Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference in their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas Suzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm.
When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all the little things with which one tries, when away, to give one's room a look of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favourite books....
"You'll be very snug here, Marthe," she said. "It's a nice, light room ... and there's only a dressing-room between you and Philippe.... But how did you come to want two bedrooms?"
"It was Philippe. He was afraid of disturbing me in the mornings...."
"Oh," repeated the girl. "It was Philippe's suggestion...."
Then she took up one of the photographs and examined it:
"How like his father your son Jacques is!... Much more so than Paul ... don't you think?"
Marthe came to the table and, bending over her friend, looked at the picture with those mother's eyes which seem to see in the inanimate image the life, the smile and the beauty of the absent one.
"Which do you like best, Jacques or Paul?" asked Suzanne.
"What a question! If you were a mother...."
"If I were a mother, I should like that one best who reminded me most of my husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceased to love me...."
"You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine that there is nothing in the world but love?"
"There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn't you like love to fill a greater place in your life?"
This was said with a certain sarcasm, of which Marthe felt the sting. But, before she had time to retort, Philippe appeared in the doorway.
Suzanne at once cried:
"We were talking about you, Philippe."
He made no reply. He went to the window, closed it and then came back to the two youngwomen. Suzanne pointed to a chair beside her, but he sat down by Marthe; and Marthe saw by his look that something had happened:
"Have you spoken to him?"
"No."
"Still ..."
He told her, in a few sentences, of the conversation, with the incident of the pamphlet and the words which his father had spoken against the author of that work. He repeated the words, a second time, with increasing bitterness. Then he stopped, reflected and, pressing his clenched fists to his temples, said, slowly, as though he were explaining matters to himself:
"It's three years now that this has lasted ... ever since his letter on my appointment, in which he wrote about my second book on the idea of country. Perhaps I ought to have written to him then and there and told him of the evolution of my mind and the tremendous change which the study of history and of vanished civilizations had wrought in me."
"Perhaps it would have been better," said Marthe.
"I was afraid to. I was afraid of hurting him.... It would have hurt him so terribly!... And my love for him is so great!... And then, Marthe, you see, the ideas which he defends andof which, in my eyes, he is the living and splendid incarnation are so beautiful in themselves that, after one has ceased to share them, one continues, for a long time, for always, to retain a sort of involuntary affection for them, deep down in one's inner self. They constituted the greatness of our country for centuries. They are vigorous, like everything that is religious and pure. One feels a renegade at losing them; and any word spoken against them sounds like blasphemy. How could I say to my father, 'Those ideas, which you gave me and which were the life of my youth, I have ceased to hold. Yes, I have ceased to think as you do. My love of humanity does not stop at the boundaries of the country in which I was born; and I do not hate those who are on the other side of the frontier. I am one of those men who will not have war, who will not have it at any price and who would give their life-blood to save the world the horror of that scourge.' How could I say such things as that to my father?"
He rose and, pacing the room, continued:
"I did not say them. I concealed the true state of my mind, as though I were hiding a shameful sore. At the meetings, in the newspapers to which I contribute by stealth, to my adversaries and to the majority of the men on my own side I was M. Philippe, denying my name and my personality,setting a bad example to those who are silent for prudence' sake and for fear of compromising themselves. I do not sign the pamphlets which I write; and the book in which I give the conclusion of my work has been ready for more than a year, without my daring to publish it. Well, that's over now. I can't go on as I have been doing. Silence is choking me. By humbling myself, I lower my ideals. I must speak aloud, in the hearing of all men. I will speak."
He had gradually become animated, excited by his own words. His voice had increased in volume. His face expressed the glowing, irresistible, often blind enthusiasm of those who devote themselves to generous causes. And, yielding to a need to speak out which was anything but frequent with him, he went on:
"You don't know, you don't know what it means to a man to be fired with a great idea ... whether it be love of humanity, hatred of war or any other beautiful illusion. It lights us and leads us. It is our pride and our faith. We seem to have a second life, the real life, that belongs to it, and an unknown heart that beats for it alone. And we are prepared to suffer any sacrifice, any pain, any wretchedness, any insult ... provided that it gain the day."
Suzanne listened to him with obvious admiration.Marthe appeared uneasy. Knowing Philippe's nature thoroughly, she was well aware that, in thus letting himself go, he was not only being carried away by a flood of eloquent words.
He opened the window and drew a deep breath of the pure air which he loved. Then he returned and added:
"We are even prepared to sacrifice those around us."
Marthe felt all the importance which he attached to this little sentence; and, after a moment, she said:
"Are you referring to me?"
"Yes," said Philippe.
"But you know, Philippe, that, when I agreed to marry you, I agreed to share your life, whatever it might be."
"My life as it looked like being, but not as I shall be compelled to make it."
She looked at him with a glimmer of apprehension. For some time now, she had noticed that he was even less communicative than usual, that he hardly ever spoke of his plans and that he no longer told her what he was working at.
"How do you mean, Philippe?" she asked.
He took a sealed letter from his pocket and showed her the address:
"To the Minister of Public Instruction."
"What is in that letter?" asked Marthe.
"My resignation."
"Your resignation! The resignation of your professorship?"
"Yes. I shall send this letter the moment I have confessed everything to my father. I did not like to tell you before, for fear of your objections.... But I was wrong.... It is necessary that you should know...."
"I don't understand," she stammered. "I don't understand...."
