* * *Spring had just begun when she asked me to allow her to return to the Sleeping Woods. I opposed it on account of the lack of comfort and the cold. But Paris did not agree with her, and she was gradually losing weight alarmingly. At last I consented, as I recognised vaguely my wrongs against her, to make the sacrifice, for such indeed it was for me, to bury myself in “the desert” of Madame Mairieux.For the past few years we had spent very little time there, because I enjoyed travelling constantly to new places, while Raymonde found pleasure in the associations of spots she knew and loved. At my request we always left the baby in charge of her grandparents.“I’ll go with you,” I said heroically after much hesitation, as she suggested that she should go alone and that I should remain in Paris. However, I insisted that I should go too, and during the journey I dwelt on my heroism all the way.It was pouring, when we arrived.“One of the joys of the country,” I muttered bitterly.But it was Raymonde’s own beloved land. She smilingly greeted all her favourite trees; I believe she even loved the rain that was sent to nourish them.M. Mairieux scanned his daughter critically, and I could see that he was worried by her altered appearance. He glanced from her to me, and I read in his face that he held me responsible for the change. Without a word he convicted me. Without a word of explanation he understood the drama that was in progress. Raymonde herself would have died rather than complain to him.Mme. Mairieux, on the other hand, was enthusiastic about my wife’s appearance.“Of course she has grown a little thinner, but it is fashionable nowadays to be slender,” was her characteristic remark.For the first few days after our arrival, the rain kept up incessantly. Unable to leave the house, I went from room to room, turning over my regrets and boredom. In spite of my persistent contrariness Raymonde seemed born again. Only to see the trees against the grey horizon, leaning against the window, gave her pleasure.Once more she could enjoy her beautiful allées. They were covered with weeds and almost blended with the mossy carpet of the woods, through which they continued their humble paths of light in every direction. Dilette was as yet unable to distinguish one tree from another, but her mother had taught her to shake her hand to people who offered her a greeting, and one day when we were out walking in the woods, imagining that the stirring branches were nodding to her, she waved her little hand in answer to the politeness of the trees.We again began our long promenades. Soon we left the child with her governess, that we might bury ourselves deeper in the woods. About us were all the old peaceful surroundings. The Green Fountain, cleared of the dead leaves which obstructed it in the winter time, reflected in its surface all the tranquil beauty of its remote corner of the wood. If we had but leaned over its cool, transparent water, our faces would have touched as on that other day when our horses stopped to drink. But nothing seemed the same to her or to me.I confused this calm with ennui. I did not know how to find happiness in the repetition of these ordinary experiences. I needed constant change of environment and new stimulation. To me life was tiresome if every day did not bring with it an interesting social function or some novel impression. The restless spirit of Paris is contagious. To be constantly active was an absolute necessity for me, and I found the dull family life to which I was condemned vapid and uninteresting.To Raymonde, on the other hand, even despite the disillusioning conditions, this return to the country with me was, as it were, a halt on her road to Calvary. It brought soothing peace and comfort to her to know that she was not obliged to see people in whom she took no interest, to go to places merely to be seen. She was no doubt continuing to hope for a renewal of the beautiful memories of our engagement and of the blessed peace of the early days of our marriage, even though she knew that they could never be revived. Inspired by the choir of nature which she loved, the living beauty of her native soil in which our first tender thoughts and the awakening of our love had taken root, she awaited her fate, like the daughter of Jephthah, surrounded in her mountain retreat by the maidens of Israel, those faithful followers who for two months tried to stay the hand of death, “after which her father did with her according to his vow which he had vowed.” Raymonde, too, was waiting in that saddened state of mind that is hardly painful and has its secret charm.* * *I soon began to take long automobile rides. Our walks in the forest had become silent and dull. Perhaps I was unknowingly kinder in not accompanying her to the places where our love had blossomed.* * *At the Sleeping Woods she wore “little dresses,” as Pierre Ducal would have called them. She generally selected white, which was most becoming to her. Her taste in clothes, although simple and inexpensive, was exquisite, though my ultra-fashionable ideas would have dictated more elaborate gowns. After all, the test of good taste is in being fittingly attired, and she understood it better than I.* * *One day, as I was returning from a long ride, I met her on the road. It was early morning, when one’s age cannot be successfully hidden. That is why age scarcely exists in large cities, since the season and hours of our life are not clearly defined there.