'But, unworthy as I am, should the feeling that I read in your eyes this morning—how beautiful they were at that moment, and how I shall always remember them!—should, I say, that feeling conquer your virtuous indignation, should that sympathy with which you reproached yourself still live in your heart, should you remain, in spite of yourself, the woman who wept when she heard me confess my love and adoration—then I conjure you, madame, to wrest some pity from that sympathy. Before confirming the sentence to which I am quite ready to submit—that terrible sentence never to see you more—let me ask you to put me to one single proof. My request is so humble, and so subservient to your will. Hear it, I beg. If I have guessed rightly from the all too short and fleeting conversations we have had, your life, though apparently so complete, is devoid of many things. Have you never felt the need of having near you a friend to whom you could confide your troubles, a friend who would never speak to you again as he once dared to do, but who would be content to breathe the same air as yourself, and to share your joys and sorrows—a friend on whom you could rely, whom you could take or leave at your sweet will—in a word, a thing of your own, whose very thoughts would be yours? Such a friend, with no desire beyond that of serving you, regretting only that he has not always done so, and entertaining no criminal hopes whatever, is what I dreamt of becoming before that interview in which my feelings were stronger than my will. And I feel that I love you sufficiently to realise that dream even now. Nay, do not shake your head. I am sincere in my entreaties, sincere in my determination never to utter a word which will make you repent your forbearance if you decide to put me to this proof. Will it not be time enough to banish me from your presence when you think me in danger of breaking the promise I now make?
'My God! how empty my phrases seem! I tremble at the thought that you will read these lines, and that is why I can scarcely write them. What will your answer be? Will you call me back to that shrine in the Rue Murillo where you have already been so kind and so full of indulgence that the memory of the minutes spent there falls like balm upon my aching heart? That poor heart beats only for you in obedient and humble admiration. Say—oh! say that you forgive me. Say that you will let me see you once more. Say that you will let us try to be friends. You would say all this, I know, if you could read what is in my heart. And even if you do not speak those blessed words, there shall be no murmuring, no reproaches, nothing but eternal gratitude—gratitude as deep in martyrdom as it would have been in ecstasy. I have learnt to-day how sweet it is to suffer through those one loves!'
It was six o'clock when René posted this letter. He gazed after it as it disappeared in the box, and no sooner had it left his hand than he began to regret having sent it, the anguish of suspense respecting the result being greater than his sufferings of the afternoon. In his disturbed state of mind he had entirely forgotten his daily habits and the fact that he had never stayed from home a whole day without giving some previous explanation. He sat down to dinner in the first restaurant he came across, without a thought of his people at home, and completely absorbed in speculations as to what Suzanne would do after reading his effusion. The first thing that awoke him from his state of semi-somnambulism was the exclamation of Françoise when, having reached home on foot about half-past nine, he opened the door and found himself face to face with the big, clumsy maid, who nearly dropped the lamp with fright.
'Oh! sir,' she cried; 'if you only knew how uneasy you've made Madame Fresneau—it's sent her into fits.'
As Emilie ran out into the passage to meet him René said, 'You don't mean to say that you've been upset by my not coming home? I couldn't help it,' he added in an undertone as he kissed her; 'it was onheraccount.'
Emilie, who had really spent a most wretched evening, looked at her brother. She saw that he too had been greatly agitated, and that his eyes were burning feverishly; she had not the courage to reproach him with selfishness in paying no regard to her own unreasonable susceptibilities—though he knew them so well—and replied in a whisper, as she pointed to the half-open door of the dining-room: 'The Offarels are here.'
These simple words sufficed to give a sudden turn to René's feelings. His fever of suspense was dispelled by a more pressing fear. During the sweetest moments of his walk through the Louvre that morning the memory of Rosalie had been able to give him pain—even when he was with Suzanne! And now he was obliged to unexpectedly face—not a vision—but the girl herself, to meet those eyes which he had avoided in such cowardly fashion for days past, to gaze upon that pallor which he himself had caused. A sense of his treachery once more came over him, but this time it was more painful and acute than ever. He had spoken words of love to another woman before breaking off his engagement with her whom he justly regarded as his betrothed.
He entered the dining-room as if he were walking to the scaffold, and had no sooner come under the full light of the lamp than he saw by the look in Rosalie's eyes that she read his heart like an open book. She was seated between Fresneau and Madame Offarel, working as usual, her feet resting on the supports of an empty chair upon which she had placed her ball of wool and her father's hat; this, as René knew well enough, was only an innocent ruse to get him to sit near her when he came home. She and her mother were knitting some long mittens for old Offarel, who had now got hold of an idea that he was going to have gout in his wrists. Her fanciful parent was there, too, drinking, in spite of his imaginary ills, a glass of good strong grog and playing piquet with the professor. It was Emilie who had proposed the game in order to discourage general conversation, and so be able to give herself up to thoughts of her absent brother, whilst Angélique Offarel had been helping her to unravel some skeins of silk. A soft light illumined this quiet, peaceful scene, symbolical, in the poet's eyes, of all that had so long constituted his happiness, and which he had now given up for ever. Fortunately for him the professor immediately made his loud voice heard, and so put an end to his further reflections.
'Young man,' cried Fresneau, 'you can boast of having a sister who thinks something of you, I can tell you! She was actually proposing to sit up all night! "Something must have happened to him. He would have sent a wire." For two pins she would have sent me off to the Morgue. It was no use my suggesting that some one had kept you to dinner. Come, Offarel, it's your deal.'
'I had to go into the country,' replied René, 'and I lost the train.'
'How badly he tells them!' thought Emilie, admiring her brother as much for his unskilfulness, which in this case was a sign of honesty, as she would have admired him for Machiavelian cleverness.
'You look rather pale,' observed Madame Offarel aggressively, 'aren't you well?'
'Shall I make room for you here, Monsieur René?' asked Rosalie, with a timid smile; 'I'll take away papa's hat.'
'Give it to me,' said old Offarel, perceiving a place for it on the sideboard; 'it will be safer here. It's my Number One, and mamma would scold me if any harm came to it.'
'It's been Number One for such a long time,' cried Angélique, with a laugh. 'Look here, papa, here's a real Number One,' she added, holding up René's hat under the lamp-light and comparing its glossy nap with the shabby silk and old-fashioned shape of her father's headgear, much to the latter's disadvantage.
'But nothing is too good for Monsieur René now,' observed Madame Offarel with her usual acrimony, venting the rest of her displeasure upon Angélique, whose action had annoyed her. 'You'll be lucky if your husband is always as well dressed as your father.'
René was seated by Rosalie's side, and let the epigram of the terriblebourgeoisepass unnoticed, taking no part either in the rest of the conversation, which Emilie wisely led round to cookery topics. Madame Offarel was almost as keen on this subject as she was on that of her feline pets. Not content with having recipes of her own for all kinds of dishes, such ascoulis d'écrevisses, her triumph, andcanard sauce Offarel, as she had proudly named it, she also kept a list of addresses where specialities might be obtained. Treating Paris like Robinson Crusoe treated his island, she would, from time to time, start out on a foraging expedition to the most remote quarters of the capital, going to some particular shop for her coffee and to another for herpâtes d'Italie.She knew the exact date on which a certain man received his consignment of Bologna sausages, and when another got his Spanish olives in.
