The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe awakeningThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The awakeningAuthor: Henry BordeauxTranslator: Ruth Helen DavisRelease date: April 2, 2023 [eBook #70440]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Dutton, 1914Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The awakeningAuthor: Henry BordeauxTranslator: Ruth Helen DavisRelease date: April 2, 2023 [eBook #70440]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Dutton, 1914Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)
Title: The awakening
Author: Henry BordeauxTranslator: Ruth Helen Davis
Author: Henry Bordeaux
Translator: Ruth Helen Davis
Release date: April 2, 2023 [eBook #70440]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Dutton, 1914
Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING ***
BY
HENRY BORDEAUX
Author of "The Fear of Living"
TRANSLATED BY
RUTH HELEN DAVIS
NEW YORKE-P-DUTTON & COMPANYPUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1914BYP. DUTTON & COMPANY
TOMY DEAR AUNT VIRGINIAWITH THE AFFECTIONATE REGARDOFRUTH HELEN DAVIS
PART ICHAPTERIThe First Act of ProcedureIIThe First JudgesIIIThe PlaintiffIVThe DefendantPART IIIThe Other Side of the WorldIIThe WatchIIIAlbert's DiaryIVAnne de SézeryVElizabeth's AwakeningPART IIIIThe First StageIIElizabeth's DayIIIMadame Molay-NorroisIVThe New LifeVA GhostVIMadame DerizePART IVIThe PalmsIIPhilippe Lagier's Mysterious JourneyIIIElizabeth in ParisIVThe ReturnVThe PhantomVIThe Chartreuse of PrémolVIIThe Opened Eyes
A suit for divorce or separation is begun, as everyone knows, by a petition to the presiding judge: the party seeking freedom or release from the conjugal tie briefly states his grievances, and requests the magistrate, according to law, to attempt a reconciliation, a useless proceeding in most cases, before the final break. In the provinces, the first step in the proceedings is generally heartily welcomed in the solicitors' offices. The clerks hastily leave their desks to get a look at the rough draft—which they will soon have to copy—with all the eagerness of youth to enjoy a scandal, the participants in which are known to them. It is a regular treat for them; but their unkindness is quite devoid of malice.
Thus, the Derize case at Grenoble brought into close conference in M. Tabourin's office, during the chief's absence, the four clerks—the learned Vitrolle, Dauras, Lestaque and the errand-boy Malaunay. They began the reading of a communication from the veteran barrister, M. Salvage with the formality commensurate with the importance of the persons concerned, and with a sense of the glory reflected upon the office by such a truly Parisian affair.
"Another victim of man's selfishness!" cried Vitrolle with an air of finality.
The head clerk was chivalrous, a feminist, and imbued with a local patriotism stimulated by the scholarly learning of an archivist. Had he not discovered from statistics—into what will statistics not inquire?—that "the number of deceived husbands is less in Dauphiné than anywhere else," this being an opinion which an old author named Chateaumières de Grenaille had formulated as early as the 16th century, stating that it was "almost a miracle to hear of a woman in Grenoble having a love-affair to the damage or prejudice of her reputation." Nothing less than this learned authority could have induced him to side against M. Derize, whose almost universal reputation as an historian would otherwise have had great weight with him.
"Pooh, let's wait for the answer," protested young Malaunay, who, at the age of seventeen or eighteen, after having gone through many offices, was profoundly skeptical in all matters of morals.
But his doubts were not shared by his three colleagues, for they had seen the pretty, quiet Madame Derize in the street, in the public garden, on the quays of the Isère, and they earnestly and unanimously vouched for the innocence of their new client.
"I hope you're right, I'm sure," said the office boy indifferently. "All the same I had anticipated this case."
He gave this retrospective prophecy with the air of one who knows life not merely from legal document, but from every angle of personal observation.
"What do you mean?" asked Dauras and Lestaque, who had but one thought in common.
"Well, one day at the museum—"
"What were you doing at the museum?"
"Copying a deed, perhaps—one day at the museum, M. Derize was showing his wife the pictures. I was behind them—they had stopped in front of the portrait of an old man, all wrinkled, who, at first glance, looked very ugly to me."
"Who was the artist?" asked Vitrolle, before risking an opinion.
"I don't know—it's all the same to me."
"You have no taste."
"He was saying, 'Look at that face; see how it sums up the whole of peasant life with its daily struggles, its sorrows, its parsimony indelibly written in the wrinkles, its dreams—and perhaps a little alcohol too—in the glassy eye.' He spoke excitedly, and said a lot of other things that I've forgotten. I profited by his lessons. But Madame Derize did not stir any more than a post. She certainly is beautiful, but I find her too impassive. Really, I thought the old man quite alive, instead of just a portrait in a frame hanging on the wall."
"What then?"
"Listen. To the right of the old man there was a picture of a lady in a low cut dress. A red dress with all kinds of dangles on the sleeves and bodice. Mme. Derize took in the costume at a glance, you understand; she said: 'Lace looks very well with velvet.' Her husband was furious and did not say another word while they were in the gallery."
"And after that?" said Vitrolle.
"After that? Nothing. Divorce, that's all."
His hearers burst into insolent laughter which vexed Malaunay, for he was proud of his keen insight and exceedingly sensitive. This discussion of art bored the scribblers who had expected a more risqué story. The entrance of the chief put an end to their conference.
Without being old, M. Tabourin appeared so, because he was untidy and looked as if he were covered with the dust of his folios. He had often envied the baldness of most of his colleagues, when hurriedly running a comb through his overabundant hair, for it remained rumpled like poor soil which closes up again after being plowed. He was absorbed in the duties of his office and gave no thought to the fit of his clothing, which hung loosely on his body and twisted itself into wrinkles with every movement. Business had such a fascination for him that he never confused it with the human tragedies hidden beneath it: he considered his cases as distinct persons in themselves, living and important, each one lodging in a folio, so that he did not need occupy himself with the repetition of decisions and of the procedure in compromised or ruined homes. Professionals are nearly all so constituted, and that is why their professions do not wear them out.
"Anything new?" he asked the head clerk. Vitrolle handed him the draft.