"Yes, you do, Marthe: you understand. The ideas which have taken possession of me little by little and to which I want to devote myself without reserve are dangerous for young brains to listen to. They form the belief of an age for which I call with might and main, but it is not the belief of to-day; and I have no right to teach it to the children entrusted to my care."
She was on the verge—thinking of her own children, whose well-being and whose future were about to suffer through this decision—she was on the verge of exclaiming:
"Why need you shout it from the house-tops? Stifle your vain scruples and go on teaching what you find in the manuals and school-books."
But she knew that he was like those priests who prefer to incur poverty and opprobrium rather thanpreach a religion which they no longer believe.
And she simply said:
"I do not share all your opinions, Philippe. There are even some that terrify me ... especially those which I do not know, but which I half suspect. But, whatever the goal to which you are leading us, I will walk to it with my eyes closed."
"And ... so far ... you approve?"
"Entirely. You must act according to your conscience, send that letter and, first of all, tell your father everything. Who knows? Perhaps he will admit ..."
"Never!" exclaimed Philippe. "Men who look into the future can still understand the beliefs of former days, because those were their own beliefs when they were young. But men who cling to the past cannot accept ideas which they do not understand and which clash with their feelings and with their instincts."
"So ...?"
"So we shall quarrel and cause each other pain; and the thought of it distresses me infinitely."
He sat down, with a movement of weariness. She leant over him:
"Do not lose courage. I am sure that things will turn out better than you think. Wait a few days.... There is no hurry; and you will have time to see ... to prepare...."
"Everything turns out well when you speak," he said, smiling and allowing himself to be caressed.
"Unfortunately ..."
He did not finish his sentence. He saw Suzanne opposite him, glaring at the pair of them. She was ghastly pale; and her mouth was wrung with a terrible expression of pain and hatred. He felt that she was ready to fling herself upon them and proclaim her rage aloud.
He released himself quickly and, making an effort to jest:
"Tush!" he said. "Time will show.... Enough of these jeremiads: what say you, Suzanne?... Suppose you saw to putting away my things?... Is everything done?"
Marthe was surprised at the abrupt change in his manner. However, she replied:
"There are only your papers; and I always prefer you to arrange them yourself."
"Come on, then," he said, gaily.
Marthe walked through the dressing-room to her husband's bedroom. Philippe was about to follow her and his foot touched the door-sill when Suzanne darted in front of him and barred the way with her outstretched arms.
It happened so suddenly that he uttered a slight exclamation. Marthe asked, from the further room:
"What is it?"
"Nothing," said Suzanne. "We're coming."
Philippe tried to pass. She pushed him back violently and with such a look of her eyes that he yielded at once.
They watched each other for a few seconds, like two enemies. Philippe fumed:
"Well? What does all this mean? Do you propose to keep me here indefinitely?..."
She came nearer to him and, in a voice that shook with restraint and implacable energy:
"I shall expect you this evening.... It's quite easy.... You can get out.... I shall be outside my door at eleven."
He was petrified:
"You are mad!..."
"No.... But I want to see you ... to speak to you ... I must ... I am suffering more than I can bear.... It's enough to kill me."
Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, her lips trembled.
Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he felt the need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:
"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which he often used to her.
"You will come ... you must come ... that is why I stayed.... One hour, one hour of yourpresence!... If you don't, I shall come here, I shall indeed.... I don't care what happens!"
He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if it was possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have been absurd.
But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean out and catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation; and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which a child's whims were compelling him to play.
"You're quite pale," said Marthe.
"Do you think so? I'm a little tired, I suppose. You too, you are looking ..."
She broke in:
"I thought I saw your father."
"Is he back?"
"Yes, there he is, at the end of the garden, with M. Jorancé. They are making signs to you."
Morestal and his friend were climbing up beside the waterfall and waving their hands to attract Philippe's attention. When he came under the windows, Morestal cried:
"This is what we have arranged, Philippe. You and I are dining at Jorancé's."
"But ..."
"There's no but about it; we'll explain why.I'll have the carriage got ready and Jorancé will go ahead with Suzanne."
"What about Marthe?" asked Philippe.
"Marthe can come if she likes. Come down here. We'll fix it all up."
When Philippe turned round, Suzanne was standing close against him:
"You'll come, won't you?" she said, eagerly.
"Yes, if Marthe does."
"Even if Marthe doesn't ... I insist ... I insist.... Oh, Philippe, I implore you, don't drive me to extremities!"
He was afraid of an outburst:
"As a matter of fact," he said, "why shouldn't I come? It's quite natural that I should dine at your house with my father."
"Do you mean it?" she murmured. "Will you really come?"
She seemed suddenly calmed; and her face assumed a look of childish delight:
"Oh, how happy I am!... How happy I am! My beautiful dream will be fulfilled.... We shall walk together in the dark, without speaking a word.... And I shall never forget that hour.... Nor you either, Philippe ... nor you either...."
A hand was passed through the bars of the gate at the top of the staircase leading to the terrace and seized the clapper of the little bell fastened to one of the bars. A push ... and the gate was open.
"Not much difficulty about that," said the man, carefully stepping on to the terrace. "Since the mountain won't come to Dourlowski, Dourlowski must ..."
The man stopped: he had heard voices. But, on listening, he found that the sound of voices came from behind the house. He quietly entered the drawing-room, therefore, walked straight across it and reached the windows on the other side. A little further, at the foot of the steps, he saw a carriage ready to start, with Suzanne and her father sitting in it. The Morestal family were standing round the carriage.