The slightest incidents of these excursions were magnified by her into events. Sometimes she would go on foot, and then her comments on the improvements she had noticed, on the increase in the traffic, and on the superiority of the air in the Rue de Bagneux were inexhaustible. At other times she would go by omnibus, and then her fellow-passengers formed the subject of her remarks. She had met a very nice woman who was very fat, or a young man who was very impertinent; the conductor had recognised her and said good morning; the 'bus had nearly been upset three times; an old gentleman—'decorated'—had had some trouble in alighting. 'I really thought he would fall, poor, dear old man!'
The insignificant and superfluous details upon which it pleased the poor woman's simple mind to dilate generally amused René, for thebourgeoisesometimes hit upon some curious figures of speech in her flow of words. She would say, for instance, when speaking of a fellow-passenger who was paying attentions to a cook laden with provisions, 'Some people like their pockets greasy,' or of two persons quarrelling, 'They fought like Darnajats'—a mysterious expression which she had always refused to translate.
But that evening there was too pronounced a contrast between the state of romantic excitement into which his interview with Suzanne had thrown the poet and the meanness of the surroundings in which he had been born. He did not stop to think that similar contrasts are to be found in every form of life, and that the substrata of the fashionable world are composed of mean rivalries, of disgusting attempts to keep up illusory appearances, and of compromises of conscience compared with which the narrow-mindedness of the middle classes is a proof of the most delightful simplicity.
He looked at Rosalie, and the resemblance between the girl and her mother struck him most forcibly. She was pretty, for all that. Her oval face, pale with evident grief, had an ivory tint as she bent down over her knitting in the lamp-light, and when she raised her eyes to his the sincerity of the passion that animated her shone forth from beneath her long lashes. But why were her eyes of precisely the same shade of colour as her mother's? Why, with twenty-four years between them, had they the same shape of brow, the same cut of the chin, and the same lines of the mouth? But how unjust to blame this innocent child for that resemblance, for that pallor, for that grief, and even for the silence in which she wrapped herself! Alas! that it should be so, but when we have wronged a woman it is easy enough to find an inexhaustible source of unjust complaints against her.
Rosalie had unwittingly committed the crime of adding remorse to the feelings brought into play by René's fresh passion. She represented that past which we never forgive if it becomes an obstacle between us and our future. False as most women are in matters of love, their perfidy can never sufficiently punish the secret selfishness of the majority of men. If René had had the sorry courage of his friend Claude Larcher, and looked himself straight in the face, he would have had to confess that the real cause of his irritation lay in the fact that he had deceived Rosalie. But he was a poet, and one who was an adept at throwing a veil over the ugly parts of his soul.
He therefore compelled himself to think of Suzanne, and of the noble love which had sprung up and was burning within him; for the first time he succeeded in forming a resolve to break definitely with Rosalie, saying to himself, 'I will be worthy ofher!'Shewas the lying wanton who, with her luxurious surroundings, her rare science of dress, her incomparable power of aping sentiment, and her seductive, soul-troubling beauty, had such immense advantages over sweet, simple-hearted Rosalie. Her beauty once more rose up before René's enslaved imagination just as old Offarel was giving the signal for departure by rising and saying to Fresneau, 'I've won fourteensousfrom you—ha! ha! that'll keep me in cigars for a week. Come,' he added, turning to his wife, 'are you ladies ready?'
'Since we are all here,' replied Madame Offarel, emphasising the word 'all' by darting a look at René. 'When are you coming to dinner? Would Saturday suit you? That's M. Fresneau's best day, I believe?' The professor replying in the affirmative, she now addressed herself to the poet direct, 'Will that suit you, René? You'll be more comfortable at our place, I can assure you, than amongst all those grand people on whom your friend Larcher goes sponging.'
'But, Madame——' exclaimed the poet.
'Oh—that's enough!' cried the old lady; 'I always remember what my dear mother used to say: a crust of bread at home is better than a stuffed turkey at another's table.'
Although this epigram of Rosalie's mother was simply nonsense when applied to the unhappy Claude, whose acute dyspepsia seldom permitted him to drink even a glass of wine, it wounded René as deeply as if it had been thoroughly deserved. This was because he saw in it yet another sign of deep and ever-increasing hostility between his old associations and the new life for which since that morning he so eagerly and ardently longed. These people had a right to him—a fuller right than Madame Offarel knew, for was he not bound to Rosalie by a secret understanding? A fresh fit of irritation against this poor child came over him, and he said to himself more firmly than before, 'I shall break it off.'
Having arrived at that decision, he went to bed, but could not sleep. The current of his ideas had changed. He was now thinking of his letter. It must have reached Suzanne by this, and a series of unforeseen dangers spread itself out before his imagination. Suppose her husband were to intercept the letter? A thrill ran through him as he thought of the misery his imprudence might bring down upon this poor woman, in the power of a tyrant whose brutality he could well imagine. And then, even if the letter reached Suzanne safely, what if it displeased her? And he was sure that such would be the case. He tried to remember the words he had written. 'How can I have been such a fool as to write like that?' he asked himself, and hoped that the letter might miscarry. He knew that such things happened sometimes when people wished the contrary. Why should it not happen now that he expressly desired it? He grew quite ashamed of his childishness, and attributing it to the nervous excitement of the evening, began once more to curse Madame Offarel's mean-spirited remarks. His irritability against the mother paralysed all pity for the daughter. He passed the night in this fashion, tossed between two kinds of tortures, until he fell into that deep morning sleep which is more tiring than refreshing; on awaking, the first thought that occurred to him was his desire, stronger than ever, to break off his engagement.
What means could he employ? A very simple expedient presented itself to his mind at once—ask the girl to make an appointment. It was so easy, too! How many times had she not let him know when Madame Offarel would be out, so that he could come to the Rue Bagneux sure of finding her alone with Angélique; and how considerate the latter had always been in leaving the two lovers together and in peace! This was undoubtedly the most loyal means to adopt. But the poet could not even bear to think of such an interview.
In such crises we are sometimes assailed by a contemptible form of pity that consists in unwillingness to look upon the sufferings we have caused. We do not mind inflicting torture upon the woman we cast off, but we do not care to see her tears. It was only natural that René should try to spare himself this insufferable pain by writing—the resource of the weak in every kind of rupture. Paper can stand a good deal, people say. He got out of bed and commenced to write—but the words would not flow easily, and he was obliged to stop. Meanwhile the hour for the postman's first call was drawing near. Although it was perfect madness to expect Suzanne's reply by that delivery, the lover's heart beat faster when Emilie entered the room with his letters and the newspaper, as was her wont when she knew he was awake. How happy would he have been had one of the three envelopes she brought him borne that long, elegant hand which, though seen but once, he would have recognised amongst a hundred others! No—these were only business letters, which he tossed aside so petulantly that his sister stared at him in surprise.
'Are you in trouble, René?' she asked, and as she put the question there was a look of such intense devotion and love in her eyes that she appeared to her brother like a guardian angel come to save him from the troubles of that cruel night. Why should he not charge Emilie with the utterance of those words he dared not formulate himself, and which he could not manage to put into writing? He had no sooner conceived this plan of getting over the difficulty than he hastened to carry it out with the impetuosity common to all weak minds, and with tears in his eyes he began to disclose the unfortunate plight he was in with regard to Rosalie.