"The Derize Petition."
"Ah! Ah!"
This news brought out in M. Tabourin's dull face lines of cupidity, as the light shining in a badly aired room gathers together a group of atoms and invites them to dance. He drew nearer to the window to decipher Salvage's cramped writing. The clerks watched him curiously, with the exception of Malaunay, who was waiting for a good opportunity to leave. The lovely June sun was calling him to come out and walk.
M. Tabourin's law-office is situated in St. André's Square, on the first floor, opposite the court house. It is reached through a dark, dirty corridor at the end of which is an open staircase: for entrance-halls, which are the pride of Paris and frequently of foreign cities as well, are generally sacrificed in the provincial towns of France, so that even large, commodious, roomy apartments with high ceilings, have the most wretched approaches.
As Grenette Square was formerly the business center of Grenoble,—still is in fact,—so St. André's Square was the real heart of the town, since there the religious, the municipal and the judicial life met, and even now are represented by their monuments. The past of Dauphiné dwells there, but one has to search a while to find it, for in this capital of long ago, the old is everywhere hidden beneath the new. As you alight at the station, you see only newly-built districts, houses scarcely finished, and wide avenues, whose perspective terminates in the far-away mountains. An industrious and prosperous town, you conclude, born yesterday in noble surroundings and lacking historic coloring. Even the streets have been renamed; the old "Rue des Jésuites," where Stendhal was born, is now called "Jean Jacques Rousseau." A few fortified gates opened in the ramparts have been ruthlessly dismantled, but those still standing interest the pedestrian, who, little by little, by following the winding paths of L'Ile Verte, finds traces of the wall of enclosure, perceives the bastions against the sides of Mont Rachois, imagines from these evidences of defensive toil the battles of old, and is prepared to discover by chance somewhere in the bright city one or other of those expressions of the spirit of a race which has maintained its integrity with a tenacity that has resisted all the labors of architects and engineers. Saint André's Square should still be satisfying, but it is only half so. There at the western end is the tall tower of the town hall which was once the palace of the Constable de Lesdiguières, and there above the low houses which crowd about it and hide its door, is the church whose venerable octagonal stone steeple is wrought with double windows in a pointed arch. But the court house where the Parliament of Dauphiné sat, shows a façade half Gothic, half Renaissance, the materials of which have been scratched away here, replaced there, and still retain even in the sunlight that cold newness which only the touch of time melts. As to the statue of Bayard,—who is represented as dying against the trunk of a tree,—it only encumbers the narrow square without adorning it.
M. Tabourin had never noticed many monuments from his window. From the time of moving into these offices he had taken pleasure only in the nearness of the court house—which he particularly appreciated when troubled by rheumatism. The brief of a case requiring special knowledge; seizure, dispossession, "the whole gamut," as he said enthusiastically, and involving heavy charges, when handed to him in its light blue envelope was much more attractive than the past of the province with all its memories. So he read the lawyer's petition without sentimental curiosity, and remarked only that Mme. Derize intended to apply for a separationde plano, that is, without preliminary investigation, which would reduce the fee.
"Have you had the corroborative evidence?" he inquired.
"No, sir."
"Was there something about a letter?"
"That is probably being kept back until after the usual attempt at reconciliation."
"Good. You will have the papers drawn up, Vitrolle, at once."
He took it for granted that the existence of a case dates only from the issue of its papers. Then he went into his private office and arranged one by one on the table the documents which he thought he would need for the hearing of the court that opened at nine o'clock. During this mechanical work, his inner contentment made him smile. All Grenoble had been watching this Derize case for two months, since Mme. Derize (née Molay-Norrois), had left Paris and had come to live with her parents. For the first few weeks there had been a pretense of ignorance of the subject; then, some over-gossipy friends felt a desire to provide explanations: M. Derize was traveling to authenticate the sources of some historical work; he had been unable to take his wife and children with him, but was coming back to spend his holidays at Uriage as usual. Little by little another version was given out. Some well-informed persons predicted a divorce. "Would it be tried in Grenoble or in Paris?" the lawyers were asking one another. The question was now settled for M. Tabourin: he was to represent the more sympathetic side in a trial, from which he would derive small remuneration, no doubt, but the widest publicity because of the personality of Albert Derize, the well-known historian, and of the prominent position of the Molay-Norrois family. Thoroughly pleased, he opened the door leading to his private apartments to inform Mme. Tabourin, who was grateful for this fresh bit of news which would supply her with conversation for an entire day. And this act of consideration for his wife seemed to him definitely to establish the case, even before the proceedings were officially begun.
On his return, he found M. Lagier waiting for him in the office. Philippe Lagier, although still under forty, was considered, in civil proceedings, to be one of the most capable lawyers in Grenoble. Short, sickly, with a faded complexion, delicate features, his hair already growing gray, indolent in appearance, nevertheless at the bar he was the equal of the strongest. High-strung and tense, he was tireless in public, never telling of his lonely hours of depression. His colleagues recognized his capacity for work, the modern ideas by which he simplified old methods, suppressed flowery phrases, gestures and digressions, shortened, condensed and clarified the form of pleading until it seemed like pronouncing final sentence; but people in general disliked him for the impertinence of his conversation, which was emphasized by a monocle without a cord, screwed into his eye. They disliked him too for his exaggerated contempt for professional matters and his almost fanatical fondness for the plastic arts, to which he devoted all his spare time, and for the gratification of his interest in which he went to the museums of Italy and Flanders as soon as vacation began, to collect the pictures, drawings and engravings that filled his room. And all this, to the great astonishment of the specialists, did not lessen his clientèle. He was known to be the intimate friend and college chum of Albert Derize, who would no doubt place his interests in Lagier's hands.
M. Tabourin, bristling, with his heart in his mouth, rushed forward:
"Good morning, Chief."
He was willing to flatter those who could help him in his work. Philippe Lagier in accordance with his method, went straight to the point:
"I have just met my colleague, Salvage. He has sent you the Derize petition:—although the parties are really residents of Paris, we have agreed to ask for the recognition of the Grenoble court."