"That's all right," said Morestal. "Philippe and I will walk ... and we'll do the same coming home, won't we, my boy?"
"And you, Marthe?" asked Jorancé.
"No, thank you. I will stay with mamma."
"Well, we'll send your men home to you soon ... especially as Morestal likes going to bed early. They will leave the house at ten o'clock precisely; and I will go a bit of the way with them, as far as the Butte."
"That's it," said Morestal. "We shall see the demolished post by moonlight. And we shall be here by half-past ten, mother. That's a promise. Off you go, Victor."
The carriage drove off. Dourlowski, in the drawing-room, took out his watch and set it by the clock, whispering:
"Consequently, they'll reach the Butte at a quarter past ten. That's a good thing to know. And now to inform old Morestal that his friend Dourlowski has come to hunt him up in his happy home."
Putting two of his fingers to his mouth, he gave the same faint whistle which Morestal had heard that morning, something like the unfinished note of certain birds:
"That's done it," he grinned. "The old boy pricked up his ears. He has sent the others for a stroll in the garden and he's coming this way...."
He made a movement backwards on hearing Morestal's footstep in the hall, for he knew the old fellow was not given to joking. And, in fact,Morestal, the moment he entered, ran up to him and took him by the collar of his jacket:
"What are you doing here? What do you mean by it? How dare you?... I'll show you a road which you don't know of!"
Dourlowski began to laugh with his crooked mouth:
"My dear M. Morestal, you'll dirty your hands."
His clothes were shiny and thick with grease, stretched over a small round body, that contrasted strangely with his lean and bony face. And all this formed a jovial, grotesque and rather alarming picture.
Morestal let go his hold and, in an imperative tone:
"Explain yourself and quickly. I don't want my son to see you here. Speak."
There was no time to be lost, as Dourlowski saw:
"Well, look here," he said. "It's a question of a young soldier in the Börsweilen garrison. He's too unhappy for words where he is ... and he's mad at having to serve Germany."
"A ne'er-do-well," growled Morestal. "A slacker who doesn't want to work."
"No, not this one, I tell you, not this one. He means to enlist in the Foreign Legion. He loves France."
"Yes, always the same story. And then—pah!—one never hears of them again. More gallows' seed!"
Dourlowski seemed shocked and scandalized:
"How can you say such a thing, M. Morestal?... If you only knew! A brave soldier who asks nothing better than to die fighting for our country."
The old man started:
"'Our country,' indeed! I forbid you to speak like that. Have you the least idea where you hail from? A scamp like you has no country."
"You forget all that I have done, M. Morestal.... You and I, between us, have 'passed' four of them already."
"Hold your tongue!" said Morestal, who seemed to take no pleasure in this recollection. "Hold your tongue.... If the thing had never happened ..."
"It would happen just the same, because you are a good-natured man and because there are things.... There.... It's like with this lad.... It would break your heart to see him.... Johann Baufeld his name is.... His father is just dead ... and he wants to go out to his mother, who was divorced and who lives in Algeria.... Such a nice lad, full of pluck...."
"Well," said Morestal, "he's only got to 'pass'! You don't want me for that."
"And what about the money? He hasn't a sou.Besides, there's no one like you to tell us all the paths, the best place to cross at, the best time to select...."
"I'll see about it.... I'll see about it," said Morestal. "There's no hurry...."
"Yes, there is...."
"Why?"
"The Börsweilen regiment is manœuvring on the slopes of the Vosges. If you'll lend us a hand, I'll run down to Saint-Élophe first, buy a suit of second-hand French peasant's clothes and go and find my man. Then I'll bring him to the old barn in your little farm to-night ... as I have done before...."
"Where is he at this moment?"
"His company is quartered in the Albern Woods."
"But that's next door to the frontier!" cried Morestal. "An hour's walk, no more."
"Just so; but how he is to reach the frontier? Where is he to cross it?"
"That's quite easy," said Morestal, taking up a pencil and a sheet of note-paper. "Look, here are the Albern Woods. Here's the Col du Diable. Here's the Butte-aux-Loups.... Well, he's only got to leave the woods by the Fontaine-Froide and take the first path to the left, by the Roche de ..."
He suddenly interrupted himself, looked at Dourlowski with a suspicious air and said:
"But you know the road as well as I do ... there's no doubt about that.... So ..."
"My word," said Dourlowski, "I always go by the Col du Diable and the factory."
Morestal reflected for a moment, scribbled a few lines and a few words in an absent-minded sort of way and then, with a movement of quick resolution, took the sheet of note-paper, crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the waste-paper basket:
"No, no, certainly not!" he cried. "I've had enough of this nonsense! One succeeds four times; and, at the fifth attempt.... Besides, it's not a business I care about.... A soldier's a soldier ... whatever uniform he wears...."
"Still ..." mumbled Dourlowski.
"I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The German commissary gives me a queer look when he meets me; and I won't risk ..."
"You're risking nothing."
"That'll do; and clear out of this as fast as you can.... Oh, wait a second!... I think I ... Listen ..."
Morestal ran to the windows overlooking the garden. Quick as thought, Dourlowski stooped and fished Morestal's crumpled sheet out of thewaste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising his voice:
"We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me," he said. "I give it up."
"That's it," said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You give it up, my friend: it's the best thing you can do."
He took Dourlowski by the shoulders and pushed him towards the terrace:
"Be off ... and don't come back.... There's nothing more for you to do here ... absolutely nothing...."
He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as he reached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up the staircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill.