He told his sister exactly how the whole matter stood. Whilst his mind was in that state of excitement frequently caused by confessions, fresh ideas originated within him and strengthened the resolve he had made. They were, however, such as ought to have occurred to him at the time he was entering into those relations which he now regarded as guilty ones. When the intimacy had first sprung up between them—a purely innocent but clandestine affair—he had not told himself that strict morality forbids any secret engagement of this kind, and that to accustom a girl to elude the watchfulness of her parents is a most reprehensible proceeding. He had not told himself then that a man of honour has no right to declare his love until he has satisfied himself as to its stability, and that, although the ardour of passion excuses many weaknesses, a mere desire for obtaining fresh emotions makes such weakness sinful. These reproaches and many more were now in his mind and on his lips, and as he looked in Emilie's face he plainly saw what pain his conduct had caused his confiding sister. In a narrow home circle such dissimulation is productive of much grief to those who have been its victims. But though Madame Fresneau felt as though she had been imposed upon, she vented all her anger upon the girl, and upon her alone, exclaiming, after her brother had told her what he wanted her to do, 'I never would have believed her so deceitful.'
'Don't blame her,' said René shamefacedly. If their relations had remained hidden, whose fault was it? He therefore added: 'I am the guilty one.'
'You!' cried Emilie, folding him in her arms. 'No, no; you are too good, too loving. But I will do what you wish, and I promise you I'll be as gentle as possible. It was the best thing you could have done to come to me. We women know how to smooth things down. And then, you know, it is only right that you should put an end to such a false position. The sooner it's over the better, so I shall go to the Rue Bagneux this very afternoon. If I can't see her alone I will ask her to meet me somewhere.'
In spite of the confidence she had expressed in her own tact, Emilie became so impressed with the difficulties of her mission that, during lunch, she wore a look of anxiety that made her husband feel uneasy and awakened in René feelings of remorse. In employing a third person to tell Rosalie the truth was he not acting in a particularly cruel manner and adding unnecessary humiliation to unavoidable pain? When his sister came to him ready dressed, just before starting on her errand, he was on the point of stopping her. There was still time—but he let her go. He heard the door close. Emilie was in the street—now she was in the Rue d'Assas—now in the Rue du Cherche-Midi.
But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by the fever of anxiety with which he awaited the arrival of the next post. Suzanne must have had his letter that morning. If she had replied at once the answer would come by the next delivery. This idea, and the approach of the moment in which its correctness would be tested, at once cut short his pity for the girl he had cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the heart, love simplifies them wondrously. René was tortured by the suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple soldier who expects an ill-spelt letter from his sweetheart to the royal prince carrying on a sentimental correspondence with the brightest and most heartless Court beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual occupations, but his mind is on the alert, counting the minutes and unable to endure the torment of waiting. He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of possibilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour to the person from whom he gets his letters, and ask whether there is nothing for him. Such is the agony of waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its mad conjectures, the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments. Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and, consumed in this fire of impatience. When Emilie came back, after having been gone an hour and a half, René seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he had sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his sister's face that it quite startled him.
'Well?' he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense.
'It is all over,' she replied, almost in a whisper. 'Oh, René, how I misjudged her!'
'What did she say?'
'Not a word of reproach. She only wept—but, oh, how bitterly! Her love for you is greater than I thought. Her mother had gone out with Angélique—how cruel it sounds!—to order the things for Saturday's dinner. I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie opened the door, she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. She guessed everything before I said a word. She is like I am with you—it is a kind of second sight. She took me into her room. It is full of you—of your portraits, of trifles that remind her of places you've been to together, and of cuts from the illustrated papers about your play. I began to deliver your message as gently as I could, but I give you my word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, "It is so good of him to have asked you to come. You at least will not think me foolish in loving him as I do." And then she went on, "I have been expecting it for some time. It seemed too good to be true. Ask him to let me keep his letters." Oh, my God! I can't tell you any more about it now. I am so afraid for you, my dear René; I am so afraid that her grief may bring you ill luck.'
The letter posted by René at Saint-Cloud had duly reached its destination on the morning of the day that was to complete poor Rosalie's unhappiness. Suzanne had received it with the rest of her correspondence a few minutes before her husband entered her room to get his morning cup of tea, and she was just engaged in reading it when Paul's kind and jovial face appeared in the doorway.
'Bon jour, Suzon,' he cried in his deep but cheery voice, adding, as he sometimes did, 'my fair rose.' This allusion to de Musset's well-known romance was always accompanied by a kiss. In Paul's eyes de Musset was the embodiment of youth and love, with just a spice of suggestiveness, and it was the favourite joke of this simple-hearted fellow to look upon himself as Suzanne's lover, and not as a lawful spouse. He was one of those strange husbands who say to you in confidence, 'I have no secrets from my wife—that is the only way to cure her of curiosity.' Meanwhile, he was as much in love with his 'fair rose' as ever, and proved it by the manner in which he tenderly kissed her on the neck.
But she checked further demonstrations of affection with the words, 'Get along! See to the tea, and let me finish my letter.'
She knew that Paul would never ask her anything about her correspondence, and it gave her such intense pleasure to read the poet's ardent phrases that she was not satisfied with going over them once, but read them a second time, and then, folding up the letter, slipped it into her bodice. She looked so supremely happy as she sat down to the table and took up the fine porcelain cup filled with fragrant tea that Moraines, wishing to tease her, said, in a voice that was meant to be gruff, 'If I were a jealous husband, I should think you had received a letter from your sweetheart, you look so happy, madame. And if you knew how nice you look like that,' he added, kissing her arm just above the wrist, where the delicate pink skin, perfumed and warmed by her luxurious bath, looked so inviting.
'Well, sir, you would be right,' she replied, with a roguish air. Women take a divine pleasure in saying in fun things which, though true, will not be believed. It procures them that mild sensation of danger which titillates their nerves so delightfully.
'I hope this sweetheart of yours is a nice fellow?' asked Paul, quite amused by what he considered a good joke.
'Very nice.'
'And may I know his name?'
'You are too inquisitive. Guess.'
'Bless me—no!' cried Paul. 'I should have too much to do. Ah! Suzanne,' he added, suddenly changing his tone to one that betrayed deep feeling, 'what pain it must be to harbour suspicions! Just fancy me being jealous of you, and having to sit in the office all day whilst my heart was being torn by doubts! Ah! well,' this with a shrewd look, 'I would set Desforges to watch you!'
'It's lucky there was no one to hear his "joke,"' thought Suzanne when she was alone. 'He has a silly way of saying these things, too, when he's out.' René's letter had, however, put her in such a good temper that she forgot to get angry, as she would do when she thought her husband too utterly simple. Such is the logic of these pretty and light-hearted sinners; they will exercise all their wits in blindfolding a man, and then blame him for stumbling. The fact of having deceived him does not satisfy them—he must only be deceived up to a certain point. If he goes beyond that it is too much—he makes them feel uneasy, and they hate him for it—sincerely. Suzanne contented herself with a shrug of her shoulders and a look of sweet pity. Then she took the letter from its hiding-place and read it for the third time.
'It's quite true,' she said aloud; 'he is not like other men.'
Thereupon she fell into a deep reverie, in which she saw the poet as she had seen him waiting for her at the Louvre, standing just under the large Veronese canvas with his face turned a little to the right. How agitated he had been when his eyes met hers! How young he was! How his lips had trembled when he told her a little later that he loved her—those full, fresh lips which she could have bitten like some fruit, after having caressed his fair cheeks and the soft silken beard that adorned his manly face. But the fruit was not yet ripe; she must learn to wait. She sighed. Her calculation that the poet would write that very letter, and so soon after their meeting, too, had proved correct. She had made up her mind not to reply to it, nor yet to the second. For this second letter she waited one, two, three days. Though her confidence in the strength of the passion with which she had inspired René was unshaken, she was somewhat startled when, on the afternoon of the third day, just as her brougham was turning the corner of the Rue Murillo, she saw him standing where she had seen him once before. She was very careful to look as though she had not noticed him, and put on her saddest expression, her most dreamy eyes and an air of sweet resignation that would have moved a tiger. The comfortable brougham, furnished with a number of dainty and useful knick-knacks, was immediately transformed in René's eyes into a prison van containing a martyr—a martyr to her husband, a martyr to her home, a martyr to her love, and a martyr to her virtue.
