That evening, when Gerfaut entered his room he hardly took time to place
the candlestick which he held in his hand upon the mantel before he took
from his waistcoat pocket a paper reduced to microscopic dimensions,
which he carried to his lips and kissed passionately before opening. His
eyes fell first upon the threatening flourish of the final word; this
word was: Adieu!
“Hum!” said the lover, whose exaltation was sensibly cooled at this
sight.
He read the whole letter with one glance of the eye, darting to the
culminating point of each phrase as a deer bounds over ledges of rocks;
he weighed the plain meaning as well as the innuendoes of the slightest
expression, like a rabbi who comments upon the Bible, and deciphered
the erasures with the patience of a seeker after hieroglyphics, so as
to detach from them some particle of the idea they had contained.
After analyzing and criticising this note in all its most imperceptible
shades, he crushed it within his hand and began to pace the floor,
uttering from time to time some of those exclamations which the
Dictionnaire de l’Academie has not yet decided to sanction; for all
lovers resemble the lazzaroni who kiss San-Gennaro’s feet when he acts
well, but who call him briconne as soon as they have reason to complain
of him. However, women are very kind, and almost invariably excuse
the stones that an angry lover throws at them in such moments of acute
disappointment, and willingly say with the indulgent smile of the Roman
emperor: “I feel no wound!”
In the midst of this paroxysm of furious anger, two or three knocks
resounded behind the woodwork.
“Are you composing?” asked a voice like that of a ventriloquist; “I am
with you.”
A minute later, Marillac appeared upon the threshold, in his slippers
and with a silk handkerchief tied about his head, holding his
candlestick in one hand and a pipe in the other; he stood there
motionless.
“You are fine,” said he, “you are magnificent, fatal and accursed--You
remind me of Kean in Othello--
“Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona?”
Gerfaut gazed at him with frowning brows, but made no reply.
“I will wager that it is the last scene in our third act,” replied the
artist, placing his candlestick upon the mantel; “it seems that it is
to be very tragic. Now listen! I also feel the poetical afflatus coming
over me, and, if you like, we will set about devouring paper like two
boa-constrictors. Speaking of serpents, have you a rattle? Ah, yes!
Here is the bell-rope. I was about to say that we would have a bowl of
coffee. Or rather, I will go into the kitchen myself; I am very good
friends with Marianne, the cook; besides, the motto of the house of
Bergenheim is liberte, libertas. Coffee is my muse; in this respect, I
resemble Voltaire--”
“Marillac!” exclaimed Gerfaut, as the artist was about to leave the
room. The artist turned, and meekly retraced his steps.
“You will be so good as to do me the favor of returning to your room,”
said Gerfaut. “You may work or you may sleep, just as you like; between
us, you would do well to sleep. I wish to be alone.”
“You say that as if you meditated an attempt upon your illustrious
person. Are you thinking of suicide? Let us see whether you have some
concealed weapon, some poisoned ring. Curse upon it! the poison of the
Borgias! Is the white substance in this china bowl, vulgarly called
sugar, by some terrible chance infamous arsenic disguised under the
appearance of an honest colonial commodity?”
“Be kind enough to spare your jokes,” said Octave, as his friend poked
about in all the corners of the room with an affectation of anxiety,
“and, as I can not get rid of you, listen to my opinion: if you think
that I brought you here for you to conduct yourself as you have for the
last two days, you are mistaken.”
“What have I done?”
“You left me the whole morning with that tiresome Bergenheim on my
hands, and I verily believe he made me count every stick in his park and
every frog in his pond. Tonight, when that old witch of Endor proposed
her infernal game of whist, to which it seems I am to be condemned
daily, you-excused yourself upon the pretext of ignorance, and yet you
play as good a game as I.”
“I can not endure whist at twenty sous a point.”
“Do I like it any better?”
“Well, you are a nice fellow! You have an object in view which should
make you swallow all these disagreeable trifles as if they were as sweet
as honey. Is it possible you would like me to play Bertrand and Raton? I
should be Raton the oftener of the two!”
“But, really, what did you do all day?”