Dourlowski took off his hat and distributed bows all round. Then, as soon as the road was clear, he disappeared.
Mme. Morestal expressed her astonishment:
"What! Do you still see that rogue of a Dourlowski?"
"Oh, it was an accident!..."
"You are very wrong to have him in the house. We don't even know where he comes from or what his trade is."
"He's a hawker."
"A spy, rather: that's what they say about him."
"Tah! In the pay of which country?"
"Of both, very likely. Victor thinks he saw him with the German commissary, two Sundays ago."
"With Weisslicht? Impossible. He doesn't even know him."
"I'm telling you what they say. In any case, Morestal, be careful with that fellow. He's a bird of ill-omen."
"Come, come, mother, no hard words. This is a day of rejoicing.... Are you ready, Philippe?"
There were several ways leading to Saint-Élophe. First of all, the high-road, which goes winding down a slope some two miles long; next, a few rather steep short cuts; and, lastly, further north, the forest-path, part of which skirts the ridge of the Vosges.
"Let's go by the road, shall we?" said Morestal to his son.
And, as soon as they had started, he took Philippe's arm and said, gleefully:
"Only think, my boy, at the camp, just now, we met one of the lieutenants of the manœuvring company. We talked about the Saboureux business and, this evening, he is going to introduce us to his captain, who happens to be a nephew of General Daspry, commanding the army-corps. So I shall tell him what I have done at the Old Mill, you see; he will report it to his uncle Daspry; and Fort Morestal will be listed at once...."
He beamed with delight, held his head high and flung out his chest, while, with his free hand, he made warlike flourishes with his cane. Once he even halted and placed himself on guard and stamped his foot on the ground:
"Three appels ... Engage ... Lunge! What do you say to that, Philippe, eh? Old Morestal is game yet!"
Philippe, full of affection for the old man, smiled. Now that he was acting on Marthe's advice and delaying the painful explanation, life seemed better to him, quite simple and quite easy, and he surrendered himself to the pleasure of seeing his father again and the scenes which he loved and renewing the childhood memories that seemed to await him at every turn of the road and to rise up at his approach:
"Do you remember, father? This is where I fell off my bicycle.... I was standing under that tree when it was struck by lightning...."
They stopped, recalled all the circumstances of the event and set off again, arm in arm.
And, a little further, Morestal took up the thread:
"And over there, do you remember? That's where you killed your first rabbit ... with a catapult! Ah, even in those days you promised to be a good shot ... the best at Saint-Élophe, as I live!... But I was forgetting: you have given up yourgun! A fellow of your build! Why, sport, my boy, is the great apprenticeship for war!..."
***
Saint-Élophe-la-Côte, once a flourishing little town, had never quite recovered from the wounds earned by its heroism during the war. It stood crowding round an old ruined castle which became visible at the last turn in the road. Nevertheless, situated on the borders of the department, at twelve or thirteen miles from Noirmont, the sub-prefecture, it owed a certain importance to its position near the frontier, facing the German garrisons, whose increasing activity was becoming a subject of uneasiness and had led to Jorancé's appointment as special commissary.
Jorancé, the first holder of this newly-created office, lived at the other end of the village and a little way outside it, in a low-storeyed house which had been greatly improved by Suzanne's good taste and fancy. It was surrounded by a garden with arbours and quaintly-clipped old trees and a clear, winding stream that flowed under the very doorstep.
It was nearly dark when Morestal entered, accompanied by Philippe. Everything was ready for their reception: the table was laid in a room hung with bright stuffs; flowers were scattered over thecloth; two lamps shed a calm and even light; and Suzanne sat smiling, happy and charming.
All this was very simple. And yet Philippe received the impression that special pains had been taken on his account. It was he who was expected; he was the master who was to be conquered and chained with invisible bonds. He felt sure of this; and Suzanne told him as much throughout dinner, with her fond glances, her attentive movements, her whole person bending towards him.
"I ought not to have come," he thought. "No, I ought not to have."
And, each time that he met Suzanne's eyes, he called to mind his wife's discreet manner and her thoughtful air.
"How absorbed you are, Philippe!" cried Morestal, who had never ceased talking while eating. "And you, Suzanne, what are you thinking about? Your future husband?"
"Not I!" she replied, without the least embarrassment. "I was thinking of those months I spent in Paris last winter. How good you were to me, Philippe! I remember the walks we used to take!..."
They spoke of those walks; and, little by little, Philippe was surprised to realize the extent to which their lives had been mingled during that stay. Marthe, retained by her household duties, used toremain at home, while they two escaped, like a couple of free and careless play-fellows. They visited the museums and churches of Paris, the little towns and castles of the Ile-de-France. An intimacy sprang up between them. And now it confused him to find Suzanne at once so near to him and so far, so near as a friend, so far as a woman.
When dinner was over, he moved round to his father. Morestal, eager to go and keep his appointment with Captain Daspry, stood up:
"Are you coming with us, Philippe?"
"Certainly."
The three men took their hats and sticks; but, when they reached the hall-door, after a whispered colloquy with Jorancé, Morestal said to his son:
"On second thoughts, it's better that we should go alone. The interview must remain as secret as possible; and we shall be less easy if there are three of us...."
"Besides," added the special commissary, "you may just as well keep Suzanne company: it is her last evening. Good-bye for the present, children. You can be sure that the two conspirators will be back when the belfry-clock strikes ten, eh, Morestal?"
They went off, leaving Philippe not a little perplexed.