“Where are you going?” I asked, struck anew by her youthful beauty.My sudden interest surprised her, but she did not know that it was prompted by appreciation of her appearance rather than real interest in her destination.“I am going to take this package to Fannette,” she replied, blushing with pleasure.“The peasant with the chapped hands?” I asked, astonished at my own recollection.“Yes. She is very ill; I have some medicine for her.”“Would you care to have me go with you?”“Indeed I should,” she answered eagerly.How very gently she spoke to me!On our way home, she suggested that we take a longer but less sunny road. I reluctantly agreed, having already regretted my condescension in going so far with her.“We’ll take your path,” I said, “we will go more rapidly.”A long silence followed my remark, silence difficult to break after it had lasted some time.We walked on, not exchanging a word, and came to a little house in the woods, the home of a peasant and his family. At the door stood a young woman on whose face shone the happiness of motherhood. In her arms she carried a blond rosy cherub, about her were two, three, four, five little tots, rising like steps, each one just a head taller than his next younger brother or sister. The whole family was watching and pointing, and we heard their loud exclamation and outburst of happy laughter, as a man with his scythe over his shoulder came down the path toward me. When he neared the little group, he waved and called out his greeting, with a voice that sounded like a deep-toned bell. He had been harvesting, and the honest sweat of hard toil trickled down his cheeks, but he forgot his tiring labour in the joy of home-coming, in his return as father of a family to his mid-day meal.Raymonde stopped a moment.“Look,” she said to me.The radiant faces and the evident contentment were indeed a perfect picture of rustic life and the happiness of simplicity.“Yes,” I replied, “the scene recalls a Dutch masterpiece. But see how many children there are.”“They are so pretty, especially the youngest with his blond curls.”“Oh, but there are too many of them,” I repeated. She did not reply. I walked on, not caring to witness the demonstration with which the father would be greeted. That sort of affection did not appeal to me. I understood only the so-called higher type of love. As Raymonde did not follow, I turned around and saw her intently watching that scene from a life which she appreciated and craved but had been denied. All the tenderness and yearning of her womanhood were aroused; she could not keep back the tears.Instead of silently entering into her feeling, without useless words, I said impatiently:“What is the matter with you, Raymonde? Come, that is absurd.”In reality I knew the deep causes of her emotion. With miraculous intuition, had she not foreseen this, when she told her father that although she loved me I was not the husband for her? Although she was very ingenuous and ignorant of the degree of my unworthiness, yet she presaged our incompatibility, if not my injustice.She calmed herself with an heroic effort.“It is foolish of me,” she agreed. “They are so happy that I was deeply touched.”“And we?” I demanded mechanically.My question forced her to choose between a weak expression of self-pity or a bolder attempt to conceal her feelings by lying to me.“Yes, indeed, we too are happy,” she said in a voice bravely simulating the truth.At the gate we met M. Mairieux. Raymonde hastened to tell him where we had been. Somewhat astonished to see us together, he gazed at us attentively. The least favourable sign of happiness on his daughter’s face reflected itself on his own. He understood her expression so thoroughly that he was not to be deceived by appearances.From her open window Mme. Mairieux caught sight of us.“Ah! there are the lovers,” she cried.* * *I suggested to Raymonde that we make a little journey. The closer intimacy of travel helps sometimes to heal the distress of hearts that have been worn by concealed and daily irritations. Did I hope myself that she would refuse? My project was to return to Paris for a week or two, and then move on to some fashionable watering place. Although the season was already advanced (it was the beginning of July) some affairs were still taking place in the Bois de Boulogne and at Saint-Cloud. One noticed foreigners in attendance especially, and I liked their imaginative novelty and prestige.Whether she accepted the idea of living away from me in order the better to protect her threatened love from me, or whether her already weakened condition would no longer permit her to travel, I do not know; at any rate she refused to accompany me.“You are right to go,” she added. “The Sleeping Woods are lonely for your tastes. And as for me, I am so tired—you must let me rest a little. I will rejoin you shortly, as soon as I am able.”She no longer believed herself capable of detaching me so completely from all my accustomed ways of living. Her confidence in herself was dead, but her confidence in me, fashioned by her love, was more slow in yielding. My departure would be almost a relief. I believe that I should have tormented her more by remaining with her than by going. Our cruelty grows quickly when its victim never complains of the blows.Through the glass windows of Armenonville, in pleasant company, I saw again the decorative beauty of long allées filled with leisurely strolling people. This sort of thing was better suited to my state of mind. When we ourselves are arid, uninhabited nature vexes us; as a servant of our social pleasures, it becomes endurable.From Paris I went in pursuit of it in fashionable resorts. Mme. de Saunois had gone off to the