"Thank you," said the lawyer, as if they had taken this step for his especial benefit, rather than, as was the case, to avoid the publicity of the newspapers.
Lagier screwed the monocle into his eye to mark the importance of this reply. It was a joke which he would add to his court anecdotes.
"Will you show me the rough draft?"
"It is being copied."
"I have serious reasons for wishing to see it. It is not a matter of inquisitiveness, since it will be placed in my client's hands to-morrow—I have informed M. Salvage about it."
"Vitrolle, give me the petition."
A man of importance and of so much authority must be handled tactfully. The head clerk got up and brought the paper to M. Lagier, whom M. Tabourin had taken into his private room. The lawyer was immediately absorbed in the document, which read as follows:—
"To the President of the First County Court of Grenoble: Mme. Albert Derize, née Elizabeth Molay-Norrois, domiciled at No. 9 Rue Bara, Paris, the wife of M. Albert Derize with whom she resides in law, but is in reality living at the Quai de la République, Grenoble, at the home of her parents, M. and Mme. Molay-Norrois, has the honor to inform you:
"That she contracted a marriage on the 25th day of May, 1897, with M. Albert Derize, formerly an officer of the municipality of Grenoble;
"That two children were the issue of this marriage, Marie Louise, born on the 10th of June, 1898; and Philippe, on the 18th of January, 1901;
"That on the 6th of last April, the plaintiff, previously authorized by her husband to open in his absence all telegrams and telegraphed letters addressed to him, was thus compelled to take notice of a letter of this sort sent to M. Derize by Mlle. A. de S——; that this letter, as much by the words themselves, as by allusions to occurrences and a previous correspondence, contained the manifest proof of the existence of a liaison between the two correspondents;
"That M. Derize, upon being asked to give explanations, immediately confessed his guilty passion, and by his offensive attitude forced his wife to leave their home with her children and to go to her parents' home at Grenoble;
"That since that time, after a trip to Germany with his mistress, he has established himself in Paris in her neighborhood and continues to maintain his relations with her;
"That under these circumstances the plaintiff has determined to take steps to procure a separation from her husband:—with these grounds the plaintiff concludes, etc., etc."
The legal forms for the interview of reconciliation followed and the date June, 1905, with the day left blank.
Philippe Lagier did not see his cases in the same light as his host, M. Tabourin, who thought only of formulas and remuneration. Lagier, prompted by intellectual curiosity rather than by sympathy, was interested in knowing the underlying details; the human conflicts that they represented interested him, without changing his skepticism, which was the combined result of fundamental indifference, many dislikes, and the innate revolt of a disillusioned mind, cognizant of its own value, but unable to put it to its best use. He rose. Through the half-opened door, he saw the attorney assigning work to his assistants, and at intervals reassuring two embarrassed peasants, whom he was about to dispossess. Seated uncomfortably on a bench in the office, they seemed to be so impressed by his affable manners and his poor clothes that they hesitated to give full vent to their complaints and lamentations.
What was the good of disturbing him in his ant-like activity? Lagier went towards the window, resolved to await him patiently. At the approach of a group of litigants, who had reached the court house before the doors were opened, two pigeons who were pecking in the sunny square, flew away and perched on the trefoil of the pointed arches ornamenting the belfry of Saint André. The over-restored monument opposite him reminded Lagier of Albert Derize's vehement invectives against architects; and, reading between the lines of the technical, obsolete expressions of the petition, he recalled the three actors of the drama which was soon to reach its conclusion before the amused magistrates. By a singular coincidence, all three had been factors of varying influence in his life.
Albert Derize was a college friend whom Lagier had chosen with that unerring instinct of youth, which, in later years, gives way to self-consciousness and hesitation. How brilliant was his career at the early age of thirty-nine! After graduating from the Charter School, he had gone to the Arsenal for a short time as assistant librarian. Faithful to his province while away, he had published a history of Lesdiguières, king of the mountains, in which the hard and cunning rogue of the 16th century stood out like the hero of a novel, and also a History of the Assembly at Vizille in 1789, which set forth in brief the spiritual and material conditions in Dauphiné on the eve of the Revolution. From that time fortune smiled on him. Despite his youth, the Academy awarded him the Grand Prix Gobert. A publisher, impressed by his self-confidence and success placed him at the head of a publishing enterprise in which he had long been stimulating interest in the best literary circles:—a monthly collection of biographies of great men, short, clear, eloquent and accurate and very cheap; by means of which he hoped to rouse young men from their apathy and to incite them by example to a more profitable use of their time. With that versatility of mind which is attracted by every great realization of life, Derize reserved for himself the treatment of some of the more pathetic and inspiring life stories, such as Pascal, Lavoisier, Marceau and Beethoven. In spite of this work, he continued to labor from year to year with tireless activity, on his "History of the Workman in Modern Life," in six volumes, a splendid treatise on the development of unions, of machinery, of manual labor and of economic and moral conditions. He was also writing a "History of the Peasant in the 19th Century" in which he gave free rein to his love of the soil, of agricultural labor and of country life, inherited from a line of husbandmen ancestors, and in which he showed by the reconstruction of vanished communities, both French and foreign, and by comparison with new social units, the inspiriting force of inheritance and of family ties. This work was to consist of four volumes: the second had just appeared. Le Play, Fustel de Coulanges or Taine, would have welcomed with joy this disciple, who was already a master, because of his positive method, his erudition, his regard for facts, and Taine, the greatest artist of the three, would have rejoiced in the warmth of his style and the coloring of his pictures.
In reconsidering his friend's successful career, Philippe Lagier, with the usual outcome of such dreams, began to think of his own achievements and concluded:
"He had luck. After all I am as able as he."
His friendship, although deep and of long standing, was not quite free from envy. He had deplored his narrow horizon and limited environment too often not to be envious of the freer, broader existence that Albert Derize enjoyed. He was his friend's equal in intellectual penetration, and was much quicker to perceive the ironical side of situations and characters, and to accept them at once at their true valuation. Because of the unexpected scope Derize gave to all subjects and observations, the contagious love of life which he spread about him, the inner flame which at all times flashed from his eyes, how indisputably did he relegate Lagier to the second place! And when one expected his enthusiasm to lead him into an error, an exaggeration or a false statement, he would right himself again as a careening boat with its sails too taut, by a skillful turn of the rudder, swings into its right course. A well-balanced mind and a passionate heart, one had to recognize him as a rare force with the power to enliven the hours by his presence, as his books animated them for his readers.