Suzanne burst out laughing:
"My poor Philippe, you look very uncomfortable. Come, cheer up! I sha'n't eat you, I promise you!"
"No, I don't expect you will," he said, laughing in his turn. "But, all the same, it's strange ..."
"All the same, it's strange," she said, completing the sentence, "that we should take a walk round the garden together, as I asked you. You will have to make the best of a bad job. Here comes the harmless, necessary moonlight."
The moon emerged slowly from the great clouds stacked around a mountain-crest; and its light cast the regular shadows of the yews and fir-trees on the lawns. The weather was heavy with approaching storms. A warm breeze wafted the perfumes of plants and grass.
Three times, they followed the outer path, along a hedge and along a wall. They said nothing; and this silence, which he found it impossible to break, filled Philippe with remorse. At that moment, he experienced a feeling of aversion for that capricious and unreasonable little girl, who had brought about those compromising minutes between them. Unaccustomed to women and always rather shy in their company, he suspected her of some mysterious design.
"Let's go over there," said Suzanne, pointing to the middle of the garden, where the shadowsseemed to gather round a thick clump of shrubs and hornbeams.
They made for the place through an arcade of verdure which brought them to a short flight of steps. It was a sunk amphitheatre, surrounded by a stone balustrade, with a small pond in the middle and, opposite, in a leafy frame, a female statue, with a moonbeam quivering upon it. A musty smell arose from this old-fashioned spot.
"Venus or Minerva? Corinne perhaps?" said Philippe, joking to conceal his uneasiness. "I confess I can't quite make out. What is she wearing: a peplum or an Empire frock? And is that a helmet or a turban on her head?"
"It depends," said Suzanne.
"How do you mean? What upon?"
"Yes, it depends upon my humour. When I'm good and sensible, she's Minerva. When I look at her with a yearning heart, she becomes Venus. And she is also, according to the mood of the moment, the goddess of madness ... and the goddess of tears ... and the goddess of death."
She spoke with a playfulness that saddened Philippe. He asked:
"And what is she the goddess of to-day?"
"The goddess of farewell."
"Of farewell?"
"Yes, farewell to Suzanne Jorancé, to the girlwho has come here every day, for the last five years, and who will never come here again."
She leant against the statue:
"My dear goddess, what dreams we two have had, you and I! We used to wait together. For whom? For the Blue Bird ... for Prince Charming. The prince was to arrive on horseback, one day, jump the garden-wall and carry me off, slung across his saddle. He was to slip through the trees, one evening, and go up the steps on his knees, sobbing. And all the vows I made to my dear goddess! Just think, Philippe: I promised her never to bring a man into her presence unless I loved him! And I kept my promise. You are the first, Philippe."
He flushed red in the dark; and she continued, in a voice the gaiety of which rang false:
"If you only knew how silly a girl is, dreaming and vowing things! Why, I even promised her that that man and I should exchange our first kiss before her. Isn't it ridiculous? Poor goddess! She will never see that kiss of love; for, after all, I don't suppose you intend to kiss me?"
"Suzanne!"
"Well, did you? There's no reason why you should; and the whole thing's absurd. So you will admit that this dear goddess has no sense and that she deserves to be punished."
With a quick movement of the arm, she gave a push to the statue, which fell to the ground and broke into halves.
"What are you doing?" he cried.
"Leave me alone ... leave me alone," said Suzanne, in an angry voice.
It was as though her action had loosed in her a long-contained fury and wicked instincts which she was no longer able to control. She rushed forwards and madly kicked and raged at the broken pieces of the statue.
He tried to interfere and took her by the arm. She turned upon him:
"I won't have you touch me!... It's your fault.... Let me go ... I hate you!... Yes, it's all your fault!..."
And, releasing herself from his grasp, she fled towards the house.
The scene had not lasted twenty seconds.
"Hang it!" snarled Philippe, though he was not in the habit of swearing.
His irritation was so great that, if the poor plaster goddess had not already been reduced to fragments, he would certainly have flung her from her pedestal. But, above all things, he was swayed by one idea: to go away, not to see Suzanne again and to have done with this nonsense, of which he felt all the hatefulness and absurdity.
He also quickly made his way back to the house. Unfortunately, knowing no other outlet by which to escape, he went through the passage. The dining-room door was open. He saw the girl sitting huddled in a chair, with her head between her hands, sobbing.
He did not know how artificial a woman's tears can be. Nor did he know the danger in those tears for him who is moved by the sight of their flowing. But, had he known it, he would just the same have stayed; for man's pity is infinite.
"There!" she said, after a few minutes. "The storm is over."
She raised her beautiful face, now lit with a smile:
"No black on my eye-lashes, you see," she added, gaily. "No rouge on my lips.... Take note, please.... Nothing that comes off!"
This versatility of mood, the despair, which he had felt to be real, followed by a light-heartedness which he felt to be equally sincere; all this bewildered Philippe.
She began to laugh:
"Philippe! Philippe! You look as though you did not understand much about women ... and even less about girls!"
She rose and went to the next room, which was her bedroom, as he saw by the white curtains and the arrangement of the furniture; and she returned with an album, in which she showed him, on the first page, the photograph of a child, crying:
"Look, Philippe. I haven't changed. At two years old, just as now, I used to have great big sorrows and eyes that flowed like taps."
He turned the pages of the album. There were portraits of Suzanne at all ages: Suzanne as a child, Suzanne as a little girl, Suzanne as a young girl; and each was more bewitching than the last.
At the bottom of one page, he read:
"Suzanne, twenty."