She was not acting a very great lie, either, as she passed René. As she saw the pallor on his cheeks, caused by three days' anguish, and the look of despair in his eyes, she would have given much to be able to stop the brougham, to get out or to make him get in, and to exclaim as she carried him off, 'I love you as much as you love me!' Instead of that she drove on to do her shopping and pay her calls, sure now that the second letter so impatiently expected would not be long in coming. It came the same afternoon, but just when its arrival presented most danger. And for this reason. Having gone home immediately after meeting Suzanne, René had written her four pages in feverish haste, and in order that they might reach her sooner and more safely, he had sent them about five o'clock by a commissionaire; the letter was therefore handed to Suzanne by her manservant whilst Desforges was with her. He had come, as he often did at that hour, with a dainty little present; this time it was a pretty needle-case in old gold which he had picked up at a sale.
No sooner had she recognised the writing on the envelope than she said to herself, 'The least sign of emotion and the Baron will smell a rat!' As sometimes happens, the fear of betraying her agitation made it more difficult for her to conceal it. She took the letter, looked at the address as we do when trying to guess from whom a communication comes, tore it open and skimmed its contents, after having first cast a glance at the signature; then, getting up to place it amongst some others on her desk, she said:
'Another, begging letter! It's astonishing how many I've had lately. How do you manage with them, Frédéric?'
'I have a very simple plan,' replied the Baron. 'Fifty francs the first time of asking, twenty francs the second, nothing the third. My secretary has orders to that effect. That's one of the fads I don't believe in—charity! Just as if it were through want of money that the poor are poor! It's their disposition that has made them so, and that you'll never change. Look here, take this person who is sponging on you to-day; I'll bet twenty-five pounds that if you inquire about him you'll find that fortune, or at least a competency, has been in his grasp ten times during his life. If you were to set him up afresh he would be in the same plight in a few years from now. Not that I mind giving, and as much as people want—but as to believing that money so spent is of the least use, that's a different thing altogether. And then these benefactors and lady patronesses—I know them; it's all advertisement—a means of making their way into Society and of getting hold of good people.'
'That's enough,' said Suzanne, 'you are a terrible sceptic.' And with that delicate irony that women sometimes use in avenging themselves upon the man who compels them to lie, she added, 'You're not one to be easily duped.'
The Baron accepted this flattery with a smile. Had his suspicions been aroused, that phrase alone would have lulled them. The most cunning men have that weak point by which they can always be conquered—vanity. But suspicion of any kind had been far from the Baron's mind. Suzanne deceived him as easily as René had deceived his sister. Those who see us every day are the last to perceive what would be evident to the merest stranger. That is because the stranger comes to us without any preconceived idea, whilst our daily associates have formed an opinion about us which they do not take the trouble to verify or change. The Baron therefore did not remark that Suzanne was that afternoon a prey to intense agitation, which lasted during the whole of his visit. He stayed rather longer than usual, too, telling her all sorts of club stories, while she pottered about in the room, under some pretence or other, with one eye on her letter, seizing it once more with delight as soon as Desforges had at last decided to go.
'He is an excellent fellow,' she said, 'but such a bore!' A fortnight's passion had sufficed to bring her to this stage of ingratitude, and she now found compensation for the restraint of the past hour in going over each phrase and word of the poet's mad letter. This time it was an ardent prayer—an appeal to a woman's love. He no longer spoke of friendship. The air of melancholy she had assumed in the brougham had told.
'Since you love me,' he said, 'have pity on yourself, if you have no pity on me.' What would have appeared to Suzanne an intolerable piece of conceit in anyone else touched her deeply as a mark of absolute confidence in her love. She recognised it for what it really was—worship so devout that it did not harbour a shadow of doubt. It would have been so natural if René had accused her of having cruelly trifled with his feelings, but such an hypothesis was far from the poet's thoughts. 'Poor boy!' she said to herself, 'how he loves me!' Then, thinking of Desforges by way of comparison, she added, 'It is the best way to make sure of not being deceived!' She took the letter out once more. Its language was so touching, and it was full of such sincere grief; then, again, the cosysalon, just at that hour, reminded her so forcibly of the poet and of his first visit, and she asked herself whether she had not put him sufficiently to the proof. 'No,' she concluded, 'not yet.'
This burning letter could, indeed, have but one reply—to tell René to come and see her there, and it was in his own home that she wanted to see him, in the little room he had described to her. She would appear before him in a state of distraction, and under pretence of saving him from suicide. The third letter would undoubtedly furnish her with that pretence, and she decided to await its coming, already enjoying in anticipation the delight of seeing René once more. Amidst the whirl of excitement that her sudden and unexpected appearance would cause the poet there would be no room for reflection. All the hateful preliminaries of a false step, impossible to discuss with a man so inexperienced as he, would be dispensed with. It was true there was the presence of the rest of the family to consider. Suzanne would not have been the depraved woman she was, even in this crisis of true passion, if this detail had not given her plans the charm of doubly forbidden fruit.
She waited for that third letter with intense longing. The time slipped rapidly by. She dined out, went to the theatre, and paid calls, her mind entirely absorbed in that one thought. As luck would have it, Desforges, having no doubt been lectured by Doctor Noirot, had not asked for any appointments in the Rue du Mont-Thabor that week. She knew that this was merely a postponement. Even after becoming René's mistress she would still have to continue her relations with the man who supplied so many of her luxurious wants. This seemed to her as natural as the fact of being Paul's wife. 'What does that matter, since you know I love only you?' is what such a wife will say to her lover when he gets into one of those ridiculous fits of jealousy that so ill become a man in that position. And these women are never more sincere than in uttering that phrase. They know full well that love is totally different from duty, interest, or even pleasure. Though Suzanne saw nothing particularly shocking in the plural life she was leading, she was glad that the opportunity was afforded her of devoting herself entirely to her new passion for a day or two. In all this, however, she was still the courtesan, one of those creatures who, when they do fall in love, become real artists of sentiment, feeling as delicately on certain points as they are abominably wanton in others.
'What if he should really have taken it into his head to go away!' This was the thought that struck her when she at last received the much desired third letter, consisting of one long, heartrending farewell—without a word of reproach.
She trembled lest René might have had recourse to the proceeding counselled by Napoleon, who, with his imperial good sense, said, 'In love the only victory is flight.' In behaving as she had done she had staked all. Would she win? What she had foreseen had come to pass with a precision that both delighted and frightened her. The third letter bore the imprint of such deep despair that, on reading it a second time, this subtle actress, with all her experience, was seized by a fresh fear more terrible than the first—the fear that René might really have destroyed himself. In vain did she argue with herself that if the poet had had real intentions of going away he would have mentioned it in the letter, and that a handsome young man of twenty-five does not kill himself on account of the silence of a woman he believes to be in love with him—her anguish was none the less real and intense when she reached the Rue Coëtlogon a few hours after having received the letter.
It was two o'clock. She stopped for a moment at the corner of the street, gazing in wonderment at this provincial corner of Paris, whose picturesqueness had so charmed Claude Larcher on the evening our story opens. The grey clouds hung low in the wintry sky, and the bare branches of the trees stood out drearily against them. The cries of a few children playing at soldiers amongst the ruins at the back alone broke the silence. The strange appearance of the peaceful little street, the perils attending the step she was about to take, and the uncertainty of the result, all combined to bring Suzanne's excitement to its highest pitch, though she smiled as she thought to herself that there was no reason for believing René to be at home unless he were hopelessly waiting for a reply to his last letter. But when theconciergehad told her that M. René was in, and had pointed out the door, her wits at once came back to her.
