On Monday evening, after dinner, the company went to the drawing-room to
take coffee.
Zozé was christening a pale blue muslin dress, the low cut of which
revealed her neck, encircled with a double row of pearls. The Marquis
was in evening dress and white bow; Gerald, in a dinner-jacket, wore a
tea rose in his button-hole. An air of festivity seemed to emanate from
them both.
The tall French windows of the room were opened; they led straight out
onto the terrace that surrounded the house. Through the space between
their two sides could be seen the lawn, the flower beds and the thick
mass of the trees of the park. The day was, as it were, retiring with
regret. Its lingering gray light seemed to dispute with the night, in
the air, over the warm charm of the end of the evening.
"A beautiful evening!" said M. de Meuze, who was smoking a cigar on the
balcony.
Seated at the back of the drawing-room, facing the window, M. Raindal
was reading the paper near a lamp. Mme. Chambannes and Gerald were
chatting in the left-hand corner, on a little cretonne divan. Aunt
Panhias passed the coffee cups, grumbling the while against her husband
who had insisted on staying until after dessert. Had anyone ever heard
of such absurd stubbornness! When one had to meet somebody, was it not
the least one could do to give up his dessert? And she pestered Zozé to
find out about the hour of the trains, calculate the delays due to
transfers and decide whether Uncle Panhias would arrive on time.
M. de Meuze came in again and interrupted her complaints.
"Please excuse me, ladies," he said. "The journey has tired me out.... I
am going to put my old body to bed!"
He went towards M. Raindal to shake hands with him.
"Hush!" he whispered, turning back to the young people. "Science is
asleep.... Peace to his rest!... Good night, dear madame!"
Zozé gave him a friendly nod.
"Oh, that's nothing!" Aunt Panhias declared, in a hushed voice. "Our
good M. Raindal is caught with that almost every night!"
She went out with the Marquis, having a score of orders to give for the
comfort of the new guests, for Chambannes' return, and for the
dispatching of the carriage.
"Alone at last!" Gerald murmured softly, in a tone of banter.
"Not so loud, my darling!" implored Zozé, as she pressed his hand.
"Why?... He is asleep!"
Zozé, without releasing the hand of her Raldo, frowned as she examined
M. Raindal. Then she rose and pulled the young man after her.
"Come! Let us go on the terrace.... I shall feel safer."
Then she sighed: "Oh! my own Raldo! What a bore that he stayed!... And
you know.... We have him here for another fortnight!"
"Yes, you told me! Well! If he is in our way, we'll lead him a chase,
the old kangaroo!... It can't be very hard to do that."
They were leaning on the white stone balustrade. With extreme caution,
M. Raindal opened his eyes. From where he was, he had only a side view
of Mme. Chambannes, her vase-like pale blue dress, her fine profile
turned to the right.... That was so, no doubt, because she was speaking
to Gerald whom he guessed was very close to her, elbow to elbow, as he
himself had leaned over, up above, in the lighted room, on the day of
his arrival! He held his breath back in order to try to hear them. He
could distinguish nothing but a gentle melody of confused voices, a
cascade of softened syllables, whose meaning was broken by the invisible
partitions of the air.
At times, the young woman's profile shook or plunged into the darkness.
The conversation was cut short by a dead stop. M. Raindal, his hands
stuck to his armchair, contemplated with a feeling of distress the pale
dress, the headless trunk of his little pupil. Why did she bend so? For
what mystery did she incline her whispering, laughing lips?
Suddenly, a tall shadow passed behind Mme. Chambannes; Gerald's
silhouette, even his rose and his moustache showing distinctly. Nimble
steps went down the front steps. The pebbles of the paths in the garden
squeaked. Now, there came, at intervals, a low voice in a monologue. Her
head immobile, Mme. Chambannes seemed to listen to him; her finger
before her face made gestures of refusal.
Forgetting all caution, M. Raindal opened his eyes very wide. Zozé's
brusquely turning about caused him to close them again, but barely in
time. What was happening? She came into the drawing-room, looked for
something--hearing a rustling of silk and lace, M. Raindal assumed that
it was a scarf--then went out again on tip-toes, turning round an
instant as she reached the French windows.... Then he heard her heels on
the steps and on the gravel of the path.