"Lord, how pretty you were!" he muttered, dazed by that image of beauty and gladness.
And he looked at Suzanne, in spite of himself.
"I have grown older," she said. "Three long years...."
He shrugged his shoulders without replying, for, on the contrary, he thought her lovelier still; and he turned the pages. Two loose photographs slipped to the floor. She put out her hand to take them, but did not complete the movement.
"May I?" asked Philippe.
"Yes, certainly."
He was much astonished when he examined one of the portraits:
"This," he said, "makes you look older than you are.... How funny! And why that old-fashioned dress?... That quaint way of doing your hair.... It's you ... and yet it's not you.... Who is it?"
"Mamma," she said.
He was surprised, knowing Jorancé's persistent rancour, that he should have given his daughter the portrait of a mother whom she had been taught to believe long dead. And he remembered the riotous adventures of the divorced wife, now the beautiful Mme. de Glaris, who was celebrated in the chronicles of fast society for her dresses and her jewellery and whose photographs were displayed in the shop-windows of the Rue de Rivoli for the admiration of the passers-by.
"Yes," he said, awkwardly and not quite knowing what he was saying, "yes, you are like her.... And is this also ...?"
He suppressed a movement of astonishment. This time, he clearly recognized Suzanne's mother, or rather the Mme. de Glaris of the Rue de Rivoli, bare-shouldered, decked in her pearls and diamonds, shameless and magnificent.
Suzanne, who kept her eyes raised to his face, did not speak; and they remained opposite each other, motionless and silent.
"Does she know the truth?" Philippe asked himself. "No ... no ... it's not possible.... She must have bought this photograph, because of the likeness to herself which she saw in it, and she does not suspect anything...."
But he was not satisfied with his surmise and he dared not question the girl, for fear of touching upon one of those mysterious griefs which become more acute when once they are no longer secret.
She put the two portraits back in the album and locked the clasp with a little key. Then, after a long pause, laying her hand on Philippe's arm, she said to him, in words that corresponded strangely with the thoughts that troubled him:
"Do not be angry with me, dear, and, above all, do not judge me too severely. There is a Suzanne in me whom I do not know well ... and who often frightens me.... She is capricious, jealous, wrong-headed, capable of anything ... yes, of anything.... The real Suzanne is good and sensible: 'You'remydaughter to-day,' papa used to say to me, when I was a little girl. And he said it in such a happy tone! But, the next day, I was his daughter no longer; and, struggle and fight as hard as I might, I could not become so again.... Things prevented me; and I used to cry because papa seemed to hate me.... And I wanted to be good.... And I still want to and I always do.... But there is nothing in the world so hard ... because the other ... the other one does not want to.... And besides ..."
"What?"
She waited a moment, as though hesitating, and continued:
"And, besides, what she wants, what the other Suzanne wants does not appear to me so very unreasonable. It is an immense longing to love somebody, but to love madly, boundlessly, to love too well.... Then it seems to me that life has no other object ... and all the rest bores me.... You know, Philippe, even when I was ever so small, that word love used to upset me. And, later ... and now, at certain times, I feel my brain going and all my soul seeking, waiting...."
She hid her face again, as though seized with a sudden feeling of bashfulness, and Philippe saw, between her fingers, her crimson forehead and cheeks.
His pity swelled within him. Through those desultory confidences, he saw Suzanne as she was, ignorant, ill-informed about herself and about the realities of life, troubled with desires which she took for unsatisfied feelings, torn by the implacable duel between contrary instincts and possessing nothing to counteract her woman's nature but a wayward and melancholy virtue.
How good it would be to save her! He went up to her and, very gently, said:
"You must get married, Suzanne."
She shook her head:
"There have been young men here who seemed to like me, but they always went away after a few days. One would almost think that they were afraid of me ... or that they had heard things ... against me.... Besides ... I didn't care for them.... It was not they ... that I was waiting for.... It was somebody else.... And he did not come."
He understood the irreparable words which she was about to utter and he ardently hoped that she would not utter them.
Suzanne guessed his wish and was silent. But the avowal was so clear, even when unexpressed, that Philippe read all its passion in the long silence that followed. And Suzanne experienced a great joy, as though the indissoluble bond of words were linking them together. She added:
"It was a little your fault, Philippe, and you felt it, in a way, at dinner. Yes, a little your fault.... In Paris, I lived a dangerous life beside you.... Just think, we were always together, always by ourselves, we two; and, for days at a time, I had the right to think that there was no one in the world but you and I. It was for me that you talked, it was to make me worthy of yourself that you explained things to me which I did not know, that you took me to see the beautiful sights inthe churches, in the old towns.... And I, I was amazed. At what I was learning? Oh, no, Philippe, but at the new world that suddenly opened up to me. I did not listen to your words, but I listened to the sound of your voice. My eyes saw only your eyes. It was your admiration that I admired; your love for the beautiful was what I loved. All that you taught me to know ... and to love, Philippe, was ... yourself."
Notwithstanding his inward rebellion, the words entered into Philippe's being like a caress; and he too almost forgot himself in the pleasure of listening to the sound of a soft voice and looking into eyes that are dear to one.
He said, simply:
"And Marthe?"
She did not answer; and he felt that, like many women, she was indifferent to considerations of that sort. To them, love is a reason that excuses everything.
Then, seeking to create a diversion, he repeated:
"You must get married, Suzanne, you must. That is where your safety lies."
"Oh, I know!" she said, wringing her hands in despair. "I know ... only ..."
