both laughed exceedingly and said that Blacks was right. M.
Raindal was softened by their gayety and fell in with their opinion.
Henceforth, Zozé did not hesitate to advise him in the matter of his
wardrobe. He obeyed readily, owing alike to his desire to please her and
to a craving for refinement which secretly tormented him.
But these accumulated expenses had made a hole in his budget. He
increased his deficit every week with such things as cabs, flowers and
gloves, and, of course, with such heavier expenses as the order to
Blacks. The Académie had finally given him the Vital-Gerbert prize, and
this helped him out just on time. He invested only 8000 francs of the
10,000 he received and reserved the balance for unforeseen expenses and
pocket money.
At any other time of his life, he would have blushed thus to frustrate
his family. But duty is a burden that is best borne by all the parties
together. And M. Raindal certainly found a pretext for his egotism in
the attitude of his family.
It was not that a state of warfare had been openly declared. Far from
it; faithful to their compact, the two women multiplied their
concessions in order to preserve the old harmony. Thanks to their
efforts, the household had never seemed freer from discord. They vied
with each other as to who should most skillfully avoid any allusion,
contradiction or motive for disagreement. The master, on his side,
fearful of their sarcastic comments, preserved silence concerning his
weekly dinners. It had come to this, that the name of Chambannes was
never uttered, unless it became necessary; even then, the women wrapped
up its syllables with a light intonation, as one rolls explosives in
cotton-wool. Whenever M. Raindal formulated unexpected theories upon the
public usefulness of luxury, the dangers of puritanism, or the social
advantages of pleasure, Thérèse discussed them with him without the
slightest bitterness, as if they were matters of economics which bore no
relation whatsoever to their daily life. As an additional precaution,
she had persuaded Cyprien to renounce his usual jesting comments
concerning Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan. The younger Raindal now kept his sallies for
his usual audience of one, Schleifmann.
Nevertheless, in spite of this outward appearance of calm and good
entente, the master had no longer the feeling of peace and confidence he
had felt in his home. He guessed every action and word of his to be
spied upon, jeered at and censured either aloud or in low voices. He
could hardly contain his anger against this secret, impalpable, yet ever
awake, hostility which continuously dogged his movements.
While dreading its outbreak, there were nevertheless days when he could
not help wishing for an open dispute, a straightforward attack, a solid
and clear-cut family altercation, when each one could cry out his
grievances and defend his own cause.
Let them attack him; let them but ask a question and he would know how
to exonerate himself! What harm was he doing, anyhow? Was he running
from salon to salon, as did so many of his colleagues? Had he taken
advantage of his triumph to break into the little literary Bastilles
which were the final goal of so many paltry ambitions? Had he not, on
the contrary, declined, one after another, all the invitations given
him, by Mme. Pums, by Mme. Herschstein, by Mme. de Marquesse, even by
ladies of higher social status whom he could name if called upon? Had he
not a score of times discreetly urged his wife and daughter to pay the
call they owed the Chambannes? Was he not ready to take them to the rue
de Prony as often as they could wish? Did he manifest any spite, as so
many others might do, for all the deceptions and for the bitterness
which Mme. Raindal's uneasy religiosity had scattered between them? Did
he play the part of a bad husband, a bad father, a frivolous and
dissipated man?... Well then, what was it they reproached him with? Why
was he compelled to suspect his own family as he had to suspect his own
sworn enemies? There was that wretch of a Saulvard, for instance, who
carried the rancor of his defeat to the point of declining three
successive invitations of Mme. Chambannes.... The entanglement of his
worries, added to the silence he imposed upon himself, made him feel
disgusted with his own house, his home and everything that he had until
then considered as happiness and quiet.
He proved his own innocence to himself so often that doubts came to him
at times. He asked himself whether his friendship with young Mme.
Chambannes was not such as might cause him some prejudice in the
scientific world, whether it might not be more seemly for him to allow
more time to pass between his visits, and whether his regularity might
not be affording the evil-minded an opening. At once a rebellion which
he attributed to pride moved him to smile at such scruples. He derived
from his reflections a new energy for the indulgence of his inclination.
Throughout the week, he lost no opportunity, whether at the dining-table
or elsewhere, to flay the ridicule of pedantry, the hypocrisy of austere
people, a whole mass of foibles and of anonymous characters, upon whom,
with no less good grounds, Mme. Raindal, Thérèse and Uncle Cyprien might
have bestowed their own names as well. Thus came the Thursday, and he
made his exit with a provocative, almost bellicose, banging of all the
doors in succession.