Engadine, and I installed myself at Waldhaus, near the lake of Sylvaplana, at the opening of the Fex valley. Raymonde, either in better health or more anxious, offered to join me. I evaded summoning her on the pretext of an immediate return, which I put off time after time. I was determined to ramble about, I was running after adventures for which I required my liberty. How was she, in her ignorance, to suspect them?Excursions were gotten up, romantic pilgrimages to Nietzsche’s house or in memory of the painter Segantini, who died on the mountain above the Maloja. I had come a long way in search of artificial emotions such as one meets with in the theatre and drawing-rooms. Except that in having them one breathed a healthier air, there was no change.I had scorned the Sleeping Woods and Sylve-Benite, the black fish-pond bordered with reeds, the sunken roads, the ravines, the hills, all the peace that was offered within the reach of one’s hand; I had to have movement.When at last I decided to return, thinking of the loyal waiting of my Penelope, but more and more averse to and disgusted with regular and thoughtful life—though it is the kind by which alone one can improve and watchfully perfect oneself—the only danger being lest one fall asleep—I was not slow to be bored.* * *We returned to Paris very early. Raymonde, although the prolongation of our stay in the country had benefited her health, as far as her overworked heart was concerned, did not object to my haste. But she gave every evidence of being unable to go about as much as during the previous winter.“A little later in the season,” she said, “I shall go everywhere with you again.”I proposed an arrangement which was very satisfactory to me.“Let each of us be free,” I said, “each go to the places he likes.”“I shall not go out at all for the present, if you are satisfied.”“Let each of us be free:” what a convenient formula to regain one’s independence by! I was so blinded that I saw no traces yet of her growing weakness.In society I renewed my acquaintance with Mme. de H—, whom I had met at the Waldhaus, dressed in black, mourning for the shade of Nietzsche. Her husband had died a few months before of a mysterious and rapid illness. A court surrounded her, praising “The Open Garden” and newer poems on the horror of death. Her charm in my eyes withered in one evening like a full blown rose, and I can hardly to-day analyse it or explain my servitude. I must, however, try to do so if I am to make myself understood.The first time I met her was at Mme. de Saunois’ reception, when she had appeared in the salon after we had listened to a song by Henry Duparc called “An Invitation to a Journey.” The music added to Baudelaire’s words a neurasthenic morbidness. That nonchalance, that nervous fatigue, was as if embodied in her. One felt that she was ready for audacious departures. She was in a word the Invitation. Like vessels anchored in a port, she gave promise of new sensations in other countries whose fruits were more savoury or more sour. Their battered sides, hung with the barnacles and weeds of previous journeys, give evidence of adventure. And as the almost imperceptible movement of the ship in quiet waters suggests its tossing in the open sea, so too when Mme. de H— crossed a salon she set in motion a wave of sensual appeal. Her affectation, her make-up, her poems, all were marks of a dark and stormy past. One conjectured healed wounds and suspected venturesome risks. She had lived through many a perilous moment and had not remained unscathed. Beauty which is no longer unblemished, and dead youth which adorns itself as if it sought in advance to defy time by substituting artificial for natural attractions, are like the witchcraft of ancient sorcery, whose philtres were like perfumes, stronger than the fading flowers of which they were made—stronger because they were beginning to become tainted....I had been guilty of infidelities before, but this last summed up for me all the contaminated seduction of primitive passion, passion to which our civilisation had added one thing more—a taste for flesh that is “high.”—* * *I had forgotten that Raymonde spent part of almost every day in the Bois with Dilette, among the pine trees around the little pond of St. James, near the Bagatelle. It is an open playground where the mothers and nurses bring their little charges, whom they can watch from a distance during their games of hide and seek.The Autumn sun was so inviting that Mme. de H— suggested a walk in the Bois before returning to the automobile waiting at the side of one of the roads for us. We were sauntering along when suddenly we came upon my wife and Dilette.The fact of my being seen publicly with a lady of her calibre in a frequented place need not of necessity have aroused suspicion. Was it that the mere presence of one perfectly right and loyal creature threw out falsehood and irregularity? We were often seen together—why should we now appear so at fault? Until now Raymonde had no inkling of anything between us Now the trembling of her lips a moment alarmed me. In the Sleeping Woods how could she have learned that one must control one’s self in public? I feared everything from her provincial education, lest it cause her to indulge ill-founded jealousy. Yet was not our sudden instinctive halt at sight of her unmistakable admission?I was soon reassured. Everything happened in the best possible manner. I asked her, I dared to invite her, to join us in the automobile, impudently; but was it not necessary to set her doubts at rest?“No,” she said, “I shall stay with Dilette.”