"Only what?"
"I haven't the strength to."
"You must find the strength."
"I can't.... I ought to have it given me. I ought to have ... oh, nothing very much, perhaps ... a little gladness ... a glad memory ... the thought that my life will not have been entirely wasted.... The thought that I too shall have had my spell of love.... But that short spell I ask for ... I beg for it, I pray for it."
He blurted out:
"You will find it in marriage, Suzanne."
"No, no," she said, more bitterly, "only the man I love can give it to me.... I want, once at least, to feel a pair of arms around me, nothing but that, I assure you ... to lay my head on your shoulder and to remain like that, for an instant."
She was so near to Philippe that the muslin of her bodice touched his clothes and he breathed the scent of her hair. He felt a mad temptation to take her in his arms. And it would have been a very small thing, as she had said: one of those moments of happiness which one plucks like a flower and remembers.
She looked at him, not sadly now, nor resigned, but smiling, archly, with all the ingenious charm of the woman who is trying to conquer.
He turned pale and murmured:
"Suzanne, I am your friend. Be my friend, simply, and let your imagination ..."
"You're afraid," she said.
He tried to jest:
"Afraid! Goodness gracious me, of what?"
"Afraid of the one little affectionate action which I ask of you, the action of a brother kissing his sister. That's what you shrink from, Philippe."
"I shrink from it because it is wrong and wicked," he declared, firmly. "That is the only reason."
"No, Philippe, there is another reason."
"Which is that?"
"You love me."
"I! I love you?... I!"
"Yes, you, Philippe, you love me. And I defy you to look me in the face, to look me straight in the eyes and deny it."
And, without giving him time to recover, she continued, bending over him eagerly:
"You were in love with me, before I fell in love with you. It was your love that created mine. Don't protest, you have no right to do so now, for you know.... And I, I knew it from the first day. Oh, believe me, a woman is never mistaken.... Your eyes, when they looked at me, had a new look in them ... there, the look of just now. You have never looked like that at any woman, Philippe; not even at Marthe, ... no ... not even at her.... You never loved her, her nor the others. I was the first. Love was a thingunknown to you and you do not understand it yet ... and you sit there in front of me, nonplussed and dumbfoundered, because the truth appears to you and because you love me, Philippe, because you love me, my dear Philippe...."
She clung to him, in an upheaval of hope and certainty, and he seemed not to resist.
"You were afraid, Philippe. That is why you made up your mind not to see me again.... That is why you spoke so harshly to me just now.... You were afraid, because you love me.... Do you understand now?... Oh, Philippe, I should not have acted with you as I have done, if you did not love me.... I should never have had the presumption!... But I knew.... I knew ... and you don't deny it, do you?... Oh, how I suffered! My jealousy of Marthe!... To-day again, when she kissed you.... And the thought of going away without as much as saying good-bye to you!... And the thought of that marriage!... What a torture!... But it's over now, is it not? I shall suffer no more ... because you love me."
She spoke these last words with a sort of timorous hesitation and without taking her eyes from Philippe's face, as though expecting him to give an answer that would calm the sudden anguish with which she was torn.
He was silent. His eyes were dull, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He seemed to be reflecting and did not appear to reck that Suzanne was there so close to him, her arms clinging to his arms.
She whispered:
"Philippe.... Philippe...."
Had he heard? He remained impassive. Then, little by little, Suzanne released her embrace. Her hands fell to her sides. She gazed with infinite distress upon the man she loved and, suddenly, sank into a heap, weeping:
"Oh, I am mad!... I am mad! Why did I speak?"
It was a horrible ordeal for her, after the hope that had excited her, and this time it was real tears that flowed down her cheeks. The sound of the sobs roused Philippe from his dream. He listened to it sadly and then began to pace the room. Moved though he was, what was passing within him troubled him even more. He loved Suzanne!
It did not for a second occur to him to deny the truth. From the first sentences that Suzanne had spoken and without his having to seek for further proofs, he had admitted his love even as one admits the presence of a thing that one sees and touches. And that was why Suzanne, at the mere sight of Philippe's attitude, had suddenly realized theimprudence which she had committed in speaking: Philippe, once warned, was escaping her. He was one of those men who become conscious of their duty at the very moment when they perceive their fault.
"Philippe!" she said, once more. "Philippe!"
As he did not reply, she took his hand again and whispered:
"You love me, though ... you love me.... Well, then, if you love me ..."
The tears did not disfigure her exquisite face. On the contrary, grief decked her with a new, graver and more touching beauty. And she ended, ingenuously enough:
"Then, if you love me, why do you repel me? Surely, when one loves, one does not repel the thing one loves.... And you love me...."
The pretty mouth was all entreaty. Philippe observed its voluptuous action. It was as though the two lips delighted in uttering words of love and as though they could pronounce no others.
He turned away his eyes to escape the fascination and, controlling himself, mastering his voice so that she might not perceive its tremor, he said:
"It is just because I love you, Suzanne, that I am repulsing you ... because I love you too well...."
The phrase implied a breach which she felt to be irreparable. She did not attempt to protest. It was finished. And she knew this so thoroughly that, a moment later, when Philippe opened the door and prepared to go away, she did not even raise her head.
He did not go, however, for fear of offending her. He sat down. There was only a little table between them. But how far he was from her! And how it must surprise her that all her feminine wiles, her coquetry, the allurement of her lips were powerless to subjugate the will of that man who loved her!
The belfry-clock struck ten. When Morestal and Jorancé arrived, Suzanne and Philippe had not exchanged a single word.