Like all strong-minded women, she possessed the characteristics of a man of action. A plain and circumscribed course of events inspired her with determination and courage to carry out her plans. She rang the bell. Heavy footsteps were heard approaching, and the face of Françoise appeared in the doorway. At any other time she would have smiled at the look of amazement which the simple maid did not even try to conceal. Colette Rigaud had once called upon the poet to get him to make some slight alteration in her part, and Françoise, recovering somewhat from her surprise, no doubt thought that this was a similar visit, for Suzanne could hear her say, as she opened the last door on the right: 'Monsieur René, there's a lady asking for you. . . . A very pretty woman—probably some actress.'
She saw the poet come out of his room and turn as pale as death on recognising her. She glided quietly, along the passage which Raffet's prints had turned into a small Napoleonic museum and entered René's room. He was obliged to get out of the way to let her pass; the door closed, and they were alone.
'You—you here!' cried René. He could only gaze at her as she stood before him looking so slim and elegant in the dark costume she had chosen for this visit, for he was in that state of speechless agitation caused by some unexpected event that suddenly raises us from the depths of despair to the height of bliss. At such moments we are assailed by a whirlwind of ideas and sensations that threatens to turn our brain. Our legs give way beneath us and our hands tremble. It is happiness, and it gives pain. René was obliged to support himself against the wall, his eyes still fixed upon that handsome face that he had despaired of ever seeing again. A small detail completed the madness of his joy. He noticed that Suzanne's hands trembled a little too, and, as it happened, her emotion was sincere.
To the passionate feelings that inspired her there was now added the fear of displeasing the man she was resolved to win. On entering this chamber, where she was sure no woman had ever been before her, her plan of action was as clearly traced as plans of that kind can be. Room must always be left for the unforeseen. Suzanne felt that with René there would be many difficulties which with others might have been lightly and safely glided over. His simplicity both charmed and frightened her. In him she could rely, it was true, upon the impulse of the passions—more daring than cool calculation—but to arouse unnoticed that impulse in the poet when she was herself suffering its tortures was no easy matter.
Whilst he stood gazing at her after the door had closed she felt a momentary hesitation; then, almost forgetting her plans and her part, she threw herself upon his neck and stammered out, 'I was in such terrible fear. Your letter frightened me so that I could not help coming. I have had an awful struggle, and could not hold out any longer. My God, my God! What will you think of me?'
He held her in his arms, and a thrill ran through her. Then he lifted her lovely head and commenced to kiss her, first on her eyes, those eyes whose sadness had so touched him as she passed him in her brougham—next on her cheeks, those cheeks whose ideal form had so charmed him from the first—finally on her sweet mouth, which gave his kisses back. What did he think of her? How could any idea shape itself in his mind, absorbed as it was by that union of the lips which is in itself complete and intoxicating possession? What delight, too, that embrace was to Suzanne! Through all the horrible complexities of her feminine diplomacy one sincere desire had grown stronger and stronger within her—that of meeting with a fresh and spontaneous, natural and thrilling passion. This passion she found in René's breath; it stirred the very depths of her soul and made her almost faint with emotion. Ah! this was youth, with its complete and absolute abandonment, expressing neither thought nor word; oblivious of all, except the immediate present; effacing all, except the fleeting sensation whose sweetness and whose very outlines seem to lie in a kiss.
This woman, corrupted by the influence of a Parisian cynic of fifty and degraded by that horrible venality which has not the excuse of necessity—this Machiavelian courtesan, who had regulated her passion for René like a game of chess—tasted for one second that divine joy. The punishment of those who let calculation enter into their love lies in the remembrance of their calculation in the moment of ecstasy. Though intoxicated by the mad kisses she had given and received, Suzanne clearly saw that she could not abandon herself at once to her lover's arms. She therefore broke away from him and said, 'Let me go now that I have seen you and now that I know you are alive. I beg you to let me go. O René!'—she had never called him by this name before—'don't come near me!'
'Suzanne,' replied the poet, maddened by the burning nectar he had found on those lips—the certainty of being loved—'don't be afraid of me. When shall we have another hour like this to ourselves? Let me beg of you to stop. See,' he added, receding still farther from her, 'I will obey you. I obeyed you even when I found it so very hard. Ah! you believe me now!' he exclaimed, seeing that Suzanne's face no longer expressed such intense fear. 'Will you be very nice?' he continued, in that playful tone which takes so well with women, and which will make any one of them, be she a lady of high degree or a simple girl, call a man a 'darling.' 'Sit down there in that arm-chair, where I have so often sat at work, and then be nicer still, and try to look as though you were not on a visit.'
He had again come closer and had forced her into the chair; then he took away her muff and began to unbutton her coat. She submitted to this with a sad smile, like one who yields against her will. This smile was the death agony of the Madonna, the last act in the comedy of the Ideal performed by Suzanne. He also took off her bonnet, atoquethat matched her coat. He was now kneeling before her and gazing at her with that look of idolatry a woman is sure to provoke in her lover if she but give him one of those proofs of affection that flatter a man's vanity and love—the lower passions and the higher passions of the heart. The poet said to, himself: 'How she must love me to have come here, she whom I know to be so pure, so pious, and so devoted to her duty!'
All the lies she had so carefully told him came back to his mind like further proofs of her sincerity as he said: 'How delighted I am to have you here, and just now, too! Don't be afraid—we are quite alone. My sister has gone out for the whole afternoon, and the slave'—this was the name he gave Françoise, in order to amuse Suzanne—'the slave is busy in the kitchen. And I have you here! You see, this is my own little kingdom, this room—the place in which I have endured so much! There is not one of these corners, not one of these objects that could not tell you what I have suffered these past few days. My poor books'—and he pointed to his low bookcase—'were left unopened. These dear old engravings I scarcely looked at. The pen with which I had written to you I never touched. I sat just where you are sitting now counting the hours as they passed. God! what a week I have spent! But what does it all matter now that you are here and I can gaze at you? It is happiness to me to tell you even my troubles!'
She listened with half-closed eyes, giving herself up to the music of his words, and following out her plan in spite of the passions that welled up within her. Does the knowledge of danger as he faces his adversary drive from the mind of a skilful swordsman the lessons he learnt in the school? René's assurance that they were alone in the house had sent a thrill of joy through Suzanne, and the glance she had thrown round the little room, so neatly and carefully kept, had proved, to her delight and satisfaction, that she had not been mistaken concerning her lover's past. Everything here spoke of a studious and secluded life, the pure and noble life of an artist who surrounds himself with an atmosphere of beautiful dreams. Above all, the poet himself pleased her, with his love-lit eyes and the playful way in which he treated her, and she began to see that this exchange of confidences respecting their mutual sufferings would lead her to her goal without the least risk of diminishing her prestige in his eyes.
'And don't you think that I have suffered too?' she replied. 'Why should I deny it? You speak of your letters—God knows that I did not want to read them! I kept the first one in my pocket a whole day, having neither the courage to tear it open nor to burn it. To read your words was to hear you speak once more, and I had determined that it should not be! I had prayed to my guardian angel so long and so fervently for strength to forget you. How I struggled to do so!' Here the Madonna appeared for the last time. She lifted her eyes to heaven—or rather to the ceiling, from which hung two or three little Japanese dolls—and in her glorious orbs were reflected the wings of her guardian angel as he flew far, far away. . . .
