At Easter an event of great importance increased her joy. She was
engaged at the Comédie-Française. For some time past, without mentioning
the subject, she had been trying for this engagement. Her mother had
helped her in the steps she had taken. Madame Nanteuil was lovable now
that she was loved. She now wore straight corsets and petticoats that
she could display anywhere. She frequented the offices of the Ministry,
and it is said that, being solicited by the deputy-chief of a department
in the Beaux-Arts, she had yielded with very good grace. At least, so
Pradel said.
He would exclaim joyfully:
"You wouldn't recognize her now, Mother Nanteuil! She has become most
desirable, and I like her better than her little vixen of a daughter.
She has a better disposition."
Like the rest of them, Félicie had disdained, despised, disparaged the
Comédie-Française. She had said, as all the others did: "I should
hardly care to get into that house." And no sooner did she belong to it
than she was filled with proud and joyful exultation. What increased her
pleasure twofold was that she was to make her debut in _L'École des
Femmes_. She already studying the part of Agnès with an obscure old
professor, Monsieur Maxime, of whom she thought highly because he was
acquainted with all the traditions of the stage. At night she was
playing Cécile in _La Grille_, and she was living in a feverish turmoil
of work she received a letter in which Robert de Ligny informed her that
he was returning to Paris.
During his stay at The Hague he had made certain experiments which had
proved to him the strength of his love for Félicie. He had had women who
were reported to be pretty and pleasing. But neither Madame Bourmdernoot
of Brussels, tall and fresh looking, nor the sisters Van Cruysen,
milliners on the Vijver, nor Suzette Berger of the Folies-Marigny, then
on tour through Northern Europe, had given him a sense of pleasure in
its completeness. When in their company he had regretted Félicie, and
had discovered that of all women, he desired her alone. Had it not been
for Madame Bourmdernoot, the sisters Van Cruysen, and Suzette
Berger, he would never have known how priceless Félicie Nanteuil was to
him. If one must be literal it may be argued that he was unfaithful to
her. That is the correct expression. There are others which come to the
same thing and which are not such good form. But if one looks into the
matter more closely he had not deceived her. He had sought her, he had
sought her out of herself and had learned that he would find her in
herself alone. In his futile wisdom he was almost angered and alarmed;
he was uneasy at having to stake the multitude of his desires upon so
slender a substance, in so unique and fragile a vessel. And he loved
Félicie all the more because he loved her with a certain depth of rage
and hatred.
On the very day of his arrival in Paris, he made an appointment with her
in a bachelor's flat, which a rich colleague in the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs had placed at his disposal. It was situated in the Avenue de
l'Alma, on the ground-floor of an attractive-looking house, and
consisted of a couple of small rooms hung with a design of suns with
brown hearts and golden rays, which rose, uniform, peaceful, and
shadowless on the cheerful wall. The rooms were modern in style; the
furniture was of a pale green, decorated with flowering branches; its
outlines followed the gentle curves of the liliaceous plants, and
assumed something of the tender feeling of moist vegetation. The
cheval-glass leant slightly forward in its frame of bulbous plants of
supple form, terminating in closed corollas, and in this frame the
mirror had the coolness of water. A white bearskin lay stretched at the
foot of the bed.
"You! You! It's you!" was all she could say.
She saw the pupils of his eyes shining and heavy with desire, and while
she gazed at him a cloud gathered before her eyes. The subtle fire of
her blood, the burning of her loins, the warm breath of her lungs, the
fiery colour of her face, were all blended in her mouth, and she pressed
on her lover's lips a long, long kiss, a kiss pregnant with all these
fires and as fresh as a flower in the dew.
They asked one another twenty things at a time, and their questions
intermingled.
"Were you wretched, Robert, when you were away from me?"
"So you are making your début at the Comédie?
"Is The Hague a pretty place?"
"Yes, a quiet little town. Red, grey, yellow houses, with stepped
gables, green shutters, and geraniums at the windows."
"What did you do there?"
"Not much. I walked round the Vijver."
"You did not go with women, I should hope?"
"No, upon my word. How pretty you are, my darling! Are you well again
now?"
"Yes, I am cured."
And in sudden entreaty she said:
"Robert, I love you. Do not leave me. If you were to leave me I know for
certain I could never take another lover. And what would become of me?
You know that I can't do without love."
He replied brusquely, in a harsh voice, that he loved her only too well,
that he thought of nothing but of her.
"I'm going crazy with it."
His harshness delighted and reassured her better than the nerveless
tenderness of oaths and promises could have done. She smiled and began
to undress herself generously.
"When do you make your début at the Comédie?"
"This very month."
She opened her little bag, and took from it, together with her
face-powder, her call for the rehearsal, which she held out to Robert.
It was a source of unending delight to her to gaze admiringly at this
document, because it bore the heading of the Comédie, with the remote
and awe-inspiring date of its foundation.
"You see, I make my début as Agnès in _L'École des Femmes_."
"It's a fine part."
"I believe you."
And, while she was undressing, the lines surged to her lips, and she
whispered them:
"Moi, j'ai blessé quelqu'un? fis-je tout étonnée
Oui, dit-elle, blessé; mais blessé tout de bon;
Et c'est l'homme qu'hier vous vîtes au balcon
Las! qui pourrait, lui dis-je, en avoir été cause?
Sur lui, sans y penser, fis-je choir quelque chose?"
"You see, I have not grown thin."
"Non, dit-elle, vos yeux ont fait ce coup fatal,
Et c'est de leurs regards qu'est venu tout son mal."
"If anything, I am a little plumper, but not too much."