***
"Ready to start, Philippe?" cried Morestal. "Have you said good-bye to Suzanne?"
She replied:
"Yes, we have said good-bye."
"Well, then it's my turn," he said, kissing her. "Jorancé, it's settled that you're coming with us."
"As far as the Butte-aux-Loups."
"If you go as far as the Butte," said Suzanne to her father, "you may just as well go on to the Old Mill and come back by the high-road."
"That's true. But are you staying behind, Suzanne?"
She decided to see them out of Saint-Élophe. She quickly wrapped a silk scarf round her head:
"Here I am," she said.
The four of them walked off, along the sleeping streets of the little town, and Morestal at once began to comment on his interview with Captain Daspry. A very intelligent man, the captain, who had not failed to see the importance of the Old Mill as a block-house, to use his expression. But, from another point of view, he had given something of a shock to Morestal's opinions on the attitude which a French officer should maintain towards his inferiors.
"Just imagine, Philippe: he refuses to punish the soldiers I told him about ... you know, the pillagers whom Saboureux complained of.... Well, he refuses to punish them ... even the leader of the band, one Duvauchel, a lover of every country but his own, who glories in his ideas, they say. Can you understand it? The rascal escapes with a fine of ten francs, an apology, a promise not to do it again and a lecture from his captain! And Mossieu Daspry pretends that, with kindness and patience, he succeeds in turning Duvauchel and fellows of his kidney into his best soldiers! What humbug! As though there were any way oftaming those beggars, short of discipline! A pack of good-for-nothing scoundrels, who would fly across the frontier the moment the first shot was fired!"
Philippe had instinctively slackened his pace. Suzanne was walking beside him; and, every now and then, by the light of an electric lamp, he saw the golden halo of her hair and the delicate profile draped in the silk scarf.
He felt full of gentleness for her, now that he no longer feared her, and he was tempted to speak kind words to her, as to a little sister of whom one is very fond. But the silence was sweeter still and he did not wish to break its charm.
They passed the last houses. The street ran into a white country-road, lined with tall poplars. And they heard scraps of Morestal's conversation:
"Oh, yes! Captain Daspry! Leniency, friendly relations between superiors and inferiors, the barracks looked upon as a school of brotherhood, with the officers for instructors! That's all very well; but do you know what a system of that sort leads to? An army of deserters and renegades...."
Suzanne said, in a low voice:
"May I have your arm, Philippe?"
He at once slipped his arm through hers, happy at the thought of pleasing her. And he felt, besides, a great relief at seeing that she leant againsthim with the confidence of a friend. They were going to part and nothing would tarnish the pure memory of that day. It was a comforting impression, which nevertheless caused him a certain sadness. Duty fulfilled always leaves a taste of bitterness behind. The intoxication of sacrifice no longer stimulates you; and you begin to understand what you have refused.
In the warm night, amid all the perfumes that stirred in the breeze, Suzanne's own scent was wafted up to him. He inhaled it long and greedily and reflected that no scent had ever excited him before:
"Good-bye," he said, within himself. "Good-bye, little girl; good-bye to what was my love."
And, during those last minutes, as though he were granting a crowning grace to his impossible longings and his forbidden dreams, he yielded to the delights of that love which had blossomed so mysteriously in the unknown regions of his soul.
"Good-bye," Suzanne now said. "Good-bye, Philippe."
"Are you going?"
"Yes, or else my father would come back with me; and I want nobody ... nobody...."
Jorancé and old Morestal had stopped near a bench, at a place where two paths met, the wider of which, the one on the left, climbed up towardsthe frontier. The spot was known as the Carrefour du Grand Chêne, or Great Oak Crossways.
Morestal kissed the girl again:
"Good-bye, for the present, Suzanne. And don't forget that I'm coming to your wedding."
He pressed the spring of his repeater:
"I say, Philippe, it's a quarter past ten.... True, there's no hurry.... Your mother and Marthe must be asleep by now. No matter, let's get on...."
"Look here, father, if you don't mind, I would rather take the direct road.... The path by the Butte-aux-Loups is longer; and I am feeling rather tired."
In reality, like Suzanne, Philippe wanted to go home alone, so that nothing might disturb the melancholy charm of his dream. Old Morestal's long speeches terrified him.
"As you please, my boy," cried the old man. "But mind you don't put up the bolt or the chain on the hall-door."
Jorancé impressed the same injunctions on Suzanne and the two walked away.
"Good-bye, Philippe," said the girl, once again.
He had already entered the path on the right.
"Good-bye, Suzanne," he said.
"Give me your hand, Philippe."
For his hand to reach Suzanne's, he had to turntwo or three steps back. He hesitated. But she had come towards him and, very gently, drew him to the foot of the path:
"Philippe, we must not part like this.... It is too sad! Let us go back together to Saint-Élophe ... as far as the house.... Please do...."
"No," he said, curtly.
"Oh!" she moaned. "I asked so that I might be with you a little longer.... It is so sad! But you are right. Let us part."
He said, in a kinder tone:
"Suzanne.... Suzanne...."
Bending her head a little, she put out her forehead to him:
"Kiss me, Philippe."
He stooped, intending to kiss the curls of her hair. But she gave a swift movement and flung her arms round his neck.
He felt that he was lost and made a despairing effort. Suzanne's lips were close to his, offering themselves.
"Oh, Suzanne ... Suzanne, my darling ..." he whispered, abandoning all resistance and pressing the girl to his breast....