"There was no need. I could have died if I had chosen."
He spoke simply and without the least emotion. She shuddered.
"I do not understand," she said.
"Of course you do not understand," he answered gently; "neither do the angels."
She made no response, but pressed her lips tightly together and aimlessly watched the market-people.
When he had gone away, she sat for a long time quite still.
"If he had someone to love," she said to herself at last, "he would not be so stern."
A fortnight later Raoul went on business to Rouen, and Mademoiselle was left alone.
The first day of his absence she busied herself as usual, going down to rehearsal in the morning and playing in the evening. But at night, for some indefinable reason, she felt unhappy and discontented. The next morning she sat in her room and sewed, and the hours seemed long—very long. In the afternoon she went out and, almost irresponsibly, bought a little present and carried it down to the Rue Louise to Madame Martin. She stayed there and chatted until evening. Madame was delighted to find anyone who would listen with pleasure to praise of Monsieur Raoul. The third morning Mademoiselle said to herself "It would be pleasant to go to Rouen and see the shops," and she dressed ready to start. Then her face flushed and she took off her cloak again and set it aside. Aftermidday Raoul returned and brought her a great bunch of roses. Her face beamed with pleasure as she took them, but immediately she became self-conscious and disquieted and would not let her eyes meet his. After he had gone she sat pensive, with a smile on her lips. Suddenly the blood mounted to her face, her expression changed, she became agitated in every nerve. "Of what folly do I dream!" she exclaimed. She went to dress for the theatre and took the roses and placed them in water on the table by her bedside. When she was ready to set out, she turned round, raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them.
At the theatre she met him again and grew unaccountably nervous. It needed all her power of will and all the prompter's aid to enable her to retain the thread of her part. At times her mind would wander and she would forget the words. Yet, to judge by the applause with which she was rewarded, her acting did not suffer noticeably.
When the curtain fell, she complained that her head ached, and sent for Raoul, and begged him to take her to walk by the sea, that the cool air might restore her.
They walked down to the Rue Louise and left the violin and then strolled on for half-an-hour by the water. Then they turned away to the Place St. Amand. The square was deserted. A single lamp fluttered in the wind. The stars shone brightly and the milky way stretched like a faint, pale cloud high over the huge black mass of the cathedral.
She was leaning on his arm, and she made him pause a moment while she stood to look up.
"If I were in pain," she said, after a moment, "or if a passion consumed me, I should watch the stars all night. They are so cold and passionless: they would teach me patience."
"You are beginning to talk poetry," he answered quietly, "and that shows that you are tired out."
"Yes," she said, "I am tired out. To-morrow I shall be better, and we will go to the woods."
Then she stood in the shadow of the hotel door and watched him until his figure disappeared in the darkness.
The morning was bright and warm. The woods above Rocheville were brown with autumn foliage, and the brambles were heavy with long sprays of berries, red and black. Mademoiselle gave Raoul her cloak to carry, and wandered here and there, gathering the ripest fruit. By-and-by she cast away all she had gathered, and came to walk soberly beside him.
At St. Pierre, a little beyond the woods, they lunched merrily.
In the afternoon they strolled slowly back until they came to the brow of the hill that rises to the west of Rocheville.
Overhead, white clouds floated in a clear blue sky. Below, the purple-roofed houses huddled around the grey cathedral, and the distant sea, flashing in the sunlight, broke against the yellow beach.
Beside the dusty hill path were rough seats. On one of these Mademoiselle spread her cloak and rested, bidding Raoul sit on the grass beside. The birds stirred in the trees, and the low, long surge of the sea sounded monotonously.
It was after a long silence that Raoul looked up as if he were about to speak. Their eyes met. He paled visibly. Her face became scarlet. With a manifest effort he regained self-possession and stood up.
"It grows late, Mademoiselle," he said; "let us go home." And his voice sounded dry and harsh.
She rose obediently. He wrapped the cloak about her, and they walked on down the hill in silence, and entered the avenue that leads to Rocheville. The swallows wheeled and fell in long graceful circles, and the setting sunlight streaming through the trees made of the white road a mosaic of light and shadow. The glow had faded from Mademoiselle's face. Once as he moved her arm the cloak half fell. He replaced it tenderly.
At the hotel door he kissed her hand and left her.
For an hour he walked aimlessly, often baring his hair to the cold sea-wind. Then he went back to the Place St. Amand and from under the shrine at the corner watched her lighted window. Then he went home, and until long past midnight sat without moving. Mademoiselle seemed to be near him. He recalled every event of the day. The pleasant sunlight in the woods; the merry nonsense of the lunch at St. Pierre; the homeward walk; the distant heaving waters. The blood surged like fire through his veins; he bowed down his face and groaned aloud.