"This is going rather far!" the master murmured, as he rose and
stretched himself.
He listened. Everything was silent outside. Where had she run away? Yes,
to the garden, to walk with young Gerald.... But if they were walking,
how could he explain the silence? Had they, by any chance, gone beyond
the customary limit, as far as the lawn, perhaps even beyond that? An
unlikely liberty! Yet M. Raindal wanted to make sure of it. In his turn
he came to lean on the white stone balustrade. In disorderly bounds his
heart beat against his ribs, and this continuous hammering extended to
his left arm like a hollow internal alarm-bell. His eyes scanned the
garden.
The silence persisted under a sky covered with stars. A faint bluish
light revealed every part where bushes, trees or other opaque obstacles
had not resisted their fragile rays. Thus, the lawn showed in all its
outlines, even to its slight slope and the flower beds. The path that
edged it also sketched out clearly its coils of gravel. The darkness
began only beyond that path, at the high wall of the lime trees, which
scattered the perfume of their late blooms far through the damp
atmosphere.
As a rule, M. Raindal delighted in that sugary perfume. He would inhale
it greedily with mouth wide open and nostrils palpitating. But now, all
his body, with the exception of his eyes, was petrified with anguish. He
had no strength, no life, no consciousness but for the one aim, to scan
the shadows, to search the darkness with his greedy eyes, his eyes that
longed to see.
No one on the lawn; no one in the path ... not a sound on the gravel!
Then they were hiding in the park, the wretches!
The master took no time to answer this terrible query. He straightened
himself brusquely; like an automaton, whose very stiffness is unsteady,
he went down the steps.
In two strides he was on the lawn; the soft earth deadened the sound of
his feet. He gave a sardonic chuckle, a kind of victorious cough. At
least, moving this way, on this soft ground, he would not be heard
coming.... Oh!... Where was he going in his infatuated march? What could
he do, or say, what could he imagine, in case he were to meet them at
the turning of a path? He had scarcely thought of that; a savage sorrow
was burning him, ceaselessly, and urged him forward like an animal
maddened by fire. He felt nothing, neither the perfume of the
lime-trees, nor the freshness of the grass which wet his ankles, nor the
hateful aspect of his own pursuit, the shamefulness of his cunning! He
was approaching ... he reached the park, he was going to see!
He ventured into the thickest part of the wood. The carpet of dead
leaves exhaled slowly towards him its pungent odor of eternal and ever
renewed decay. Supple branches cut his face. Roots rose under his feet.
He went on, his eyes half closed for fear of thorns; perspiration
dripped from his forehead; his hands were stretched forward to feel his
way through the darkness and foliage.
He stopped suddenly. From the left, from the place where he thought were
the glade of the lime-trees, the spaced trees, the mushroom-like stone
table and the wicker chairs, a murmur arose, a sort of duet of violent
and languorous voices. They ceased an instant, then renewed their
murmur. He had an impression that his heart was shrinking, vanishing out
of his body. He paused a minute, because his legs gave way under
him.... Then he took up his march again, panting, bent in two like a
gorilla, his hands almost touching the ground. As he crawled nearer, the
voices became more distinct. Suddenly, he almost fainted. Now he
perceived everything, even the familiar sound of those voices. It was an
exchange of invocations so shameless, of apostrophes at once so bestial
and so tender that he was utterly stupefied. Ah! only Queen Cleopatra,
perhaps, could have ever fallen to that depth of shamelessness!... M.
Raindal did not have the courage to look, to see. A panicky rage swept
him away. He felt a frantic need to run, to escape the tortures of that
infernal wood. He rushed out in a mad, furious race, now fearless of
making a noise, not caring whether he betrayed himself or not, smashing
the branches that stood in his way, taking his revenge on the bushes,
sweating, galloping with the noise of big game running under wood before
the dogs. Out of breath, he stumbled onto the lawn, and the dahlias
received him. He rose quickly, his knees heavy with damp earth. He took
up his march again, at a more moderate pace but yet hastily.
