“IS that thing yours?” asked Cartier.
It was Sunday evening in the vast solitude of Cartier’s music room.
There was nothing in it but space--a couple of armchairs and the blur
of tobacco smoke. The sound of Jean’s playing on Cartier’s perfect
grand reached his listener’s ear without anything to deaden or blur the
clear stream of the falling notes.
“Yes, it’s mine,” replied Jean wearily. “At least I suppose it is--it
may be an imitation of yours, _mon maître_, for anything I know to
the contrary. I was half dead with sleep last night when it came to
me. Flaubert broke down, you know, after his ball, and went off for a
week--so I’ve been doing his work for him--and, to tell you the truth,
I prefer his work to his company. But you like it--this little idea? I
call it ‘Autumn in Spring’--because I feel it is that moment when the
dead leaves are still in the ground and yet life stirs.”
“I don’t know whether I like it or not,” said Cartier slowly, “but you
should do nothing else.”
“That is easily said,” Jean answered a little bitterly; “only there
must be a basis for bread and butter--I used to think one had nothing
to do but to sit and hear music come, but when everything else went
I found myself getting up and going after it. Counterpoint and
harmony--even the study of _les vieux_--they weren’t worth the smell
of a cup of coffee and a fresh _petit pain_; and--well, it’s thanks to
you, Cartier, that I’m not starving now.”
“It’s not thanks to me,” said Cartier quietly. “But, Jean, you’ve
got to get back to counterpoint and harmony and _les vieux_! I never
much cared for the Toriallis for you; it’s a footman’s place with the
jingle of the piano thrown in. Now you’re on your feet again I have
another idea. I want you to throw it up and come with me to Russia
for a year. I promised to go back to play through the winter at St.
Petersburg, but I have a notion to go off somewhere into the country
for the summer. They’ve fine forests there and silences deeper than
anything you’ve ever dreamed of. Friends of mine have offered me a
house the size of a Paris boulevard. I don’t want to go alone--but if
you’d come with me it would give you time enough to yourself to hammer
out a little stuff--and I should see then better what is in you. For
me, unless I have one of _les jeunes_ at my side I grow top-heavy and
old-fashioned. Let it be a bargain then--you shall have all expenses
paid and whatever the good Toriallis have seen fit to dole out to you
thrown in!”
Jean drew a deep breath; then he got up and crossed the big, sounding
_salon_ to Cartier’s side.
“That would be worth Heaven to me, _mon maître_,” he said, “and it’s
rather like the other place having to say ‘No!’ But to tell the truth
I’m in what’s called a difficult position. I hadn’t meant to consult
you about it yet, but I can’t let you think I give up your offer
lightly. I’ve discovered that Flaubert is a thief and a fraud! He’s
worse. _Mon Dieu!_ it’s like touching dirt to speak of him! And Madame
trusts him! Torialli too. I’ve got my proofs, but I’m hesitating. When
he comes back I shall confront him with them and ask him to resign;
if he will not, I suppose I must expose him. But it will be a shock I
should like to spare them.”
Cartier looked up quickly at Jean and puffed cautiously at his pipe for
a moment; then he said in a tone Jean had never heard him use before:
“Sit down, my boy. Now what is it exactly you propose to tell the
Toriallis?”
Jean flushed a little; then he sat down and poured out in a quick,
flashing stream of indignation the pent-up suspicions of six months,
with the sequel of Margot’s preposterous account.
“You’d better not tell Madame Torialli that,” said Cartier quietly,
when Jean had finished. “Part of it wouldn’t be any news to Madame,
the part about the accounts. They make them up together. Of course I
never knew to what length they carried it, but every one has known
for some time that there was something a little sharp and backstairs
about the business--only what will you--it’s the best method in Paris?
I don’t say Torialli knows, probably not, but he must have to make
an effort to remain ignorant! _Au reste_----” Cartier shut his eyes,
opened them and shrugged his shoulders. “You won’t break Madame’s heart
by pointing out the treachery of _ce beau garçon_ of hers, but you’ll
annoy her pretty considerably, and I shouldn’t choose to be the one who
annoyed _le petit ange_ Gabriel--she likes to be left to make her own
annunciations!”
“What do you mean, Cartier?” asked Jean. He leaned forward; his eyes
flickered like a trapped animal’s--they seemed almost to grow into
Cartier’s face.
“Mais--c’est connu,” answered his companion. “Surely you are not
ignorant that Torialli’s secretary is--_en général_--the lover of
Madame? She doesn’t lose her heart, you understand, but she finds it
works better. She has a great deal of discretion, but Flaubert doesn’t
happen to be of the right _genre_. So it’s leaked out. Don’t take it
too hard, my boy--all Paris knows it--except Torialli. There again he
opens his mouth and shuts his eyes--and Madame fills it with what she
thinks good for him. I think we may agree that it usually _is_ good for
him, though many men would prefer a more meagre diet, administered with
a little less discretion.”