Philippe Lagier was interrupted in his impartial comparison by the entrance of M. Tabourin.
"I will be with you immediately, Chief. These people who were dispossessed were trying to retain their land."
He was referring to the peasants in their blue blouses and he disappeared again to argue with them.
Philippe remembered his unpleasant surprise when he had heard of the engagement of Albert and Elizabeth Molay-Norrois. He himself, at that time, was hesitating about asking for the hand of the young girl of nineteen, whom he thought too young, too worldly, judging her by her clothes; too conventionally pretty with her pastel complexion, her wondering eyes and that well-rounded form giving promise of developing into too stout a woman. He counted upon time to dispel his indecision, and had then been suddenly obliged to quit the field—which is always difficult. He had, however, quickly dismissed this sentimental dream, and had even been able to propose a toast on the wedding day, when with the usual commonplaces, he made a speech to the young couple who were "made for each other." Was not that reality outdone? This young man, already famous, whom the Molay-Norrois had been proud to welcome, despite the inferiority of his family, took with him to Paris a wife who was worthy of him and would help him in his easy ascent to success.
Why had not Lagier come first? Richer, of better family, a resident of Grenoble, what advantages he had to offer! He was constantly invited to the house. And Albert had come one fine day quite by chance. Fate willed it that Albert should always outstrip him. The petition for separation which carried his thoughts back, had revived his forgotten ill-will. He was tempted to rejoice at this misfortune, evidence of which would be filed on the following day. But then, less indulgent toward his own faults, he soon began a self-analysis.
"Am I going to betray him instead of defending him? Now, just what has happened? In the first days of their married life, I realized that Albert was not perfectly happy. Young girls are all too silly then to make men happy. In spite of our intimacy he never made the least allusion to any unpleasantness, but I guessed it—without regret. Yes, without regret: a man is not perfect. Then their horizon cleared. Observing the somewhat impersonal but delicate protection with which he surrounded his young wife, I gave no more thought to their happiness, and consented to be god-father to their second child—"
Irritated by these memories he opened the door and witnessed the departure of the two peasants, who were bowing to M. Tabourin, crushing their hats in their hands and thanking him again and again. For what were they thanking him? For having put them out of their homes? This devil of a man, not content with dispossessing them, exacted their gratitude for doing so!
"They quite understood," said the lawyer, as he came back.
"Understood what?"
"That I have only their interests at heart."
Philippe Lagier thought this was intended for a cynical pun, but in his office M. Tabourin always spoke seriously.
"Evidently!" he replied. "Here is your petition."
"Thank you. The case will go through quickly. Are you going to defend it?"
"Wait. In the first place the specifications of residence must be modified. M. Salvage and I are willing to accept the recognition of the Grenoble Court in order to avoid any comments in Paris, but to make this change seem plausible, put M. Derize down as living at St. Martin d'Uriage, where he owns an estate which comes under this jurisdiction."
"Certainly, certainly," acquiesced the lawyer, reaching out his hand for the document.
"And then—"
But some new clients interrupted the conversation, and as they were of importance, M. Tabourin, hesitating, assumed a distressed expression. Philippe Lagier, generally so impatient, was sorry for him. He closed the door between the two rooms in order to enjoy undisturbed the tête-à-tête with the third person in the drama. Over the compromising initials in the petition, he wrote the whole name: "Anne de Sézery." And he brought before him in a vision the young girl with brown hair, the shade of chestnuts that fall before the harvest, a face one could never forget, partly because of the disillusioned expression about the mouth in direct contrast to the bloom of her clear cheeks, and especially attractive because of the long narrow eyes flashing golden sparks, whose warm desires seemed to contradict the premature languor of her bearing. Slender, well-formed and strong, she gave the impression of having been born tired, as if she thought it useless to pursue too great aims. She lived with her father in a family château at Saint Ismier, a village built on the slope overlooking the wide valley of Grésivaudan. Her independent manners, her self-possession on horseback, her conversation which betrayed a wide and catholic taste in reading, and an almost mystical enthusiasm for secular subjects, these with her fortune, not big, but apparently comfortable, gave her a motley following of young men—of whom he had been one. For a long time he had been desperately in love with her: she singled him out for the intellectual qualities which delighted in stripping the world of its false poetry—and sometimes of its true poetry as well—and still he could not believe himself the favored one. Who could dare to believe himself favored? He had loved her in his own fashion, which implied reserve and caution, but had it come to a question of marrying her, he would have raised a thousand objections. But at that time such an obscure person would not have contented her, and, later, would he still have cared?
Albert Derize, whom he sometimes took with him on his visits, had become absorbed in the study of some ancient title-deeds at the château, where he found documents for his reconstruction of old Dauphiné. When Albert took part in the conversation, he treated the girl's audacities and paradoxes with the candor and loyalty of a comrade to whom one does not feel bound to show any particular consideration. "He was already thinking of little Elizabeth Molay whom he had met in the street and did not know," thought Philippe. "It was he who mentioned her to me and called my attention to her."
On the death of her father, Anne de Sézery, entirely unprepared for it, found herself heiress of a ruined estate. The old man with senile cunning, had for a long time concealed the fact, presenting to the world a bold front, like a crumbling castle, with riddled walls and undermined foundations. The suitors gone, the château sold, the creditors almost entirely paid, she disappeared. In her pride she had told no one of her intention. It was rumored that she was earning her living in England by giving lessons in music and literature in an aristocratic boarding-school. Little by little she ceased to be mentioned. She had never returned to her native country. Ten years had passed. Was it really ten years? And if it were ten years, how could he recall so distinctly that disquieting face, at once so sad and so passionate? She must be thirty-two or thirty-three now. And here she was reëntering his life with all the serenity of the impressions of youth, sure of her power to enchant.