He did not run but his legs nervously set a fast pace, finding relief in
that hurried gait. When he reached the steps, he brushed his clothes
with his sleeve, instinctively. A remnant of clear sight made him dread
Aunt Panhias, her curiosity and possible inquiries. The drawing-room,
however, proved to be still empty. The master rushed to the hall and
swiftly climbed the stairs.... At last he was in his room. With a far
resounding kick he closed his door. His trembling hand turned the key
twice in the keyhole. He fell, exhausted, on the edge of his big bed,
which had already been prepared for the night.
His lassitude did not calm him. A boiling anger surged in his veins. His
hands made gestures of destruction. He would have liked to hold Mme.
Chambannes, to break her as he had the branches in her park, to crush
and annihilate her.
His little pupil! His little pupil! Was it she? Was it those candid lips
that had uttered such abominable words. At the memory of each word, he
felt a new blade piercing his heart.... No! his judgment was prejudiced
and rebelled against so much infamy; his memory must be lying!... His
little pupil!... His dear friend! Simultaneously, he united the basest
insults with these terms of endearment. He evoked Thérèse, recalling to
his mind her hatred for Zozé, and wishing that she were near him now so
that they could hate the guilty one together.
Ah! Thérèse had not been wrong about the shallowness of this Mme.
Chambannes, her depravity and her mediocrity. In one meeting, she had
appreciated her better, fathomed her and sentenced her more accurately
than he had done in a hundred meetings. For she, Thérèse, did not love
her, while he, alas did!
"Yes! I loved her; I love her still!" he murmured fervently, as if to
deny in that remorseful admission all the puny disguises, all the
artifices of prudery which had sheltered a passion that was without
courage.
The sound of shutters being closed and footsteps coming up interrupted
his meditations. He hoped that Mme. Chambannes would come in to ask him
how he was. What should he say in reply? Should he fall at her knees,
pitifully stammering words of love? Or should he repulse her with a
scornful reply?
He did not have to choose, because Zozé did not come to him. Instead of
her coming, the echoes of the park took up once more in the mind of the
master their vile, diabolical concert, the duet of their ravished
accents.
Oh! what atrocious, what repugnant words! M. Raindal compared them with
the Latin footnotes of his book. At a distance of twenty centuries, they
were almost the same words, the same follies as those which Cleopatra,
in her worst ecstasies had stimulated in her lover, Antony the rough
soldier! By means of what miracle of universal and immutable perversity
had this infamous vocabulary been shamefully transmitted from the Queen
of Egypt to the master's little friend? How many amorous couples must
have repeated and preserved it, from generation to generation!
Then, suddenly, a clear intuition rose through the discard of those
historical parallels. M. Raindal understood; he explained to himself at
last the work of his little pupil ... his professor rather, his little
teacher who had, from the first day, little by little, taught him the
meaning of a refined existence, material enjoyment, the tangible reality
of all those terms which he had in the past carelessly used in the
written sentences of his books, as the symbolical pieces of a lifeless
chessboard!... Pleasure, love, luxury, elegance, ardor of the senses,
beauty, grace, passion, tenderness--these had been to him as so many
inert syllables, until Mme. Chambannes brought them to life for him.
And the last lesson, the end of this apprenticeship--had it not been
completed just now, out there among the high trees where, perhaps, she
might still be, enraptured, and forgetting him in the arms of another
man!...
The hitherto unknown torture with which this vision inflicted him
brought an exclamation of horror to his lips. He rose from his bed,
blinking. He beat the air with his fists in a sudden threat. For a few
minutes, he lost the thread of his meditations.
He crumbled down, quite exhausted, in a cretonne armchair; in his mind
he was living again his whole career, the succession of those virtuous
years whose righteousness had once exalted his pride. How dull and
trivial that narrow little path which he had walked at the cost of so
much hardship and so many efforts seemed now! It reminded him of one of
those out of the way side-paths which one walked, on holidays, to avoid
the joy of others.... Near that vision, he dimly perceived, as in an
ancient print, the noisy kermesse of Life, singing groups, bouquets,
drunken orgies, women with men, the furious exuberance of the mob of
revelry.... Meanwhile he was pursuing, apart, his own road and that step
by step, seeing only the next day's march when one was completed,
applying his efforts merely not to deviate from this path, his zeal not
to be diverted.... What cared he whether they enjoyed themselves and
lived on the other side? Was he not aware with scientific certainty how
vain and vulgar were the pleasures which satisfy the mob? Did he not
know that they left nothing but disgust behind them, to what sottishness
they brought one down, and finally what a very small thing was Woman
(_mulier_) in comparison with a superior mind?...