Then Cartier got up and walked away from Jean; he could not bear to see
the boy’s face.
“It is not true,” muttered Jean, “it is not true!” but he did not get
up and go after Cartier.
For a long while neither of the two men spoke. Then Cartier said:
“I wish you’d come with me to Russia, Jean; it’s the best place for you
to get the taste of Paris out of your mouth! Paris is like this! You
won’t get on here. You don’t understand her little ways. You think of
things as if they were made of jewels; they’re not: they’re made, for
the most part, of paste. When one knows that one pays the price for
paste, but to pay as you do is to be ruined.”
“To tell the truth I had no idea how far things had gone. I believed it
was only a case of the occasional bleeding of the rich--that one winks
at oneself--it relieves the system, as it were--and at the same time
there is always a profit for the anæmic. Torialli is a good fellow, he
wouldn’t want more than that; but she’s ambitious--she’s gone, even
for Paris, a little far. Still, if I were you, I’d get that account of
Margot’s paid. I wouldn’t fight her!”
“Fight her!” muttered Jean. “_Mon Dieu!_ fight Gabrielle!”
“Don’t think of her like that!” cried Cartier sharply, “or you’ll go
mad. Think of her as she is, a clever _intrigante_, with her hand in
the pocket of the public.”
“The Devil!” cried Jean, springing to his feet. “Don’t push me too far,
Cartier. I’ve stood a good deal because I suppose you believe what you
say----” Jean stopped.
Cartier nodded. “You, too,” he said quietly, “believe what I say.
You’re at liberty to knock me down if it’ll relieve you. After all, I
let you in for this thing. Only keep hold of the truth. Madame Torialli
isn’t worth breaking a stick for, let alone a man’s life! You’ve got
talent, my boy,--pull yourself together and use it. You happen to have
seen a good woman, even though you haven’t, I fancy, looked at her.
Still, they exist, you know, and will continue to, but they’re not as a
rule quite as clever as Madame. We’ll go to Russia next week if you’re
ready.”
Jean made no answer; he hunted blindly for his hat, found it, and
rushed out into the street.
It was a stifling May night; the hot air from the pavement rose
up to meet the sultry breath of the sky. Jean did not feel it, it
even seemed to him to be cold. He knew nothing, and saw nothing. A
merciful blankness had descended upon his mind. He had this much of
an idea--that he must go--but he was not sure where, or how. When he
crossed a street he passed through the traffic as if it were something
flung upon a screen. People shouted after him, but he paid no attention
to their cries. He did not dream of committing suicide, he did not feel
as if there was anything as real as suicide. He neither knew nor cared
where he went, though he was conscious of a feeling of ease as the hard
glare of the Champs Élysées melted into the softer darkness of the Bois.
There were trees now, and whole empty spaces where the little figures
of men and women ceased to jerk past him like children’s painted toys.
By and by he came to a seat in the shadow of a big tree. It was quite
dark and empty and Jean huddled there, cowering beside it as if it
could afford him some kind of shelter against a special danger. He knew
now that he was afraid. There was still something that might happen to
him. He might remember Gabrielle’s face.
The birds twittered and murmured to each other in the trees, the
far-off voice of Paris came lightly to Jean, without the menace of its
accustomed speed. He tried to think of Margot and picture what she was
doing, but something quickly warned him not to do that. If he thought
of Margot he might remember what he was trying to forget; and then it
came; though he had shut his eyes and covered his face with his hands
he saw her. He saw Gabrielle’s face.
She was smiling at him as she had smiled last night with serene and
intimate tenderness.
The merciful blankness was over now, pain poured into him, pain so
abominable and heart-rending that he cried aloud. He could not bear it.
He must not bear it, it was as physical as scorching flame. He saw the
way she moved, her dresses and the crystal heart she wore and played
with in her delicate hands.
The birds were quiet now, but it was no longer any use their being
quiet. He heard instead every tone of her delicious voice, its little
soft falls into contralto like the depth of velvet, or its sudden
lifting into clear, sweet notes like the chiming of a silver bell. She
was horribly near him, the night was full of her, he could even breathe
the exquisite faint perfume of her hair.
He flung himself face downwards on the ground.
Oh, to grow into the stupid, painless earth, to feel without sense or
sound the slow pulsations of the grass! To lose himself, to forget
himself and her!
The sweet, soft night passed over him, hour by hour, until it seemed as
if the earth below him turned in sleep. He lifted his face up to the
sky. There was no moon and all the stars were small and glimmered far
away. At first he thought still that it was the night; and then he knew
that the darkness was moving.
The dawn wind rose and sent its stealthy whispering through the trees.
The birds awoke and called short, sharp liquid cries of half-awakened
love. Then a gust, borne across the speeding darkness, broke in a soft
shower of rain. It was the last gift of the retreating night.
Jean stumbled to his feet and crept back to Paris to meet the new,
intolerable day.