He reached the Chambannes' house, from the very hall a warm smell of
incense caressed him as a first greeting of welcome, and his resentment
vanished. Here everyone smiled at him and showed an eagerness to please
him, from Firmin, the butler, who took his overcoat and affectionately
inquired about his health, to the abbé Touronde, to Aunt Panhias and
even the indolent Chambannes himself! Upstairs, Zozé came out to meet
him and gave him her hand to kiss. And, during four good hours, M.
Raindal forgot his vexations, his family troubles, his little pangs of
the past week. Only when it was time for him to go did he remember them.
When eleven o'clock came, he had an impression of melancholy, of an
ended happiness, like a boy who must return to college.
Zozé always accompanied him to the hall, saw to it that he covered
himself well, told him not to catch cold. As the end of the winter was
in sight, she murmured to her husband, once the door was closed:
"Poor old fellow!... All the same, it is a long way to go for a man of
his age.... I am glad that spring is coming back."
Whenever the weather permitted it, M. Raindal returned on foot, for the
sake of the exercise. The road seemed a long one to him but, as he
neared the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he slackened his pace and his
steps became less regular. It was as if he wished to delay the moment of
regaining his home.
At last he climbed the waxed steps of his staircase; they slipped from
under his feet. The walls were as cold as a cellar; they were painted
to imitate marble, and the candle threw a gigantic shadow on them. M.
Raindal opened the door. Smells of cooking and washing soda caught him
at the throat. He crossed the little apartment on tiptoe; the silk
lining of his frock-coat rustled against his legs as a last echo of the
elegances he had left behind. The mediocrity of his lodging was all the
more apparent to him. What poor furniture, what a lack of comfort after
the luxury, the ease and all the delicate things which abounded in the
rue de Prony! M. Raindal gave a deep sigh and slipped between the
sheets, near Mme. Raindal, who snored imperturbably in a twin bed....
Often he left the light on and lay there dreaming, retracing the
evening; and his nostalgia vanished as his memories revived.
It returned the next day at the sight of Thérèse in her coarse morning
garb, that common, dark dressing-gown which was so different from the
soft gowns of Mme. Chambannes.
Ah! M. Raindal understood the severity of the girl towards his little
pupil. Envy, alas; of course, it was envy! A jealousy that was incapable
of discerning anything in Mme. Chambannes beyond the gaps in her
learning and her intellectual poverty--as if erudition meant everything
in a woman; as if beauty, elegance, the art of attracting did not also
rank among the precious gifts and the powerful faculties. His discovery
exalted him to such a point that he felt himself caught in a sudden rush
of compassion, instead of mentally reproaching her for the physical
disgrace she had suffered which had for some time unwittingly
ill-disposed him toward her. He ran to Thérèse and ardently kissed her
forehead. She kissed him in return on the cheek, in an attempt at
tenderness. But her body was bent back and gave the instant lie to the
smile on her lips. There had passed between them an intangible sorcery
which prevented their hearts from opening as of old, forbade confidence
and precluded the solidarity which had united them as co-workers for so
many years....
They went back to their work, resenting their powerlessness to commune
with one another again, mutually embittered by the failure of their
attempt, cursing each other inwardly for the wrongs which each laid at
the other's door. The week started anew in this state of apparent
harmony that was heavy with discord.
* * * * *
One night in early March, as mild as a summer night, M. Raindal,
returning home from the Chambannes', saw a light in his daughter's room.
This made him anxious, for the hour was late; he knocked at the door and
entered almost at the same time.
Thérèse was sobbing in her pillow; she had not undressed but lay on her
uncovered bed.
M. Raindal rushed forward to help her up, but she did not wait for him.
She looked up and rubbed the tears from her eyes. He inquired, still
holding her in his arms:
"What is the matter, dearest?... Were you crying? What is the trouble?"
She released herself with a brusque movement of her shoulders:
"Nothing, father! Thanks.... It is nothing.... Leave me alone, please!"
"Then you do not need me?" M. Raindal murmured in surprise.
"No, no, I assure you.... Go away.... I tell you it is nothing at
all.... Just my nerves!..."
He dared not insist, for fear of exasperating her; he retired and shut
the door behind him with particular care, as if he had left a sick-room.
Nerves!... Hm!... A woman's excuse, a veil of sickness with which they
cover up the secret of their anger. What could be the matter with
Thérèse? What was it that caused her such great pain? Remorse
insinuated: "If it were you! Suppose your Thursday visits, your
obstinacy were the cause of it!" M. Raindal resolved to probe this to
the very bottom, to question Thérèse the very next morning.
But the next day passed without his following up his intention. She was
not thinking about it any more. Why should he torment the poor child
with questions? Again, it was possible that she had told him the truth.
It might have been nerves, after all.