Woman--he had really known but one, his own. Apart from a few
indiscretions during his life as a student, indiscretions that were
forgotten as soon as committed, he remembered his life as a young man,
his four years spent in the desert under Mariette Bey, his imperturbable
chastity, that precocious contempt for love which caused even the "Great
Bey" to tease him. When his comrades left the cantonment and went to the
nearest town to see the dancing Bayaderes or spend a night's leave with
some native girl, M. Raindal had, as a rule, discovered some pretext not
to join them, some special work to be finished, a papyrus to be
deciphered or a sudden indisposition. "Sapristi! Raindal, you must rub
the rust off yourself, my dear fellow!" the Great Bey declared, in that
sarcastic voice of his. "You will end by making us believe that you
have a liaison with a mummy!" The young savant would laugh, promise to
follow his companions, but recant at the last minute. The Bayaderes
bored him. Since then, apart from his wife, no one! Not one adventure,
not one memory, no graceful image, none of those dear phantoms whose one
particular beauty--her hands, her smile, her finesse in love-making or
the sweetness of her eyes--flatters one, with its secret companionship,
till death.
Here he was now, hoary and disfigured by age, unable to attract anyone,
panting with love at the time when pleasure should be given up, enamored
of a young woman who loved another! What a punishment! What agony! How
long would it last? How long would it remain to show him the joys he had
missed, thanks to pedantic vainglory and proud self-confidence?
He walked to the chimney. Standing before the mirror, he twisted his
features in stranger grimaces to convince himself even more that his
decrepitude was beyond hope. Ah! yes indeed, he had a pretty complexion,
fine teeth and wrinkles, puffed skin and a nice flabby face, everything
in short which he needed to seduce a young woman!
The wheels of a carriage crunched the gravel of the path. He heard
voices raised in appeals and much laughter. George had arrived.
M. Raindal had a sudden desire to go down. He would allege the return of
Chambannes and the wish to welcome his host; then he could see Zozé
once more. His hand was on the handle of the door, but a scruple of
pride kept him back. No, that would be too cowardly! He stayed upstairs.
He heard doors being closed. Silence again fell over the house. M.
Raindal felt as if his heart had been stabbed again. He was thinking
about the husband who was with his wife now.... His shoulders shook in a
nasty sneer. Phew! he was not jealous of that unfortunate Chambannes!
Really, there was nothing to envy him for! To be the husband of a
brainless little fool, a worthless creature who, a minute ago.... He did
not finish his thought. His eyes were bloodshot; brutal curses rushed to
his lips; he was choking. M. Raindal opened the window.
The night was cooler. On the distant plain, trains passed at intervals,
winding their coils of yellow lights on the horizon. Some roosters in
the neighborhood, deceived by the false paleness of the sky, sent to
each other, through space, their dauntless greetings, to which dogs
howled in reply.
M. Raindal gravely contemplated the blue stars. Each was to him a sun
with satellites gravitating round it. He asked himself how many sorrows,
identical with his own, must be making men moan at that same moment, on
those obscure planets. He reasoned, made calculations, intoxicating
himself with lofty thoughts. He invoked Human Sorrow, the Sufferings of
the Worlds, the Universal Complaint--the conventional pity, the
lip-charity, the egotistic and hypocritically tender hygiene, all the
declamatory remedies which books teach to alleviate personal sorrows.
But he derived no solace from them.
Poor thinker, poor master, poor Man! Yes, he could indeed call to his
help the spectacle of the heavens, the astronomers and the philosophers;
he could call on Newton, Laplace, Kant and Hegel! He could swell himself
up and make himself feel greater!
The fact remained that he still harbored within his own breast an atom
of flesh which was more sensitive and real than all those vaunted
infinites which were powerless alike to cure him and to dominate him.
What was there left to him in this overwhelming catastrophe? His family?