Marillac posed before the mirror, arranged his kerchief about his
head in a more picturesque fashion, twisted his moustache, puffed out,
through the corner of his mouth, a cloud of smoke, which surrounded his
face like a London fog, then turned to his friend and said, with the air
of a person perfectly satisfied with himself:
“Upon my faith, my dear friend, each one for himself and God for us all!
You, for example, indulge in romantic love-affairs; you must have titled
ladies. Titles turn your head and make you exclusive. You make love to
the aristocracy; so be it, that is your own concern. As for me, I
have another system; I am, in all matters of sentiment, what I am in
politics: I want republican institutions.”
“What is all that nonsense about?”
“Let me tell you. I want universal suffrage, the cooperation of all
citizens, admission to all offices, general elections, a popular
government, in a word, a sound, patriotic hash. Which means regarding
women that I carry them all in my heart, that I recognize between them
no distinction of caste or rank. Article First of my set of laws: all
women are equal in love, provided they are young, pretty, admirably
attractive in shape and carriage, above all, not too thin.”
“And what of equality?”
“So much the worse. With this eminently liberal and constitutional
policy, I intend to gather all the flowers that will allow themselves to
be gathered by me, without one being esteemed more fresh than another,
because it belongs to the nobility, or another less sweet, because
plebeian. And as field daisies are a little more numerous than imperial
roses, it follows that I very often stoop. That is the reason why, at
this very moment, I am up to my ears in a little rustic love affair:
Simple et naive bergerette, elle regne--”
“Stop that noise; Mademoiselle de Corandeuil’s room is just underneath.”
“I will tell you then, since I must give an account of myself, that I
went into the park to sketch a few fir-trees before dinner; they are
more beautiful of their kind than the ancient Fontainebleau oaks. That
is for art. At dinner, I dined nobly and well. To do the Bergenheims
justice, they live in a royal manner. That is for the stomach. Afterward
I stealthily ordered a horse to be saddled and rode to La Fauconnerie
in a trice, where I presented the expression of my adoration to
Mademoiselle Reine Gobillot, a minor yet, but enjoying her full rights
already. That is for the heart.”
“Indeed!”
“No sarcasm, if you please; not everybody can share your taste for
princesses, who make you go a hundred leagues to follow them and then
upon your arrival, only give you the tip of a glove to kiss. Such
intrigues are not to my fancy.
Je suis sergent,
Brave--”
“Again, I say, will you stop that noise? Don’t you know that I have
nobody on my side at present but this respectable dowager on the first
floor below? If she supposes that I am making all this racket over her
head we shall be deadly enemies by to-morrow.”
“Zitto, zitto, piano, piano,
Senza strepito e rumore,”
replied Marillac, putting his finger to his lips and lowering his voice.
“What you say is a surprise to me. From the way in which you offered
your arm to Madame de Bergenheim to lead her into the drawing-room
after supper, I thought you understood each other perfectly. As I was
returning, for I made it my duty to offer my arm to the old lady--and
you say that I do nothing for you--it seemed to me that I noticed a
meeting of hands--You know that I have an eagle eye. She slipped a note
into your hand as sure as my name is Marillac.”
Gerfaut took the note which he held crumpled up in his hand, and held it
in the flame of one of the candles. The paper ignited, and in less than
a second nothing of it remained but a few dark pieces which fell into
ashes upon the marble mantel.
“You burn it! You are wrong,” said the artist; “as for me, I keep
everything, letters and hair. When I am old, I shall have the letters to
read evenings, and shall weave an allegorical picture with the hair. I
shall hang it before my desk, so as to have before me a souvenir of the
adorable creatures who furnished the threads. I will answer for it that
there will be every shade in it from that of Camille Hautier, my first
love, who was an albino, to this that I have here.”
As he spoke, he took out of his pocket a small parcel from which he drew
a lock of coal-black hair, which he spread out upon his hand.
“Did you pull this hair from Titania’s mane?” asked Gerfaut, as he drew
through his fingers the more glossy than silky lock, which he ridiculed
by this ironical supposition.
“They might be softer, I admit,” replied Marillac negligently; and he
examined the lock submitted to this merciless criticism as if it were
simply a piece of goods, of the fineness of whose texture he wished to
assure himself.