Day by day he had maintained a secret battle with himself. The very philosophy which had frightened and saddened Mademoiselle was evidence of the bitter struggle, though she did not know this. If he had someone to love, she had said mentally, he would not be so stern. She deceived herself. It was because he wrestled with a passion that threatened to overwhelm his reason that he wore so often the mask of sternness.
Early in the morning he left Rocheville for Rouen. Madame, when she found his bed undisturbed, said to her husband that Monsieur must have had bad news.
Mademoiselle woke from a fitful sleep with her head aching. She waited anxiously, but Raoul did not come. It was past middaywhen M. Lorman, with a grim smile, showed to her a note he had received.
"It is necessary for me to go to Rouen," it ran, "and I shall probably remain there for a few days. I beg of you to excuse me, and to convey my compliments and good wishes to Mademoiselle Elise when she departs for Paris."
"It is necessary for me to go to Rouen," it ran, "and I shall probably remain there for a few days. I beg of you to excuse me, and to convey my compliments and good wishes to Mademoiselle Elise when she departs for Paris."
As Mademoiselle read she grew cold and shuddered.
M. Lorman eyed the untouched food on the table and smiled slily.
"You have won," he said. "I am your debtor. What is to be the forfeit?"
"I am not well to-day," she answered peevishly. "Don't be stupid, please. What was it that you came to see me about?"
He looked embarrassed, and replied hastily:
"Nothing—I was passing, and called in on my way to meet Augustin. I dare not stay. He will be waiting for me. I am sorry you are ill. You must rest. Good-bye."
In the street he took out his snuff-box and excitedly inhaled two large pinches.
"Parbleu!" he muttered; "it has surprised me. I didn't think it possible."
Mademoiselle went to her bedroom and locked the door, as if to shut all the world out from her. Then she cast herself down and sobbed as if her heart would break. "Why did he not come to me?" she moaned. "Why did he not let me know?—I cannot live without him."
At Rouen, Raoul engaged a room at the Hôtel de Bordeaux. Then he started off to visit M. Gerome Perrin, but turned aside and went into the country instead. The peasants saluted him as they passed, but he did not reply. At times he talked half aloud and laughed bitterly.
Once he paused abruptly. It occurred to him that perhaps, after all, his own vanity was misleading him. No doubt Mademoiselle had already forgotten what had happened, and was wondering what had become of him. "I must write to her," he said. And the idea that he was acting unaccountably strengthened itself in his mind, and gradually he regained the mastery of himself. Was it not stupid, he thought, to suspect that Mademoiselle had discerned his secret. He had guarded it so carefully; he had never given the least sign—until her eyes had robbed him of his self-control. But to think that she should for a moment dream that a hunchback would dare.—The idea was absurd. He began to see things clearly again.
Half-an-hour later he turned and walked back to Rouen, paid his bill at the Hôtel de Bordeaux, drove to the station, and took the train to Rocheville. He had resolved to explain to Mademoiselle that he had been called unexpectedly away.
M. Lorman frowned when Jacques came to tell him that Monsieur Raoul had been able to return.
It was dark when Mademoiselle, pale and trembling, rose from her bed, her face wet with tears. She lighted a candle and began to write. Note after note she altered and destroyed. When at length she had written one to her liking, she sealed it up. Then she put on her cloak and went down towards the Rue Louise.
Outside, the rain pattered against the window; within Jacques and his wife sat at supper. Someone tapped at the door and Madame went to open it: "Ciel!" she cried. "But you are wet!"
Mademoiselle Elise spoke with quickened breath as if she had been hurrying.
"I only come to see Jacques—Jacques do you know where Monsieur Raoul is staying at Rouen? I have a message for him."
Jacques looked at his wife. It was she who answered: "Monsieur returned unexpectedly this afternoon, Mademoiselle; he is upstairs now."
The muscles of Mademoiselle's face twitched as with a sudden pain. A look of terror came into her bright eyes. She rested her hand on the chair beside her, as if she were faint.
"Take off your cloak," said Madame, "and Jacques will tell Monsieur that you are here."
Jacques rose, but Mademoiselle stopped him. "No," she said; "I will go to him, if I may. I have a message for him."
Mademoiselle Elise went up. Raoul opened the door.
"Did you wonder what had become of me?" he stammered. The unexpectedness of her coming unnerved him. He forgot his planned excuse.
"I thought you were at Rouen," she said mechanically, and without raising her eyes, "or I should not have come. I have a message for you."
"You are wet," he said. "Give me your cloak, and rest until Madame Martin has dried it."
He gave the cloak to Julie and closed the door.