He had, in the last year, lost even the desire to cherish them. His
work? He hated the results of it, its lying mirage, its evil routine.
He closed the window, renouncing the stars. He sat on his bed once more
and began to cry.
Ended were his illusions! Gone his old man's fatuity! He would leave the
next day. He would not be a witness of _their_ humiliating amours. Never
again would he see his dear little pupil. And he wept.... It was at last
a sincere sorrow, without evil spite, without any parody of vanity, a
humble sorrow which acknowledged itself and loved its tears! In this M.
Raindal found peace and finally sleep.
On the morrow, however, when he went down to the garden about ten
o'clock, a sudden commotion reopened his secret wound.
"Yes, monsieur, madame has gone out," Firmin assured him. "She has gone
out for a drive with M. de Meuze."
"Which one?" M. Raindal almost shouted.
"With M. le Marquis.... M. le Comte and monsieur are still in their
rooms."
"Ah! very good!" M. Raindal said, recovering his ease.
He sat in a rocking-chair, in the shadow of the terrace and affected to
be engrossed in reading the paper.
But his set eyes were not on the lines. An internal passion was
following other ideas, other words, the little parting speech, a few
mysterious and firm sentences in which he would announce his intention
to leave. He had mastered the greater part of it when the close-cut mane
of Notpou emerged from between the trees.
From the carriage, the Marquis gave a cordial salute to M. Raindal. Oh!
there had been no delay! no hesitation! The master was thoroughly
ousted, deprived of his power! Even Gerald's father, this old marquis,
had taken his little pupil away from him; even of him he felt jealous!
Go! He must go as soon as possible! His own suffering necessitated this
prompt sacrifice.
The master rose to his feet. He was watching for Mme. Chambannes' first
glance, for her fatigued expression and the lowering of her eyes with
which she would undoubtedly greet him. Zozé's physiognomy disappointed
him. She walked up to him, smiling as usual, her eyes free and easy
under her veil, raised up, like a headband, level with her eyebrows. She
offered him her white-gloved hand without constraint, as she had the day
before, as on the previous morning, as if neither the night, nor Gerald,
the scene in the park, as if none of those shameful things had come
between them! He gave her hand a timid pressure and sat back in the
rocking-chair.
"Will you allow me to say a few words to you, dear madame?" he asked,
looking at his brown leather shoes.
"With pleasure!" Mme. Chambannes answered deliberately, as she pulled an
armchair beside that of the master.
She sat down and caressed the master with one of her warm looks: "I am
listening, dear master.... Have you any trouble? Not from your family, I
trust?"
Still smiling, she took her gloves off. Then she lifted her arms, like
two graceful handles on each side of her face, and with difficulty
pulled out the long pin which held her sailor hat.
"You are mistaken!" stammered M. Raindal, his eyes still unresponsive.
"It is precisely of Langrune that...."
His hands hanging loose, his wrists contracted. The ingenuous air of
Mme. Chambannes revolted him as a last challenge to his credulity.
"Well?" asked the young woman.
He dared to stare at her. What! Those lips were still fresh after so
much defilement! No trace of it had polluted the clearness of her eyes.
Not even a shudder; not a blush! Did lies then wash out everything in
their foul waters? A renewed anger roused M. Raindal. His caution was
shaken. The prepared words vanished. Looking straight at her, his hands
grasping the armchair as if better to spring, he declared roughly:
"I am going!"
"You are going!" Zozé exclaimed, in a tone of well-simulated wonder.
M. Raindal recollected somewhat the words that had to be used.
"Excuse my rudeness, my bad temper.... I received this morning from
Langrune such a pressing letter that I must give in to the ladies'
wish.... They claim me over there and I am going.... Rest assured that I
am very sorry!"
There was a pause. Zozé thought it out. Now that she was sure he was
leaving, why should she not preserve her assumed innocence, the
persistence of which could but draw off his suspicions? It was with an
imperceptible smile that she said:
"I believe you, dear master, although you surprise me."
"I ... surprise you, dear madame?" M. Raindal asked sullenly, his heart
beating more rapidly.
"You see, I was downstairs this morning when the postman came.... He
gave me all the mail and there was no letter for you!"
M. Raindal preserved a challenging silence, disdaining to clear himself,
not denying his deception.
