After a fortnight's patience Ligny urged her to resume their former
intercourse. The period which she herself had fixed had elapsed. He
would not wait any longer. She suffered as much as he did in refusing
herself to him. But she dreaded to see the dead man return. She found
lame excuses for postponing appointments; at last she confessed that she
was afraid. He despised her for displaying so little common sense and
courage. He no longer felt that she loved him, and he spoke harshly to
her, but he pursued her incessantly with his desire.
Bitter days and barren hours followed. As she no longer dared to seek
the shelter of a roof in his company, they used to take a cab, and after
driving for hours about the outskirts of the city they would alight in
some gloomy avenue, wandering far down it under the bitter east wind,
walking swiftly, as though chastised by the breath of an unseen wrath.
Once, however, the weather was so mild that it filled them with its soft
languor. Side by side they trod the deserted paths of the Bois de
Boulogne. The buds, which were beginning to swell on the tips of the
slender black branches, dyed the tree-tops violet under the rosy sky. To
their left stretched the fields, dotted with clumps of leafless trees,
and the houses of Auteuil were visible. Slowly driven coupés, with their
elderly passengers, crawled along the road, and the wet-nurses pushed
their perambulators. A motor-car broke the silence of the Bois with its
humming.
"Do you like those machines?" asked Félicie.
"I find them convenient, that's all."
It was true that he was no chauffeur. He had no taste for any kind of
sport; he concerned himself only with women.
Pointing to a cab which had just passed them, she exclaimed:
"Robert, did you see?"
"No."
"Jeanne Perrin was in it with a woman."
And, as he displayed a calm indifference, she added in a reproachful
tone:
"You are like Dr. Socrates. Do you think that sort of thing natural?"
The lake slept, bright and serene, within its sombre walls of pines.
They took the path to their right, which skirted the bank where the
white geese and swans were preening their feathers. At their approach a
flotilla of ducks, like living hulls, their necks curving like prows,
set sail toward them.
Félicie told them, in a regretful tone, that she had nothing to give
them.
"When I was little," she went on to say, "Papa used to take me out on
Sundays to feed the animals. It was my reward for having learned my
lessons well all the week. Papa used to delight in the country. He was
fond of dog, horses, all animals in fact. He was very gentle and very
clever. He used to work very hard. But life is difficult for an officer
who has no money of his own. It grieved him sorely not to be able to do
as the wealthy officers did, and then he didn't hit it off with Mamma.
Papa's life was not a happy one. He was often wretched. He didn't talk
much; but we two understood one another without speaking. He was very
fond of me. Robert, dearest, later on, in the distant future, the very
distant future, I shall have a tiny house in the country. And when you
come there, my beloved, you will find me in a short skirt, throwing corn
to my fowls."
He asked her what gave her the idea of going on the stage.
"I knew very well that I'd never find a husband, since I had no dowry.
And from what I saw of my older girl friends, working at dress-making or
in a telegraph office, I was not encouraged to follow in their steps.
When I was quite a little girl I thought it would be nice to be an
actress. I had once acted, at my boarding-school, in a little play, on
St. Nicholas' Day. I thought it no end of a lark. The schoolmistress
said I didn't act well, but that was because Mamma owed her for a whole
term. From the time I was fifteen I began to think seriously about going
on the stage. I entered the Conservatoire, I worked, I worked very hard.
It's a back-breaking trade. But success brings rest."
Opposite the chalet on the island they found the ferry-boat moored to
the landing. Ligny jumped into it, pulling Félicie after him.
"Those tall trees are lovely, even without leaves," she said. "But I
thought the chalet was closed at this time of the year."
The ferryman told them that, on fine winter days, people out for a walk
liked to visit the island, because they could enjoy quiet there, and
that he had only just ferried a couple of ladies across.
A waiter, who was living amid the solitude of the island, brought them
tea, in a rustic sitting-room, furnished with a couple of chairs, a
table, a piano, and a sofa. The panelling was mildewed, the planks of
the flooring had started. Félicie looked out of the window at the lawn
and the tall trees.
"What is that," she asked, "that big dark ball on the poplar?"
"That's mistletoe, my pet."
"One would think it was an animal rolled round the branch, gnawing at
it. It isn't nice to look at."
She rested her head on her lover's shoulder, saying in a languid tone:
"I love you."
He drew her down upon the sofa. She felt him, kneeling at her feet, his
hands, clumsy with impatience, gliding over her, and she suffered his
attempts, inert, discouraged, foreseeing that it was useless. Her ears
were ringing like a little bell. The ringing ceased, and she heard; on
her right, a strange, clear, glacial voice say. "I forbid you to belong
to one another." It seemed to her that the voice spoke from above, in
the glow of light, but she did not dare to turn her head. It was an
unfamiliar voice. Involuntarily and despite herself she tried to
remember his voice, and she realized that she had forgotten its sound,
and that she could never again remember it. The thought came to her
"Perhaps this is the voice he has now." Terrified, she swiftly pushed
her skirt over her knees. But she refrained from crying out, and she did
not speak of what she had just heard, lest she should be taken for a
madwoman, and because she realized somehow that it was not real.
Ligny drew away from her.
"If you don't want anything more to do with me, say so honestly. I am
not going to take you by force."
Sitting upright, with her knees pressed together, she told him:
"Whenever we are in a crowd, as long as there are people about us, I
want you, I long for you, but as soon as we are by ourselves I am
afraid."
He replied by a cheap, spiteful sneer:
"Ah, if you must have a public to stimulate you!"
She rose, and returned to the window. A tear was running down her cheek.
She wept for some time in silence. Suddenly she called to him:
"Look there!"
She pointed to Jeanne Perrin, who was strolling on the lawn with a young
woman. Each had an arm about the other's waist; they were giving one
another violets to smell, and were smiling.
"See! That woman is happy; her mind at peace."
And Jeanne Perrin, tasting the peace of long-established habits,
strolled along satisfied and serene, without even betraying any pride in
her strange preference.
Félicie watched her with, an interest which she did not confess to
herself, and envied her her serenity.
"She's not afraid, that woman."
"Let her be! What harm is she doing us?"
And he caught her violently by the waist. She freed herself with a
shudder. In the end, disappointed, frustrated, humiliated, he lost his
temper, called her a silly fool, and swore that he would not stand her
ridiculous way of treating him any longer.
She made no reply, and once more she began to weep.
Angered by her tears, he told her harshly:
"Since you can no longer give me what I ask you, it is useless for us to
meet any more. There is nothing more to be said between us. Besides, I
see that you have ceased to love me. And you would admit, if for once
you could speak the truth, that you have never loved anyone except that
wretched second-rate actor."
Then her anger exploded, and she moaned in despair:
"Liar! Liar! That's an abominable thing to say. You see I'm crying, and
you want to make me suffer more. You take advantage of the fact that I
love you to make me miserable. It's cowardly. Well, no then, I don't
love you any longer. Go away! I don't want to see you again. Go! But
it's true--what are we doing like this? Are we going to spend our lives
staring at each other like this, wild with each other, full of despair
and rage? It is not my fault--I can't, I can't. Forgive me, darling, I
love you, I worship you, I want you. Only drive him away. You are a man,
you know what there is to do. Drive him away. You killed him, not I. It
was you. Kill him altogether then--Oh God, I am going mad. I am going
mad!"
* * * * *
On the following day, Ligny applied to be sent as Third Secretary to The
Hague. He was appointed a week later, and left at once, without having
seen Félicie again.