"Hé, mon Dieu! ma surprise est, fis-je, sans seconde;
Mes yeux ont-ils du mal pour en donner au monde?"
He listened to the lines with pleasure. If on the one hand he did not
know much more of the literature of bygone days or of French tradition
than his youthful contemporaries, he had more taste and more lively
interests. And, like all Frenchmen, he loved Molière, understood him,
and felt him profoundly.
"It's delightful," he said. "Now, come to me."
She let her chemise slip downwards with a calm and beneficent grace.
But, because she wished to make herself desired, and because she loved
comedy, she began Agnès' narrative:
"J'étais sur le balcon à travailler au frais,
Lorsque je vis passer sous les arbres d'auprès
Un jeune homme bien fait qui, rencontrant ma vue...."
He called her, and drew her to him. She glided from his arms, and,
advancing toward the mirror, she continued to recite and act before the
glass.
"D'une humble révérence aussitôt me salue."
Bending her knee, at first slightly, then lower, then, with her left leg
brought forward, and her right thrown, back, she curtsied deeply.
"Moi, pour ne point manquer à la civilité,
Je fis la révérence aussi de mon côté."
He called her more urgently. But she dropped a second curtsy, the pauses
of which she accentuated with amusing precision. And she went on
reciting and dropping curtsies at the places indicated by the text and
by the traditions of the stage.
"Soudain il me refait une autre révérence;
Moi, j'en refais de même une autre en diligence;
Et lui, d'une troisième aussitôt repartant,
D'une troisième aussi j'y repars à l'instant."
She executed every detail of stage business, seriously and
conscientiously, taking pains to give a perfect rendering. Her poses,
some of which were disconcerting, requiring as they did a skirt to
explain them, were almost all pretty, while all were interesting,
inasmuch as they brought into relief the firm muscles under the soft
envelope of a young body, and revealed at every movement correspondences
and harmonies which are not commonly observed.
When clothing her nudity with the propriety of her attitudes and the
ingenuousness of her expressions she was the incarnation, through mere
chance and caprice, of a gem of art, an allegory of Innocence in the
style of Allegrain or Clodion. And the great lines of the comedy rang
out with delicious purity from this animated figurine. Robert,
enthralled in spite of himself, suffered her to go on to the very end.
What entertained him above all was that the most public of all things, a
stage scene, should be presented to him in so private and secret a
fashion. And, while watching the ceremonious actions of this girl in all
her nudity, he was at the same time revelling in the philosophical
pleasure of discovering how dignity is produced in the best social
circles.
"Il passe, vient, repasse et toujours de plus belle
Me fait à chaque fois une révérence nouvelle,
Et moi qui tous ses tours fixement regardais,
Nouvelle révérence aussi je lui rendais...."
In the meantime she admired in the mirror her freshly-budded breasts,
her supple waist, her arms, a trifle slender, round and tapering, and
her smooth, beautiful knees; and, seeing all this subservient to the
fine art of comedy, she became animated and exalted; a slight flush,
like rouge, tinted her cheeks.
"Tant que si sur ce point la nuit ne fût venue,
Toujours comme cela je me serais tenue,
Ne voulaut point céder, ni recevoir l'ennui
Qu'il me pût estimer moins civile que lui...."
He called to her from the bed, where he was lying on his elbow.
"Now come!"
Whereupon, full of animation and with heightened colour, she exclaimed:
"Don't you think that I, too, love you!"
She flung herself beside her lover. Supple and wholly surrendered, she
threw back her head, offering to his kisses her eyes veiled with shadowy
lashes and her half-parted lips, from which gleamed a moist flash of
white.
Of a sudden she started to her knees. Her staring eyes were filled with
unspeakable terror. A hoarse scream escaped from her throat, followed by
a wail as long drawn out and gentle as an organ note. Turning her head,
she pointed to the white fur spread out at the foot of the bed.
"There! There! He is lying there like a crouching dog, with a hole in
his head. He is looking at me, with the blood trickling from the corner
of his mouth."
Her eyes, wide open, rolled up, showing the whites. Her body stretched
backward like a bow, and, when it had recovered its suppleness, she fell
as if dead.
He bathed her temples with cold water, and brought her back to
consciousness. In a childlike voice she whimpered that every joint in
her body was broken. Feeling a burning sensation in the hollow of her
hand, she looked, and saw that the palm was cut and bleeding.
She said:
"It's my nails, they've gone into my hand. See, my nails are full of
blood!"
She thanked him tenderly for his ministrations, and apologized sweetly
for causing him so much trouble.
"It was not for that you came, was it?"
She tried to smile, and looked around her.
"It's nice, here."
Her gaze met the call to rehearsal lying open on the bedside table, and
she sighed:
"What is the use of my being a great actress if I am not happy?"
Without realizing it, she was repeating word for word what Chevalier
had said when she rejected his advances.
Then, raising her still stupefied head from the pillow in which it had
lain buried, she turned her mournful eyes toward her lover, and said to
him resignedly:
"We did indeed love each other, we two. It is over. We shall never again
belong to each other; no, never. He forbids it!"
THE END
[Transcriber's Note:
The following typographical errors in the source text were corrected:
Page 92: disease. -> disease."
Page 103: Saint-Etienne-du-Mont -> Saint-Étienne-du-Mont
Page 104: Saint-Êtienne-du-Mont -> Saint-Étienne-du-Mont
Page 138: dimunitive -> diminutive
Page 141: magificent -> magnificent
Page 141: Saint-Êtienne-du-Mont -> Saint-Étienne-du-Mont
The following inconsistent hyphenations in the source text were left
unchanged:
ill-will/illwill
fire-place/fireplace
box-wood/boxwood]