This strange phantom had chosen his best friend as a means to recall herself to his memory. How had Albert Derize found her again? By what sudden turn of things had he come at last to understand this strange combination of ardor and despondency? She had made herself remembered by the passion she inspired. Had not her golden eyes in those days demanded absolute love, love given without thought of sorrow, or of fear of risk? Among these green box-files, arranged methodically like the limited sentiments of civilized lives, Philippe Lagier, disgusted with his fate, longed for the inexorable happiness she offered.
He had the proof of this happiness with him. With a mechanical movement he took from his pocketbook the two letters and the telegram which he had received from his friend since the separation. They were two short notes, expressing no regret; but then, for regret Albert was too proud. In the first, Albert entrusted him with his defense, in case divorce proceedings were instituted; in the second, he begged him to keep Anne de Sézery's name out of the trial, and to offer in exchange a complete submission to all Mme. Derize's demands as to the custody of the children. By a strange contradiction he had subordinated all his family ties to this new passion, and wished to keep quiet the name of the girl whom he did not wish to compromise, because he had no intention of marrying her: it seemed as if he had decided henceforth to live without the pale of law and society. That very morning, informed of the difficulties which would attend his proposition, he had wired that he would arrive with the evening express, and gave his mother's address on the Boulevard des Adieux.
Such were the three actors. To reconstruct the drama, it would perhaps suffice to read the evidence alluded to in the petition. When M. Tabourin reappeared, Philippe, whose imagination was over-stimulated, demanded:
"What about the letter in question?"
"I have not received it. It will be sent to you at the proper time."
"Good. Now may I give you a message I have for you?"
"I am at your service."
"Do you want to add to the scandal?"
"What scandal?"
"There is a third person mixed up in this affair."
"Nobody knows her. I do not even know her name myself."
"You are wrong. To-morrow that name will be on everybody's lips."
"So much the worse."
"Could we not, as is often done, agree upon another reason for separation? We will accept it in advance. We shall not try to defend."
"You know very well that the judge does not admit such an obvious disguise of mutual consent, and besides M. Salvage would not be a party to any deception."
"Suppose I saw Mme. Derize?"
"Her lawyer tells me she does not wish to concern herself about it on any account."
"Nevertheless I shall see her before the trial begins. Wait until to-morrow to draw up your petition. Do you agree?"
Maître Tabourin made a weak gesture of protest:
"You are unreasonable. The case must be begun."
"Well, well," replied Philippe, "it won't run away from you. But now it is time for the opening of court. Come with me, I want to talk to you about one or two other cases."
And they set out together for the court house.
As soon as they were gone, the clerks began to deliberate again:
"Did you notice M. Lagier's anxious face?" questioned Vitrolle.
The romantic Malaunay hazarded:
"He is in love with Mme. Derize and can't make up his mind to plead against her."
The two others protested:
"What do you know about it?"
"One always loves the wife of one's best friend." The office boy's psychology was pessimistic.
"For the time being he has set aside the petition," Vitrolle concluded.
"It will not come up again," said the little man. "What do you bet?" cried Dauras and Lestaque in chorus.
And they made bets on the Derize separation, as if it were a horse race. Malaunay alone bet the husband would win.
So the inevitable chorus, with its laughter, accompanied the tragedy of three people, a tragedy which these men of law were about to record with the aid of a set formula and with the usual professional indifference.
The Molay-Norrois lived on the Quai de la République on the first floor of a spacious apartment, whose eight windows looked out on the Isère. Because of the rapidity of the current and the continual variation of volume, the water of this river, flowing from the glaciers of the great Aiguille Rousse, sometimes shallow and sometimes overflowing, is not clear, but is undoubtedly fresh and cold. Above the bridge is a narrow section of the right bank, backed by the ramps of Mont Rachais and dominated by the fortress and the Monastery of Sainte-Marie-d'En-Haut. The mountains of Vercors on the left and the Saint-Eynard on the right complete the outline of a fairly wide horizon. One feels surrounded by plenty of space and splendid air.
This apartment formed a part of the old house that Lesdiguières prepared for his mistress, Marie Vignon, who was the wife of a silk merchant: the husband, not taking kindly to this luxury, was assassinated, and his wife, who welcomed it gladly, was married somewhat later and installed in the Constable's house. But as is the custom in Grenoble, the past has left no trace, and one would take the old house for new. This historical relic had attracted Albert Derize in former times, and so led him to meet Elizabeth Molay when she was still a child.
Philippe Lagier, who had called in the afternoon to fulfill his delicate mission to Mme. Derize in accordance with his promise to the lawyer, met M. Molay-Norrois coming downstairs.
"What a pleasant surprise! The visit of an enemy!" said the latter.
M. Molay-Norrois at sixty was by no means an old man. His scanty hair and beard à la Henry IV framed his ruddy face in white. Eyes of faded blue suggested a certain melancholy which belied his smile and the natural sprightliness of his expression and movements. He was dressed with care, a gray overcoat, gray high hat, patent leather shoes half hidden by fawn-colored spats, and from military habit—he had been a cavalry officer—he held himself very upright and rather stiff. He was slender and aristocratic-looking, and easily maintained an air of youth, of which he availed himself in the presence of women.
"I have not come as an enemy," said Philippe. "I want to arrange with your daughter to avoid this unhappy trial. You could help us."
"My daughter has gone out. The ladies are both at Mme. Passerat's; it is her day at home."
Philippe Lagier, who was standing on a lower step, looked up at the speaker. The latter showed a gracious, pleasant face, as innocent as a child's. Had not his well-known liaison with the beautiful Mme. Passerat become respectable with time, and did he not know better than anyone what is correct in society and what is not?
"Perhaps the ladies would receive me some other day," began the lawyer—
"But if you will come with me," answered M. Molay-Norrois, "we will go together. It is only across the Isère."