“You will admit at least that the color is beautiful, and the quantity
makes up for the quality. Upon my word, this poor Reine has given me
enough to make a pacha’s banner. Provincial and primitive simplicity! I
know of one woman in particular who never gave an adorer more than seven
of her hairs; and yet, at the end of three years, this cautious beauty
was obliged to wear a false front. All her hair had disappeared.
“Are you like me, Octave? The first thing I ask for is one of these
locks. Women rather like this sort of childishness, and when they have
granted you that, it is a snare spread for them which catches them.”
Marillac took the long, dark tress and held it near the candle; but
his movement was so poorly calculated that the hair caught fire and was
instantly destroyed.
“A bad sign,” exclaimed Gerfaut, who could not help laughing at his
friend’s dismayed look.
“This is a day of autos-de-fe,” said the artist, dropping into a chair;
“but bah! small loss; if Reine asks to see this lock, I will tell her
that I destroyed it with kisses. That always flatters them, and I am
sure it will please this little field-flower. It is a fact that she has
cheeks like rosy apples! On my way back I thought of a vaudeville that
I should like to write about this. Only I should lay the scene in
Switzerland and I should call the young woman Betty or Kettly instead of
Reine, a name ending in ‘Y’ which would rhyme with Rutly, on account
of local peculiarities. Will you join in it? I have almost finished the
scenario. First scene--Upon the rising of the curtain, harvesters are
discovered--”
“Will you do me the favor of going to bed?” interrupted Gerfaut.
“Chorus of harvesters:
Deja l’aurore
Qui se colore--”
“If you do not leave me alone, I will throw the contents of this
water-pitcher at your head.”
“I never have seen you in such a surly temper. It looks indeed as if
your divinity had treated you cruelly.”
“She has treated me shamefully!” exclaimed the lover, whose anger was
freshly kindled at this question; “she has treated me as one would
treat a barber’s boy. This note, which I just burned, was a most
formal, unpleasant, insolent dismissal. This woman is a monster, do you
understand me?”
“A monster! your angel, a monster!” said Marillac, suppressing with
difficulty a violent outburst of laughter.
“She, an angel? I must say that she is a demon--This woman--”
“Do you not adore her?”
“I hate her, I abhor her, she makes me shudder. You may laugh, if you
like!”
As he said these words, Gerfaut struck a violent blow upon the table
with his fist.
“You forget that Mademoiselle de Corandeuil’s room is just beneath us,”
said the artist, in a teasing way.
“Listen to me, Marillac! Your system with women is vulgar, gross, and
trivial. The daisies which you gather, the maidens from whom you cut
handfuls of hair excellent for stuffing mattresses, your rustic beauties
with cheeks like rosy apples are conquests worthy of counter-jumpers
in their Sunday clothes. That is nothing but the very lowest grade
of love-making, and yet you are right, a thousand times right, and
wonderfully wise compared with me.”
“You do me too much honor! So, then, you are not loved?”
“Truly, I had an idea I was, or, if I was not loved to-day, I hoped to
be to-morrow. But you are mistaken as to what discourages me. I simply
fear that her heart is narrow. I believe that she loves me as much as
she is able to love; unfortunately, that is not enough for me.”
“It certainly seems to me that, so far, she has not shown herself madly
in love with you.”
“Ah, madly! Do you know many women who love madly with their hearts
and souls? You talk like a college braggart. There are conquerors like
yourself who, if we are to believe them, would devour a whole convent
at their breakfast. These men excite my pity. As for me, really, I have
always felt that it was most difficult to make one’s self really loved.
In these days of prudery, almost all women of rank appear ‘frappe a la
glace’, like a bottle of champagne. It is necessary to thaw them first,
and there are some of them whose shells are so frigid that they would
put out the devil’s furnace. They call this virtue; I call it social
servitude. But what matters the name? the result is the same.”
“But, really, are you sure that Madame de Bergenheim loves you?” asked
Marillac, emphasizing the word “love” so strongly as to attract his
friend’s attention.
“Sure? of course I am!” replied the latter. “Why do you ask me?”