"Come, dear master!" Zozé went on gently. "Since there was no letter,
what is it that makes you leave us? Has anyone upset you? Have we hurt
your feelings unwittingly? Please, tell me who it is, I beg you."
Her eyes looked all around, as if she were trying to discover the
culprit, the naughty, wicked unknown one who had upset her dear master.
M. Raindal watched her for an instant, his lips convulsed with disgust.
"Who? Tell me who it is!" he repeated to himself. This was really too
much of an imposture, altogether too impudent! He pushed back his
armchair. His jaws were parted, ready to bite, ready to let out the
whole burden of questions, outrages, reproach. But, in a supreme effort,
he mastered himself. He paced up and down before Zozé, in a short space
of ten feet, and said in a voice broken by his fury:
"Do not ask me anything, dear madame! Nothing ... it would be
useless!... I must go and I am going.... I can say no more to you.... I
do not know if you understand me, and I wish that you would not.... Yes,
I wish that with all my soul!... Alas, on the contrary, I am very much
afraid that you have understood...."
"But, dear master!" Zozé protested.
"All right, dear madame!... You do not understand me?... All the
better.... You will later, when you think it over.... The only thing I
ask you is that you should avoid any struggle for me.... Lend yourself
to my little stratagem: you know, the letter received ... the letter
which I did _not_ receive.... Because my resolution is irrevocable.... I
shall leave this afternoon.... To remain here one single day would be
humiliating to me.... I cannot!... I cannot!"
He was choking. Zozé rose to her feet and caught his hand, which he made
no attempt to withdraw.
"I do not understand you, dear master.... You are free.... I have no
right to detain you.... But I beg your pardon if I have offended you!"
she said with emotion, not more than half of which was feigned.
M. Raindal turned his head away. He did not wish her to see his eyes,
which were full of tears. He released his own hand from hers and
pretended to be examining the lawn, the park, the clouds.
"I thank you, dear madame.... I have nothing to forgive you!" he said,
coughing as if he wished to force back a new rush of tears which made
his voice hoarse. "I shall leave this afternoon by the five o'clock
train.... Do not bother about me.... Please only let me have Firmin....
He will help me pack my things.... Hm! Hm! Hm!"
He kept on coughing and then became melancholy.
"Hm! Hm!... When I am gone, when I am no longer here, I hope that you
will think sometimes of your dear...." He corrected himself,--"of your
old master who, on his part, even from afar, will not forget you...."
The solemnity of this promise completed his confusion. Hurriedly, as if
stricken with a sudden indisposition, he ran into the drawing-room, then
through the hall and up the stairs.
Zozé ran behind him, chirping, in her softest, tenderest intonation:
"Dear master!... Dear master!... And in Paris.... In Paris ... we shall
meet again, shan't we?"
He only replied when he was at the top of the stairs, his voice clear
once more, intending to leave no doubt, afterward, in the minds of those
in the house:
"To be sure, dear madame.... I shall transmit your message to my
daughter.... Besides, we can talk about it again at lunch, before I go."
* * * * *
As soon as he reached Paris, M. Raindal informed himself of the trains
for Langrune. There were two: an evening one which arrived there in the
night, another one in the morning which would reach Langrune in the
afternoon. To inform his family of his arrival by telegram would alarm
them. He chose not to leave until the next morning, and to spend the
night at the nearest hotel. Slowly he walked towards the station yard,
where the setting sun distilled a mist of gold.
An endless procession of people passed him, on the pavement and under
the arcades. It was the departure of the suburban workers who returned
at night to the open fields, and of the smarter population of the villas
of the Seine-et-Oise region. First came clerks marching briskly, by twos
and in step, their hats on the backs of their heads because of the heat;
then the bourgeois, who held carefully beyond the reach of shocks their
packages of dainties tied with red strings; young women in light dresses
with white gloves like those Zozé wore; well-groomed men who stood up in
their open cabs, to jump out more quickly.... All of them were going
towards a place of rest, perhaps towards love, to the peace of the
country, the beautiful night under the trees, to the priceless happiness
which M. Raindal had just deserted.
The master's sadness and weariness were increased by this. He sat down
on the terrace of a near-by café and ordered an absinthe.