"With pleasure—"
There was in fact only the Isère to cross. The Villa Passerat stands on the opposite bank, almost at the entrance to the stone bridge. It consists of a building with a wing at the right and a turret at the left. This little turret, seemingly so useless and of doubtful architecture, had nevertheless played its modest part as watch tower: they said that one of its windows, usually closed, stood ostentatiously open during the occasional absence of M. Passerat, who was president of a local Academy of Art and Letters and director of several industrial societies. From the Quai de la République there is a very good view of the Quai de France. The house, smart and new, though in an old neighborhood, has a certain picturesqueness, due to its situation, but could have been greatly improved by being treated with more simplicity. It is ensconced, so to speak, in the rock which shelters it from the wind, and it is reached by a grated gate on the street level leading to a passage connecting with the outer buildings and the garage. The walls are covered with a wild vine. The terrace, overlooking the quay, is laid out as a garden, and from the entire façade, but more particularly from the upper stories (for some acacias planted at the edge of the river partially obstruct the view), one sees the magnificent panorama of the Dauphiné Alps, all the group of Belledonne and the Sept-Laux, snow-covered even in summer and glistening under the rays of the sun. On clear winter evenings when that snow, warmed by the glow of the sunset, takes on the color of almond flowers, this view charms the eye with more delicate shades than even Spring can offer.
At the bridge M. Molay-Norrois, stopping to open his sunshade, observed:
"Formerly when you married off your daughter, all responsibility ceased. Nowadays the children are constantly bringing their troubles into court, and parents have no rest."
"Yes," agreed Philippe, "nothing is permanent."
"Indissoluble marriage was considered the safeguard of the family. Even if there were some obstacles, it was respected. But good breeding is out of date. Democracy has destroyed it."
"Perhaps it is because we have less time to devote to it."
"That time was not wasted, young man."
Flattered by this designation, the lawyer was tempted to agree, but the old beau went on:
"Discretion, tact, ingenuity in living are all lost qualities. People cry from the housetops what ought to be kept quiet. You will see the paper that has been drawn up by your colleague, the austere Salvage, an old friend of my family. Ah, those old friends of ours, the lawyers, barristers, doctors, what a nuisance they are, my dear fellow! You have to consult them in the name of the venerable usages which they keep up, and they take advantage of it to ruin you, to drag you into law-suits, to crush you—"
"I saw the petition."
"Well, what do you think of it? The truth—they are all for the truth. As if truth is necessary to civilization: as if a highly organized society, eager for enjoyment, could get on without hypocrisy! And you take the whole world into your confidence. Formerly silence was a rule of good taste."
"Let us reconcile them."
"It is impossible. I went to Paris to see my son-in-law; he was off to Germany with the young woman. My sons Oliver and Victor wished to challenge him. It was foolish of them, but generous. I had great difficulty in restraining them. Would you have believed it? A scholar, an ambitious man to compromise his career and lose all chance of election to the Academy! One does not wreck one's home for such follies. He used to love Elizabeth: perhaps he still loves her. Who has not loved two women at the same time? But there you are, he is proud. When he was caught in an awkward situation, instead of denying, he defended himself. I know him: he will not come back. They call that showing character, whereas life is made up of concessions."
"And Mme. Derize?"
"The ladies are greatly wrought up. They excite each other: they talk about it all the time. Their patience, which I have kept alive for two months, is at an end."
"Then this is final?"
"I am afraid so."
They had reached the Passerat villa. Philippe did not care to go in.
"Could you not tell your daughter that I should like to see her? It is four o'clock. I shall come at about six."
"No, no, come in;—you can make your arrangements with her."
He did the honors of the house, as if he were at home. Madame Tabourin had not lost any time! There were seldom so many people at Madame Passerat's in the month of June, for then the heat seems to concentrate in the valleys, and people begin to leave town for their country places near by,—shady Uriage, or stations farther on. M. Passerat, whose only passion was archæology, presented to society the frightened manner of a library rat, disturbed while gnawing old books: but on Thursday afternoons, he had less difficulty in appearing sociable, as a matter of gratitude to those guests who took only a glass of syrup or a cup of tea and a small cake, while at the evening functions, being very niggardly despite his wealth, he calculated the expense of the refreshments and grumbled about it. Not only was he not master in his own house, but, on the pretext that his ideas were old-fashioned, he was no longer consulted about anything; whereas M. Molay-Norrois, with his taste for traditions modified by an exact sense of modern requirements, enjoyed an influence which had given rise to the story of the unfastened turret window. Gossip about the two had been even more general since Mme. Passerat, surrounded by her enemies had to struggle at the same time against her years—forty-five in all—and a tendency to shrivel and grow thin, which, if it looked attractive with high-necked gowns, was most trying in evening dress. She was on a fattening diet, but missed the benefit of it because of her physical activity and her irritability of mind. She was a handsome brunette with a curved nose, a quick decisive manner and a loud voice. She loved to bestow pleasure after she had secured a goodly share for herself. Domineering and charitable, she treated life with an assumed frankness, which in reality she lacked, and her husband, naturally fussy, was carried away willy-nilly by these hussar tactics which paid no regard to his indecision.
The two new-comers found the room full. People had gathered around Mme. Derize, congratulating, kissing, flattering her, until she did not know to whom to listen, swamped by the chorus of "dear creature," "poor little thing"—"these monsters of men," to all of which she passively submitted. Neither her mother, who had scarcely left her since her trouble, nor she herself had any idea of their lawyer's breach of trust. The two women had come to call unsuspectingly.
"Society always considers the absent one to be in the wrong," Mme. Molay-Norrois had assured her daughter. "Preserve the dignity of your position, but be strong in your own right. Mme. Passerat is very influential and she is our friend."
Mme. Molay-Norrois, with charm, straightforwardness and a devotion to her daughter so complete as to be an annoyance, was withal not in any sense far-sighted. Quite well preserved for her fifty years, and very modest in appearance, except for too much powder on her face, she combined, as often happens, a great deal of physical energy with an undeveloped personality. She could read a book twice within a few weeks without recognizing it. Very docile and amenable to the influence of the moment, she readily confused values, and so a social call seemed to her as important as a decision affecting the future of her children. For the time being, she was entirely taken up with Elizabeth's law-suit, which she raised to the importance of a battle, implying a touching confidence in her daughter's victory.