Fixing her blue eyes once more on René, she sighed in that tone of abandonment that proves a conquered heart: 'I am lost now, but what of that? I love you so dearly that I do not care what happens—only I cannot bear to picture you in distress.'
Here she broke down, her bosom racked with convulsive sobs, and as the poet tenderly kissed her tears away her head once more fell upon his breast. She lay there for a few moments listening to the wild beating of his heart—then, like a tired child, she entwined her arms about his neck, and heaved a sigh of peace.
When Suzanne left the house in the Rue Coëtlogon her next meeting with René was already arranged. After taking a few steps down the little street she stopped and turned her head, although it would have been more prudent to walk straight on, as she always did in the Rue du Mont-Thabor. But so firm a hold had passion obtained upon this usually cold-blooded woman that she smiled and waved her hand at the poet as he stood watching her from the window of the room in which she had enjoyed such a triumph—for all her calculations had turned out perfectly correct. Getting into a cab at the corner of the Rue d'Assas, she drove to the Bon Marché, where she had ordered her carriage to meet her; on the way the details of the conversation she had had with René recurred to her, and, going over them again, she congratulated herself upon the manner in which she had acquitted herself. As soon as the first real step has been taken in an intrigue of this kind the discussion of further arrangements becomes as easy and as delightful as it was before hateful and difficult.
Suzanne had been the first to attack this delicate question. 'I want you to promise me something. If you do not wish me to reproach myself with this love as with a crime, promise me that you won't go out into Society at all. You are not accustomed to that kind of life, and you ought to be at work. You would fritter away your magnificent talents and genius in idle nonsense, and I should look upon myself as the cause. Promise me that you won't go and see anyone'—and in a whisper—'any of those women who flocked round you the other night.'
How tenderly René had kissed her for those words, in which the author could read a tribute of devotion paid to his future work and the lover a delicate expression of secret jealousy. He asked a little timidly, 'Mayn't I come even to your house?'
'To mine least of all,' she replied. 'I could not bear to see you touch my husband's hand now. You know what I mean,' she added, passing her fingers caressingly through his hair. He was sitting at her feet, while she was still in the arm-chair. She bent forward and hid her face on René's shoulder. 'Don't make me say any more,' she sighed; then, after a few minutes, 'What I should like to be to you is the friend who only enters into a man's life to bring him the sweet and noble gifts of joy and courage, the friend who loves and is beloved in secret, away from the mocking world that sneers at the purest feelings of the soul. I have committed a great sin as it is'—here she hid her face in her pretty hands—'do not let it grow into that series of base and sordid acts which fills me with such horror in others. Spare me this, René, if you love me as you say you do . . . But tell me, do you really love me so much?'
In delivering herself of this pretty batch of lies she had seen in the face of her simple and romantic victim the rapturous joy with which these beautiful sentiments inspired him. The Madonna resumed the halo which she had temporarily laid aside. Then, by a skilful combination of ruse and affection, by giving to cool calculation an appearance of tenderest susceptibility, she had led him to agree to the following convention as being the only one befitting the poetry of her love. He was to look out for a small suite of rooms somewhere not very far from the Rue Murillo; he would engage them in an assumed name, and they could meet there two, three, or four times a week. She had suggested Batignolles, but it was so cleverly done that he almost imagined he had hit upon it himself, as indeed upon the rest ofherideas. He was to start out the very next day, and then write to her,poste restante, in certain initials, at a certain office. All these unnecessary precautions gave René an idea of the state of slavery in which his poor angel lived—if such an existence could be called living! 'Poor angel' he had called her, as she gave utterance to a half-stifled complaint concerning her husband's despotism and compared herself to a hunted animal, 'how you must have suffered!' And she had lifted her eyes to the ceiling with such a well-feigned expression of grief that, years afterwards, the man for whose benefit all this was done still asked, 'Was she not sincere?'
There was, however, no need for so much theatrical display to make René joyfully accede to the plan proposed by the clever pupil of Desforges. Simply out of love for her he would have agreed with pleasure and alacrity to any kind of scheme she put forward. But the programme laid before him corresponded well with the romantic side of his nature. It enchanted the poet to dwell upon the idea of carrying such a delightful secret with him through life, whilst the phraseology in which Suzanne had posed as the patron saint of his work had flattered his vanity, dreaming as he did of reconciling art and love, of uniting indulgence of the baser passions with that independence and solitude his work required.
And now René, after so many days of torture, felt as though both his mind and his heart had wings. So great was his happiness that he did not even notice the look of pained surprise that his sister wore during the evening that followed Suzanne's visit. What had Françoise heard? What had she told Madame Fresneau? That the latter was deeply agitated was very evident. The profound ignorance of certain women who are both romantic and pure exposes them to these rude surprises. They interest themselves in love affairs because they are women, and assist in the establishment of relations which they believe to be as innocent as they are themselves. Then, when they see the brutal consequences to which these relations almost necessarily lead, their surprise is so great that but for its cruelty it would be comical.
According to the description given her by the servant, Emilie had no doubt as to the identity of the visitor, and the mere idea of what might have taken place there in her house filled the staid and pious matron with horror. Her mind involuntarily reverted to the bitter tears she had seen on Rosalie's pale cheeks, and as she thought, first of the poor girl, of whose sincerity she was convinced, and then of the unknown Society lady for whom in her simplicity she had taken sides, she said to herself, 'What if René should be mistaken in this woman?'
But she was a sister too—a sister indulgent to a fault, and, after a feeling of uneasiness which his evident distress had caused her during the past week, she had not the courage to trouble her brother with reproaches on seeing him look so happy. This mixture of conflicting sentiments prevented her from provoking any fresh confidences, and René was become too discreet to make them. It was impossible for him to speak of Suzanne now; what he felt for her could not be expressed in words. He had found suitable apartments almost immediately in a quiet street in the centre of the Batignolles quarter, just where Suzanne had wanted them; and almost immediately, too, chance had so willed it that he was free to devote himself to her entirely. A week had scarcely passed since Suzanne's appearance in the Rue Coëtlogon when Claude Larcher, the only one of the poet's friends whom he visited at all often, suddenly left Paris. He called on René, who had neglected him a little of late, about half-past six one evening, in travelling garb, his face pale and agitated. The family were just sitting down to dinner.
'I have only come to bid you good-bye,' said Claude without taking a seat; 'I am going by the nine o'clock Mont Cenis express, and I shall have to dine at the station.'
'Shall you be away long?' asked Emilie.
'Chi lo sa?' replied Claude, 'as they say in that beautiful land where I shall be to-morrow.'
'Lucky fellow!' cried Fresneau, 'to be able to go and read Virgil in his own country instead of teaching donkeys to translate him!'