The small room was lighted by a single candle. Opposite the door the wall was covered with books from floor to ceiling. In a corner an open bureau was strewed with papers. The violin was laid carelessly on an old harpsichord.
Mademoiselle saw these things as she walked over and stood by the fireplace. Her dark hair, disordered by the hood of the cloak, hung loosely over her forehead and heightened the worn expression on her white face. She drew back her black dress slightly and rested one foot on the edge of the fender, and watched the steam that rose from the damp shoe.
Jacques brought up a cup of coffee, with a message that Mademoiselle was to drink it at once, lest she should catch a cold. She smiled sadly, took the cup, raised it, touched it with her parched lips, and set it aside.
Raoul came and stood facing her. Though she did not look up she felt his gaze upon her and became uneasy, and pressed her clasped hands nervously together.
"I came to get your address from Jacques," she said. "I thought you were at Rouen." She paused and caught her breath. "I am going away to-morrow."
As he listened and watched her, he found himself noticing how like a little child she seemed.
"Sit down," he said, speaking with effort. "You are not well."
"I have scarcely slept," she answered. "I have been thinking all night—and all day—." Her bosom heaved. The tears sprang to her eyes. She covered her face with her hands.
Raoul paled, and trembled from head to foot. He clenched his teeth. His hand that rested on the edge of the mantel-shelf grasped it as if it would have crushed it.
"Why did you go away?" she said, with plaintive vehemence. "Why did you not come to me?"
Then, as if her strength failed her, she sat down.
He knelt beside her. "You have been too kind to me—Elise," he said unsteadily. "I went away from you because I feared lest I should lose command of myself; lest I should forget that I was—what I am."
At the sound of his voice pronouncing her name a strange, sudden happiness shone in her eyes. She looked at him. He read the truth, but could only believe in his happiness when, the next moment, she was clasped in his arms.
It was eleven o'clock when Madame Martin knocked at the door.
"I thought you would like to know, Monsieur," she said, "that the rain has stopped, that it grows late, and that Mademoiselle's cloak is quite dry."
I subjoin the following extract for the information of those who may be sufficiently interested:—
"La Lanterne(Journal Conservateur de Rocheville, Jeudi, 5 Février).—Mariage—M. Berhault, Raoul Joseph Victor, 30 ans, et Mlle. Lanfrey, Elise Marie, 25 ans."
"La Lanterne(Journal Conservateur de Rocheville, Jeudi, 5 Février).—Mariage—M. Berhault, Raoul Joseph Victor, 30 ans, et Mlle. Lanfrey, Elise Marie, 25 ans."
My china makes my old room bright—On table, shelf and chiffonnier,Sèvres, Oriental, blue and white,Leeds, Worcester, Derby—all are here.The Stafford figures, quaint and grim,The Chelsea shepherdesses, eachHas its own tale—in twilight dimMy heart can hear their old-world speech.That vase came with a soldier's "loot,"From Eastern cities over seas,That dish held golden globes of fruit,When oranges were rarities.That tea-cup touched two lovers' hands,When Lady Betty poured the tea;That jar came from far Mongol landsTo hold Dorinda's pot-pourri.That flask of musk, still faintly smelling,On Mistress Coquette's toilet lay;And there's a tale, too long for telling,Connected with that snuffer-tray.What vows that patch-box has heard spoken!That bowl was deemed a prize to win,Till the dark day when it got broken,And someone put these rivets in.My china breathes of days, not hours,Of patches, powder, belle and beau,Of sun-dials, secrets, yew-tree bowers,And the romance of long ago.It tells old stories—verse and prose—Which no one now has wit to write,The sweet, sad tales that no one knows,The deathless charm of dead delight.
My china makes my old room bright—On table, shelf and chiffonnier,Sèvres, Oriental, blue and white,Leeds, Worcester, Derby—all are here.
The Stafford figures, quaint and grim,The Chelsea shepherdesses, eachHas its own tale—in twilight dimMy heart can hear their old-world speech.
That vase came with a soldier's "loot,"From Eastern cities over seas,That dish held golden globes of fruit,When oranges were rarities.
That tea-cup touched two lovers' hands,When Lady Betty poured the tea;That jar came from far Mongol landsTo hold Dorinda's pot-pourri.
That flask of musk, still faintly smelling,On Mistress Coquette's toilet lay;And there's a tale, too long for telling,Connected with that snuffer-tray.
What vows that patch-box has heard spoken!That bowl was deemed a prize to win,Till the dark day when it got broken,And someone put these rivets in.
My china breathes of days, not hours,Of patches, powder, belle and beau,Of sun-dials, secrets, yew-tree bowers,And the romance of long ago.
It tells old stories—verse and prose—Which no one now has wit to write,The sweet, sad tales that no one knows,The deathless charm of dead delight.