“Because, when you are not quite so angry, I want to ask you something.”
He hesitated a moment. “If you learned that she cares more for another
than for you, what would you do?”
Gerfaut looked at him and smiled disdainfully.
“Listen!” said he, “you have heard me storm and curse, and you took this
nonsense for genuine hatred. My good fellow! do you know why I raved
in such a manner? It was because, knowing my temperament, I felt the
necessity of getting angry and giving vent to what was in my heart. If
I had not employed this infallible remedy, the annoyance which this note
caused me would have disturbed my nerves all night, and when I do not
sleep my complexion is more leaden than usual and I have dark rings
under my eyes.”
“Fop!”
“Simpleton!”
“Why simpleton?”
“Do you take me for a dandy? Do you not understand why I wish to sleep
soundly? It is simply because I do not wish to appear before her with a
face like a ghost. That would be all that was needed to encourage her in
her severity. I shall take good care that she does not discover how hard
her last thrust has hit me. I would give you a one-hundred-franc note
if I could secure for to-morrow morning your alderman’s face and your
complexion a la Teniers.”
“Thanks, we are not masquerading just at present.”
“Nevertheless, all that you have said does not prove in the slightest
that she loves you.”
“My dear Marillac, words may have escaped me in my anger which have
caused you to judge hastily. Now that I am calm and that my remedy has
brought back my nervous system to its normal state, I will explain to
you my real position. She is my Galatea, I her Pygmalion. ‘An allegory
as old as the world,’ you are about to say; old or not, it is my true
story. I have not yet broken the marble-virtue, education, propriety,
duty, prejudices--which covers the flesh of my statue; but I am nearing
my goal and I shall reach it. Her desperate resistance is the very proof
of my progress. It is a terrible step for a woman to take, from No to
Yes. My Galatea begins to feel the blows from my heart over her heart
and she is afraid--afraid of the world, of me, of her husband, of
herself, of heaven and hell. Do you not adore women who are afraid of
everything? She, love another! never! It is written in all eternity that
she shall be mine. What did you wish to say to me?”
“Nothing, since you are so sure of her.”
“Sure--more than of my eternal life! But I wish to know what you mean.”
“But you won’t be told just a suspicion that came to me; something that
was told to me the other day; a conjecture so vague that it would be
useless to dwell upon it.”
“I am not good at guessing enigmas,” said Octave, in a dry tone.
“We will speak of this again to-morrow.”
“As you like,” replied the lover, with somewhat affected indifference.
“If you wish to play the part of Iago with me, I warn you I am not
disposed to jealousy.”
“To-morrow, I tell you, I shall enlighten myself as to this affair;
whatever the result of my inquiries may be, I will tell you the truth.
After all, it was nothing but woman’s gossip.”
“Very well, take your time. But I have another favor to ask of you.
Tomorrow I shall try to persuade the ladies to take a walk in the park.
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil will probably not go; you must do me the
favor of sticking to Bergenheim and the little sister, and gradually
to walk on ahead of us, in such a way as to give me an opportunity of
speaking with this cruel creature alone for a few moments; for she has
given me to understand that I shall not succeed in speaking with her
alone under any circumstances, and it is absolutely necessary that I
should do so.”
“There will be one difficulty in the way, though--they expect about
twenty persons at dinner, and all her time will probably be taken up
with her duties as hostess.”
“That is true,” exclaimed Gerfaut, jumping up so suddenly that he upset
his chair.
“You still forget that Mademoiselle de Corandeuil’s room is beneath us.”
“The devil is playing her hand!” exclaimed the lover, as he paced the
room in long strides. “I wish that during the night he would wring the
neck of all these visitors. Now; then, she has her innings. Today and
tomorrow this little despot’s battle of Ligny will be fought and won;
but the day after to-morrow, look out for her Waterloo!”
“Good-night, my Lord Wellington,” said Marillac, as he arose and took up
his candlestick.
“Good-night, Iago! Ah! you think you have annoyed me with your
mysterious words and melodramatic reticence?”
“To-morrow! to-morrow!” replied the artist as he left the room.
“Ce secret-la
Se trahira.”