Somewhat astonished by the present social success, she could at least assist her daughter's triumph, and being very deferential to public opinion, she congratulated herself on having brought about this social acclaim. There was still justice in the world to laud the innocent and to brand the guilty. Transformed into a heroine, Mme. Derize blushed like a young girl. But women soon grow accustomed to ceremonies: this new importance was perhaps in keeping with divorce, just as it is customary to hurry to the vestry after a marriage, and as one, with a sorrowful air, shakes hands with the relatives upon leaving the church after a funeral. She conformed to this unexpected situation as well as she could, and society approved of her quietness. The "dear child" did not complain, did not blame anyone. Her beauty spoke for her.
Rather tall, with a tendency to fullness of figure, which spoiled somewhat the graceful lines of her shoulder, of her bosom and of her hips, she was wearing a gown and a hat of dark violet, the fitness of the color being favorably commented upon as quite the proper thing for a woman, who, although not in mourning, has known care, sorrow and the cruelty of fate. Her small head was crowned with beautiful, silky blonde hair, naturally curly like a child's, but too tightly drawn back by the comb; her eyes were black, softened by the shade of her hair and contrasting with it, her nose well-shaped, somewhat thin and pointed, her complexion like that of an English woman, her features clear-cut, and with her appearance of good health, and passive virtue, she expressed nothing more than a contented, stunned youthfulness—contented with itself, and stunned by the unexpected complications of a life, which without doubt, she had expected to pass through peacefully, as over a flat road in a comfortable carriage. At twenty-seven, Mme. Derize looked only twenty and always gave the impression of just beginning life.
It would certainly require great kindness or a determining influence on the part of Mme. Passerat to protect this young woman, who possessed all the physical blessings which are the envy of age and which form such an attraction to a certain type of men.
When they saw the pitiless monocle of Philippe Lagier, both Mme. Molay-Norrois and Mme. Derize experienced the same feeling of constraint, and quietly withdrew from the circle of their many voluble admirers. He tried to talk to the younger woman alone and finally succeeded, after countless attempts, just as she was leaving.
"An interview?" she replied to his request, in her high-pitched voice which so soon became annoying and seemed unsuited to serious conversation. "But you are not on our side."
"I have a message which I must give you."
"From whom?"
"From Albert."
"I no longer know him."
This was said in a hard peremptory tone.
"It concerns your children—their custody. Have you lost your confidence in me?"
She could not mistrust his intentions. Either from curiosity or because the past still had a greater hold upon her than even she herself realized, she brusquely consented without further request on his part.
"Very well, in an hour you can find me at my mother's house, at my home—"
And her exit, with her mother as a diligent chaperon on one side, and on the other, her father, who had understood the necessity for giving her his public support, was an apotheosis befitting people of distinction.
This departure relieved the strain. Society, lavish with its compliments and flatteries, must occasionally forsake this state of exaggerated enthusiasm which is rather wearing to all concerned. But it is not for the purpose of regaining the truth. Society sees everything in a distorted fashion and manages so to confuse issues, that after completely justifying its victims to the world, it turns and rends them.
"Do they know her name?" inquired Mme. Bonnard-Basson timidly. She was a wealthy parvenu, whose money had been made in cement, and who was received in society for her wealth, her pleasant ways and her meekness.
"Whose name?"
"Why ... the corespondent's."
"Anne de Sézery": everybody knew it—above all things everybody wished to appear to know it, for it is humiliating to receive information rather than to give it. Somebody named her and everyone agreed with an understanding air. How should they judge her? The title of nobility made them hesitate for a second. Before anyone spoke, a mysterious thought-current, pointing in a definite direction was established. One or another of the women recalled the young girl, formerly proud and independent, who had considered herself beyond all conventions. She had not left a very sympathetic impression behind her. Penniless, reduced to the point of accepting a position as a teacher—yes, as a governess—almost a servant, there was no possible defense for her. She had lost her social position. They made her out to be an adventuress. Those who meet with great obstacles in life and must seek work and recommendations from others easily pass for such. They accused her of wild flirtations,—oh, of course, with the purpose of finding a husband. For she was furious at being an old maid; at thirty-four or thirty-five (they were generous with her) it becomes difficult to marry. This addition to the number of her years, hurled insultingly into the discussion by some unkind gossip, caught the attention of a large part of the company. But no one denied it.
"Thirty-one," corrected Philippe Lagier, simply. "That is adolescence nowadays."
He received several angry glances, and they continued with the story of an English lord, an old rheumatic millionaire with whom she had traveled, but the narrator confused places and dates at will, did not cite her authorities, and depended on a vague suspicion. And during all this gossip, Philippe saw even more distinctly than on the evening before, the beautiful disillusioned face and the sad eyes in which flashed golden lights.
They consulted him as to the future.
"Could she marry him?" inquired, in one breath, Mmes. de Vimelle and Bonnard-Basson, who had become bosom friends since the busy husband of the latter had provided the remunerative position of director for the useless husband of the former.
"Who?"
"M. Albert Derize, of course."
"Madame Derize is merely seeking a separation," someone explained.
"Ah, yes; that is customary—an absurd custom," interjected a young feminist—"One ought to be able to begin life again."
"Many times?"
"As often as necessary."
A former Court Counselor, M. Prémereux, a permanent fixture at Mme. Passerat's receptions, hastened to display his learning:
"Nowadays a separation becomes a divorce after a certain lapse of time."
"Ah, you see," someone exclaimed, "of course she knows all about that."
The Magistrate resumed his explanation:
"Article 298, relating to the statutory grounds for divorce, forbade the guilty party to marry the corespondent, but that has just been repealed."
"She knew it," said one of the women with conviction.
Philippe Lagier, without moving a muscle, added:
"Surely. Nowadays before falling in love, we consult a lawyer."
M. Prémereux, somewhat subdued by his thirty or forty years on the bench, envied him this insolence. The women, not appreciating the irony, attached no importance to this remark, and by a sudden turn of conversation, spoke of the case of Albert Derize. M. Lagier had just been talking in a low tone to the pretty Mme. Derize: was that not already a sort of infidelity? They hoped that he felt a secret passion for her. They foresaw it with that divination which is the attribute of certain hostesses, who are adepts in placing their guests at table, so as to arouse sympathies and provoke emotions, and thus succeed in giving an added brilliance to their receptions. So they spoke in favor of the wife before beginning the chapter concerning the husband. They praised her intelligence more than her beauty, and her resignation more than her youth.