'Very lucky, indeed!' said the writer with a forced laugh; but when he took leave of René at the gate, where his cab laden with luggage awaited him, he burst into sobs. 'It's that beast of a Colette!' he cried. 'You remember that day you saw her in my rooms? God! how sweet she looked! And do you remember what she said, as I thought, in a joke? I can't even repeat it. . . . Well, things have come to such a pass that life for me here is unbearable, and I must be off for a time. I had no money, so I was forced to go to a usurer who lent me some at sixty per cent. Terrible, isn't it? What with the usurer, my old aunt in the country, to whom I was bad enough to write, my publisher, and the editor of the "Revue parisienne"—who, by the way, has got me to sign a contract for copy—I have six thousand francs. As the train carries me along every turn of the wheel will seem to go over my heart, but at any rate I shall be getting away from her; and when she gets my letter, written from Milan, what a grand revenge it will be!' He rubbed his hands with joy, then, shaking his head, said, 'It has been like Heine's ballad of Count Olaf all along. You know how he talks of love to his betrothed while the headsman stands at the door—that headsman has always been at the door of Colette's chamber. But when he assumed the form of a Sappho I could bear it no longer. Good-bye, René, you will not see me back till I am cured.' Since then there had been no news from the unhappy fellow, of whom René generally thought when comparing the noble woman he idolised with the savage and dangerous actress. Claude's absence was the reason why René never put in an appearance now at the green-room of the Théâtre Français. Why should he expose himself to the rancour of Colette's tongue, which no doubt wagged loudly enough when on the subject of her fugitive lover? Thanks to this absence, too, all bonds between the poet and the world into which Larcher had introduced him were severed.
Under the influence of his growing passion for Suzanne, the author of the 'Sigisbée' had ignored the most elementary rules of etiquette. Not only had he neglected to call upon the different women who had so graciously invited him, but he had not even paid Madame Komof his duty visit. The Comtesse, who was large-minded enough to understand the unconventional ways of genius, and kind enough to forgive such irregularity, said to herself, 'He was probably bored here,' and, though not angry with him, had not asked him again. She was busy, too, for the moment in bringing out a Russian pianist who pretended that he was in direct communication with the soul of Chopin. René, feeling safe in that quarter, had heard with regret that Madame Offarel was greatly offended that neither he nor Emilie had come to the famous dinner whose ingredients it had taken her a week to collect from all parts of Paris. Fresneau had gone all alone.
'A fine expedition you sent me on!' he said to his wife on his return. 'When I mentioned your headache the old woman gave a grunt that almost knocked me down, and when I told her that René was gone to see a sick friend—a very queer excuse, by the way, but let that pass—she said, "In some palace, I suppose!" During dinner poor Claude was the only topic of conversation. She pulled him to pieces till he hadn't a rag on his back. "He is an egoist and an ill-mannered fellow, he is in bad health and has no future!"—and goodness knows what she didn't say! If it hadn't been for a game of piquet with Offarel—and even that the sly old fox won. Oh!—Passart was there too. Remind me about recommending him to the Abbé for the college. He's a nice young fellow. Between you and me, I think Rosalie rather likes him.'
Emilie could not help smiling at her husband's marvellous perspicacity. She had often heard Madame Offarel complain of the pressing attentions of the young drawing-master, and she immediately understood that he had been asked at the last minute to prove that, besides René, there were other suitors on hand. Thereupon the Offarels, who had never allowed four days to pass without coming in after dinner, had not set foot in the Rue Coëtlogon for a fortnight. When they at last decided to resume their visits, at their wonted hour, they were escorted by the aforementioned Passart, a tall, fair, gawky lad in spectacles, with a shy look on his freckled face. Emilie saw at once that their motive in bringing him was to arouse her brother's jealousy, and the old lady was not long in showing her hand.
'Monsieur Offarel is engaged this evening,' she said, 'so Monsieur Passart was kind enough to bring us. Give Monsieur Jacques that seat near you, Rosalie.'
Poor Rosalie had not seen René since receiving his cruel message through Emilie. In passing from the Rue Bagneux to the Rue Coëtlogon—in reality a short, but to her an interminable distance—she had suffered agonies, and her heart beat fast as she entered the room. She had, however, the courage to steal a glance at her old lover, as a kind of protest that she was not responsible for her mother's mean calculations, and the courage also to reply coldly, as she took a seat in a corner and placed a chair before her, 'I want this chair to put my wool on. I'm sure Monsieur Passart won't deprive me of it.'
'There's room here,' said Emilie, coming to the poor girl's aid, and giving the young man a seat next to herself. Rosalie firmly refused to play therôlemarked out for her, although she well knew what a terrible scene awaited her at home. And yet it would have been so natural if spite had inspired her with that petty mode of revenge. But women with truly delicate feeling, who know what real love is, are strangers to such mean spite. To inspire a fickle lover with jealousy would horrify them simply because it would mean flirting with another, and such a proceeding is beneath them. Such scrupulous loyalty in spite of all is a touching proof of love, and one which ensures a woman a place in a man's regrets for ever.
For ever! But as far as regards the present hour and the immediate result, these loyal hearts get left far behind, and the flirts win. When the years have fled, and the lover, grown old, shall institute comparisons, he will understand the unique position held by her who would not cause him pain—even to win him back. Meanwhile he runs after the jades who make him drink the bitter cup of that degrading but intoxicating passion, jealousy. It is only fair to René to say that, in sacrificing Rosalie for Suzanne, he believed that he was acting in the interests of true love. When, next morning, his sister praised the girl's noble behaviour, he was quite sincere too in his reply, smacking as it did, though, of naïve self-conceit.
'What a pity that such fine feeling should be wasted!'
'Yes,' repeated Emilie with a sigh, 'what a pity!'
Had René had a thought for aught else than his love, the tone in which his sister had uttered these words would no doubt have revealed to him the change that her opinions had undergone with regard to Madame Moraines. His love, however, entirely absorbed him. His days were now parcelled out into two kinds—those on which he was to meet Suzanne and those which he was to spend without seeing her. The latter, which were by far the more numerous, were passed in the following manner. A great part of the morning he spent in bed, dreaming, for he was already beginning to feel a diminution of vital energy. Then he bestowed much time upon his toilet, lavishing such attention on details as would convince a woman of experience that a young man was beloved. His toilet finished, he wrote to his Madonna. She had imposed upon him the sweet task of sending her an account of all his thoughts day by day. As for herself, he had not a line of her writing. She had said, 'I am so watched, and never alone!' And he pitied her as he devoted himself to compiling the detailed diary that she had demanded.
This pose of a sentimental Narcissus gazing incessantly upon himself and his love was well in keeping with that deep-rooted vanity which he possessed in common with nearly all writers. Suzanne had not sufficiently reflected upon the anomalous nature of a man of letters to have taken vanity into account. It pleased her to read René's words when he was not there simply as a burning reminder of the kisses they had exchanged. When the poet had paid his morning devotions to his divinity in this fashion it was time for lunch. Immediately after that he would go to the Bibliothèque in the Rue de Richelieu and work unremittingly at the notes for his 'Savonarola,' which he had again taken up, during the whole of the afternoon, and sometimes right on into the evening. He worked now without ever having, as in writing the 'Sigisbée,' those flashes of talent which pass from the brain to the pen, charging the memory with a flow of words and drawing the images with such precision and life-like resemblance that the effort of production becomes a strong but delightful intoxication that ends in a state of agreeable exhaustion.
To build up the scenes of the drama he was now writing, René had to keep his mind in a painful state of tension, and at a worse tension still to turn his prose sketches into verse. His brain no longer served him in making happy finds. For this there were several important and distinct reasons. The first—a physical one—was the waste of vital energy inseparable from all reciprocated passions; the second—a moral one—the constant hold that Suzanne had upon his mind and the inability to entirely forget her; the last—an intellectual and secret one, though most powerful—was the deadening influence which success exercises upon the greatest genius.