His eyes burned, for he had wept again in the train, careless of all
pride, unable to resist his pain. Zozé had fallen in with his wishes by
not accompanying him to the station. The parting had been public, before
Aunt Panhias, the Marquis de Meuze, Gerald and Chambannes all gathered
together. The master had purposely come down late in order to shorten
the cruel instant. Vain calculation! He had had to wait fully five
minutes on the steps, before them all, to smile, speak and answer
questions.... What a martyrdom it had been! If only he had been able to
kiss Zozé's hand, to kiss it with fire, with intoxication, as before
... to take a last taste of that forsaken delight!... But they were
looking! It had been, instead, a cold and superficial kiss on the
fingers of his little pupil, and it had seemed to him that his very lips
were surprised! Well, these torments had been slight, compared to those
that would soon follow!
To-morrow he would be at Langrune, miles and miles away, compelled to
explain his return, a prisoner of his family, exiled on a gloomy
seashore! To-morrow, he would be once more Mme. Raindal's husband, Mlle.
Raindal's father, _M. Raindal, of the Institute_, an austere old savant,
with no one to make his life pleasant, with no clandestine friendship,
no little pupil, no secret distraction, apart from his books--books to
write, books to read, books to review!...
"Books, books, always books!" he murmured, in a sickened tone.
And a thought intrigued him; it was to stay in Paris and find some means
of avoiding Langrune.
The clock of the station struck seven. He paid the waiter and walked
towards the boulevards.
Where could he dine? He remembered the name of a restaurant, in the
place de la Madeleine, the cooking of which Chambannes and the Marquis
had often praised before him.
He sauntered in that direction. The room was still half empty. He
ordered a choice dinner, with such dishes as Zozé preferred, a bottle of
_Saint-Estephe_ and a bottle of frappé Champagne which was placed before
him in a silver vase. His absinthe encouraged him to these libations.
Since he had drunk it, he felt livelier and less sad.
He ate abundantly and applied himself to drinking. His ideas became
lighter and seemed to penetrate one another. It was a pleasant
confusion, and made him giggle at times. Towards the end of the dinner,
he conceived the project of a drama, a myth in dialogue form, which
would be entitled _Hercules_. He would show Vice, under the guise of a
woman--who in the master's mind resembled Zozé exactly--entering the
house of the now aged hero. And the latter would lament, would weep over
his departed youth, and would implore the gods to give it back to
him.... The drama developed according to this theme, in lofty axioms and
lyrical plaints.
This was a much more likely conception than that which represented
Hercules choosing, in the prime of his youth, between Vice and Virtue.
Did such a choice offer itself in real life? Of course not; one walked
on with the one, misunderstanding the other, and vice versa. What
libertine did not some day regret the hours spent in debauchery? What
man of intellect did not deplore, at some fatal moment, the fact that he
had lived in ignorance of the forbidden pleasures? Rare were the men,
who, by divine grace, mixed the practice of both in a fair
proportion.... There would be, besides, in his myth, avenging blank
verses against Vice, against Mme. Chambannes!
M. Raindal rose and shook the crumbs off his waistcoat. In a shaky hand
he took his felt hat and walking-stick which the headwaiter handed him.
Then, his eyes somewhat cloudy, he walked up the boulevards. Darkness
had fallen. The merry crowd of nocturnal walkers rubbed elbows on the
pavement. A late summer breath bent the tips of the withering chestnut
trees.
M. Raindal once more thought of Zozé, of the lime-trees and the park. A
thousand seductive images zigzagged under his burning cranium. He felt
like embracing, hugging, loving someone.
When he passed the door of the Olympia, the posters attracted him. He
saw women in tights, equilibrists and a young person in a low-neck
dress, standing in the middle of a group of trained dogs. Above the
posters the name of the establishment, made up of red electric bulbs,
scintillated in ruby-colored letters. Girls went in, alone or by twos.
Through the half-open swinging doors came confused whiffs of lively
music.
M. Raindal hesitated. Then, with a gesture as quick as a pickpocket's,
he tore from his button-hole his button of an officer of the Légion
d'Honneur. He marched straight to the ticket-office, then disappeared
inside.