"Now," said Mme. de Vimelle at last, taking the lead in the pursuit—"why, with so many fine qualities that we know of, should she have married a husband of such inferior origin?"
"That's what I say!" agreed Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who was descended from prosperous tradesmen—
Nevertheless they agreed upon some extenuating circumstances.
"He was well-known, a member of the Legion of Honor, almost famous." But an old lady asserted:
"For a writer the Academy is the only thing that counts."
They might have objected on the score of his age, but this was a subject which had already been too much discussed.
"These differences of position between husband and wife!" went on the angular Mme. de Vimelle. "There is nothing more dreadful. That an adventurer and an adventuress should meet and be mutually attracted. Nothing is more natural!"
And to outdo her friend of one season's standing, Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who was naturally servile and sought every opportunity to flatter her, took courage because of her hyphenated name, to add:
"Say what you will; only the old-established families know how to avoid scandals."
She was forgetting the rôle that the Sézery family had played in the history of Dauphiné, notably in the religious wars in which they had taken part with Lesdiguières. But logic is not a factor in social gossip.
Philippe Lagier had borne all these attacks with difficulty. To be silent was to approve of them, and how could he answer everyone at once? The women's principal argument he well knew concerned the humble birth of Albert Derize, but to him this seemed the most preposterous of all, for one had but to enter the house of the elder Mme. Derize to be surrounded at once by the atmosphere of order, work, honor and moral strength that had formed his past—but to realize this one must be worthy of appreciating distinction of mind and character.
"Have you read the second volume of the 'History of the Peasant?" he asked, in order to reënter the conversation. "One might apply to the author the epigram of Mme. de Staël concerning our compatriot Monnier, whom she found 'passionately sensible.'"
"Passionately," echoed one of the women insinuatingly.
"It is glowing and accurate. It has had great success and has been translated into every language, like his 'History of the Workman.'"
Mme. Passerat interrupted:
"We are not questioning his talent."
"The Duchess of Béard who is very clever, uses it as her prayer book. M. and Mme. Derize used to dine with her."
"He knows how to plead," thought Counselor Prémereux.
"The Béards are one of the great families of France and one of the oldest. But how do we distinguish the great families nowadays? Not always by titles; that would be a great mistake. They are known by their traditions of honor and of gentleness. And it is exactly that which one meets while in the home of the Derizes."
This daring was answered by a chorus of protest:
"You are M. Derize's friend!"
"His lawyer!"
"You are defending him!"
"That is your profession!"
Mme. de Vimelle, her nose as sharp as a razor blade, had given vent to this last answer.
"At your service," replied Philippe. "But who is there that does not need to be defended?"
And he took advantage of the movement toward the refreshments to take his leave. M. Prémereux rejoined him on the staircase.
"I fear you have made some enemies," suggested the prudent counselor.
The barrister, who had been amused by the fencing match smiled complacently:
"That is preferable to women's indifference." To prolong the conversation he added:
"I will go with you as far as the Place Grenette." And he immediately resumed:
"Why this haste in judging? They praise one, crush another without understanding even the underlying principles of debate."
"That all comes from Mme. Derize's call," explained M. Prémereux. "Nothing more is necessary to focus their criticism."
They reached the City Park, the shade of which, after the sunny roads, brought them a breath of cool air. It is a little park like those of England, where the trees, young elms and plane trees, mingle their branches above the damp green lawns. A black swan with a red beak was swimming on a little pond to reach the tiny island where his little house was built. Water could be heard trickling from a fountain. An avenue of lime trees in flower shed their intoxicating scent like a fine dust. At this warm hour of the day, the garden was a refuge of peace, softness and sweet reveries.
The counselor took off his hat to enjoy this pleasant sensation, but Philippe Lagier resisted these natural influences.
"No," said he, without removing his hat, "I will tell you what shocks society. It is when one presumes to ignore it."
"You are right," agreed the old judge. But Philippe did not hear him.
"Just think: to hold as worthless the prejudices of public opinion and the art of reconciling duty and pleasure. So the world detests every emotion that is sincere. What can they think of Mme. Passerat who finds a means of having two husbands—one for his money, and the other to be in the style."
"For heaven's sake, be quiet. I dine with her every Saturday and her cuisine is the very best in Grenoble."
"Or that stout Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who from sheer snobbishness is on the lookout for a titled lover."
"That is the way commerce renders homage to aristocracy."
"Or that crabbed Mme. de Vimelle who knows it, and makes use of her knowledge to further the good of her family."
"She is a good manager."
"That is, without taking into account all that we don't know."
With an indulgent, disillusioned air, the old man soothed his companion.
"You are irritable. The hardest thing in life is to accept one's fate. Everyone envies the lot of everyone else, and seeks to ameliorate his own by complicating it. This is a great source of error. What we need is a little philosophy and a few concessions; to offset our curiosity and greed by the cultivation of some of those harmless tastes which broaden our horizon without harming other people; that is to say: art, reading, travel, good food, conversation, even dissipation, or rather a little prodigality, a daily task, children to bring up! That will satisfy the most unreasonable or the most ambitious. As to passion, it is certainly detestable. It moves about in our civilized land like a blind man in a drawing-room full of knick-knacks, and it should be put out of the house. Added to that, it does not bring happiness even to the simpletons who hope to get it that way."
"It is not happiness they seek in passion."
"What then?"
"Intensity of living."
M. Prémereux looked at him as at a curiosity from a museum.
"You are young—"
"They told me that only to-day."
"Your eyes are not yet open."
"Mine?" said Philippe, surprised and piqued; he prided himself on never being deceived.
"Yes, yours. In order to judge, one must not be concerned in the trial, and you are constantly summoning yourself to appear when you make your own estimates. But never mind, the greater part of mankind open their eyes only once."
"Only once?"
"Yes—at death—and then they are quickly shut."