Whilst conceiving and writing he was beginning to think of the public. He saw before him the house on the first night, the critics in their stalls, the fashionable people scattered here and there, and, seated in a box, Madame Moraines. He already heard the shouts of applause, as demoralising for a dramatic author as the number of editions is for a novelist. The desire to produce a certain effect took the place of that disinterested, natural, and irresistible impulse which is a necessary condition in true art. Still too young to possess the skill with which literary veterans can write impassioned phrases in cold blood, and even well enough to deceive the best critics, René sought in himself that source of ideas which he no longer found. His play would not take shape in his mind in a natural and easy way. The goat-like features of the Florentine monk and the tragic figures of the terrible pontiff Alexander VI., the violent Michael Angelo, the sour Machiavelli, and the formidable Cæsar Borgia would not clothe themselves in flesh and blood before his eyes, in spite of the heaps of notes and documents he had collected and the pages erased again and again. Frequently he would lay down his pen and gaze up at the blue sky through the lace curtains of his window; he would listen to the noises in the house—the closing of a door, Constant playing, Françoise grumbling, Emilie passing quietly, Fresneau walking heavily—and then find himself counting how many hours he had still to wait before seeing Suzanne.
'How I love her! How I love her!' he would exclaim, increasing his passion by the fervour with which he uttered these words. Again, he would delight in conjuring up a vision of the room in which these meetings, awaited with such feverish impatience, took place. He had been more lucky in finding a suitable place than his inexperience had led Suzanne to expect, It was a small suite consisting of three rooms, rather prettily furnished by Malvina Raulet, a brunette of about thirty-five, whose sweet voice, demure looks, and general air of propriety had at once enchanted René. This lady, whose attire was almost severe in its simplicity, gave herself out as a widow. She lived ostensibly on a small income left her by the late M. Raulet, an imaginary individual whose profession she defined in a vague way by saying that 'he was in business.' As a matter of fact, the shrewd and cunning landlady had never been married. She was, for the moment, being 'protected' by a respectable physician—a well-known man and the father of a family—whom she had so thoroughly taken in by her fine manners that she managed to get five hundred francs a month out of him, regularly paid on the first, like the salary of a Civil Servant.
Being before all else a thrifty soul, she had conceived the idea of increasing her monthly income by letting out three of the rooms she did not want, and as there were two doors to her flat she was able to give this small suite a separate entrance. The almost elegant furniture it contained had come to her as a weird inheritance. For ten years she had been the mistress of a madman, whose family, desiring for some reason to keep this insanity secret, had paid her well. Upon her unhappy lover's death, Malvina had, according to promise, received twenty thousand francs and the contents of the house in which she had played such a strange part. This woman's dark and hideous past René was never to know. In that gay city, where clandestine attachments abound, how many of the thoughtless youths who hire such places know aught of the history of those who pander to their wants? Nor could the poet think for one moment that this woman with the irreproachable manners had seen right through his demands at the first glance. He had told her that he lived in Versailles, and that he was obliged to come to Paris two or three times a week. The name he gave her was that of his favourite hero—the paradoxical d'Albert in 'Mademoiselle de Maupin;' but as he wrote it at the bottom of the agreement which the careful Madame Raulet got him to sign, he placed his hat on the table, and there the crafty landlady could plainly read the real initials of her new lodger.
'If you would like my servant to undertake the cleaning of the rooms,' she said, 'it will be fifty francs a month extra.'
This exorbitant demand was made in such a cool tone, and Madame Raulet, moreover, looked so thoroughly respectable, that René dared not discuss the amount. He could, however, not help eyeing her somewhat distrustfully. Her appearance, it was true, disarmed all suspicion. She wore a dark dress, well but simply made. Round her neck hung one of those long gold chains so much worn at one time by the Frenchbourgeoisie—a chain which had no doubt once belonged to her sainted mother. She wore her watch in her belt; a brooch containing a lock of white hair—that of a beloved father, most probably—fastened her neat lace collar, and through the meshes of the silk mittens that covered her long hands might be seen her wedding ring.
As René was leaving, this virtuous creature remarked, 'The house is a very quiet one, sir. You are a young man,' she added with a smile, 'and you will not be offended if I make so bold as to say that the least noise on the stairs at night, or anything like that, would be sufficient reason for my asking you to leave.'
René felt himself blush as she spoke. In his excessive simplicity he feared lest the worthy widow might give him notice after his first meeting there with Suzanne. This ridiculous fear impelled him to visit his landlady immediately Madame Moraines had gone under pretence of speaking to her about some trifling matter he wanted done. She received him with the polite air of a woman who knows nothing, understands nothing, and has seen nothing, although she had been watching Suzanne's departure from her window, and had, with the practised eye of a Parisian, taken that lady's measure at a glance. Malvina now saw through it all—her lodger's visitor was a woman in the first ranks of Society, but he himself, although well dressed, showed by the cut of his beard, his hair, his walk and his whole appearance that he belonged to a lower station in life. The landlady thought that most probably the rent would be paid by the mistress, and not by the lover, and she regretted not having asked more than five hundred francs a month besides the fifty for attendance. The whole of the flat cost her fourteen hundred francs a year, and she paid her maid-of-all-work forty-five francs! No matter, she would make up for it in the extras—in the firing, the washing, and especially in the meals, if ever the young man asked her to provide lunch, as she had offered to do.
'She is an excellent woman, and very attentive,' said René, when Suzanne questioned him about Madame Raulet. Was the poet wrong in being so trustful? Of what use would it have been to indulge, as Claude would have done, in a pessimistic analysis of this woman's character, except to conjure up thoughts of blackmail and other dangers, all entirely imaginary, as it happened? For although Malvina was far from being a saint, she was at the same time abourgeoisewho had a sincere hankering after respectability, and who proposed, as soon as she had made her little pile, to return to her native town of Tournon, and lead a life of absolute purity. The fear of seeing her name figure in the report of some evil-smelling case was sufficient to deter her from practising any pronounced form of imposition. So far did her love of respectability carry her that she wove a complicated web of falsehoods to theconciergeabout her new lodger. She made out that Suzanne and René were a happy couple who lived in the country all the year round, and that they were distantly related to the late M. Raulet. Then, in order that he should have nothing whatever to do with the saidconcierge, she herself handed René two keys even before he had asked for them.
What cared the poet for the real cause of her attentiveness? The young have sense enough not to go into facts which lend themselves to the gratification of their desires. This system sometimes leads them along perilous paths, but they cull many a flower by the wayside and enjoy its fragrance, nevertheless. When the poet walked across half Paris to reach his little suite in the Rue des Dames there was a music in his heart that shut out all dissonant voices of suspicion. His meetings with Suzanne were generally in the morning. René had never asked himself why that time of the day was most convenient to his beloved. As a matter of fact it was the hour when she was most certain of escaping the watchfulness of Desforges. In the forenoon the hygienic Baron devoted himself to what was dearest to him on earth—his health. First he had a bout of fencing, which he called his 'dose of exercise'; then he galloped through the Bois, which was his 'air cure'; lastly he 'burnt his acid,' a formula he owed to Doctor Noirot.
The double Madonna, who had studied her man thoroughly, knew that he was as much a slave to these rules of health as Paul was to those of his office. She therefore felt a secret pleasure in thinking of her husband seated at his desk, of her 'excellent friend' bestriding an English mare, and of her René entering a florist's to buy some flowers wherewith to adorn the chapel of their love. Roses were his usual choice, roses red as his darling's lips, roses fair as her blushing cheeks, fresh and living blooms that filled the air with their sweet and penetrating perfume. As she was borne towards the harbour of their love she knew that René would be standing at the window listening to the rattle of the cabs as they passed. How delighted he would be when hers stopped before the house! She would ascend the stairs, and there he would be waiting for her, having softly opened the door so as not to lose one second of her sweet presence. Then he would hold her in his arms devouring her with silent kisses that pierced the black lace veil as they sought her fresh and mobile lips.