“Are you not afraid it is too cold?”“The sun is strong, we have our furs.”“Well, then, we shall leave you. Shall I send the machine back for you?”“Yes, if you will, in about an hour.”During this brief colloquy, my little girl was running toward me. Her little three-year-old legs could not trot very quickly. She was already a reflective person.“Oh!” she said, seeing me, and seemed to be astonished, “there is papa.”She looked indeed like an exquisite little miniature in her little white hat and coat. Why had I never before noticed the charm of her wonderful colouring, her clear blue eyes and blond curls? Mme. de H—, responsive to every phase of beauty, stooped to talk to the child and was about to embrace her, but when Raymonde saw those painted lips so near the pure forehead of her little girl she quickly pulled Dilette toward her, and the kiss fell on the child’s curls.Mme. de H— drew herself to her full height and looked fixedly at her, as at one whom she recognised to be inimical. My wife turned her head. One would have thought it an involuntary gesture. What importance is there in kissing a child? We said good-bye, and I went on my way with Mme. de H—.When we had gone some distance, Mme. de H— broke the silence.“She knows.”I scoffed at so absurd a supposition. Mme. de H— made no attempt to substantiate her conviction, but insisted authoritatively (with that marvellous voice of hers, which is one of her best weapons) that she was positive of it.“She knows, but will never speak of it,” she added.And I knew that my contradiction was only verbal. Deep in my own consciousness, I felt the truth, and in my imagination I pictured Raymonde sitting motionless as she watched me disappear with Mme. de H—, Dilette holding her hand, but not understanding her mother’s silence. She was thinking of another couple who walked under the trees at the Sleeping Woods and exchanged vows of everlasting faithfulness.We found my machine. Before she stepped in, Mme. de H— turned to me, and asked briskly:“Are you thinking of her?”Instead of answering, I put another question:“And you?”“I think only of myself.”Then she added:“And of thee.”But very soon after, her intimacy with me was to come to an end.* * *Several days after this, Raymonde timidly informed me that she had decided to accept every invitation in the future. I had been going about alone ever since I returned from the country. I objected that her health would not permit her to keep late hours, and besides that she had no taste for social functions. She insisted with an unexpected resolution, and I began to tease her about it:“Why this sudden interest in society? People have grown quite accustomed to seeing me go about alone.”“I am very anxious,” she said sweetly, “that they should expect to see me wherever they see you.”I was at a loss to understand why she had suddenly determined to give up the solitude which she so much enjoyed, but I now know that she considered herself partly responsible for my intimacy with Mme. de H—; she felt that if she had tried to share my pleasures she might have been able to hold my interest. Her resolution was no doubt the result of some analysis and introspection, and she announced it to me after coming home from church, where she had gone to pray to God for courage to carry it out, even though it were to cost her all her rapidly declining strength.And so she began to show again to the world her reserve and reticence.* * *I tactfully tried to avoid accepting invitations to houses where I was sure to meet Mme. de H—, who, realising my attitude, reproached me for what she did not hesitate to call my cowardice.Humiliated by her scorn, and having no defence to offer, I agreed to go to a reception at the salon of Mme. de Saunois, who seemed destined to play an important part in our life drama, for it was through her that I had met Mme. de H—, three or four years before.If Raymonde had been absolutely indifferent to me, I should not have felt so uneasy about the meeting. Her quiet sweetness sometimes soothed me when we were at home alone. Why did she not remain there, instead of going out into society with me, why did she not preserve that peace there for me when I was to feel the need of it? Our varied feelings and thoughts often make us appear inconsistent, yet one state of mind does not necessarily preclude its opposite. They may coexist, and indeed if they do not, we seldom reach our highest development. Yet when circumstances compel a choice and a sacrifice of the one or the other, we rebel against the hardship of a deprivation which our selfishness and egotism alone could never have prompted.I was in a state of anxiety, during the whole day preceding that inevitable meeting, and was ready to start much earlier than was necessary. Impatient, I went into Raymonde’s room to see if she were waiting for me. She looked very beautiful that night, in a white tulle gown embroidered in gold flowers, and I complimented her on it. The decolletage, bordered with swan’s down, gave her added length and grace: her neck was so small a child could have clasped his two hands round it—so fragile she seemed.“Are you ready?” I asked. “It’s time to go.”My impatience, indeed my very presence, seemed to disconcert her.“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said.“Very well,” I replied, “do hurry: you’ll find me in the library.”In her hand she held a lip stick. On the dressing table before her was a box of powder and rouge.She had never used artificial means of beautifying herself. She was hesitating. No doubt I had disturbed her.When she joined me a few minutes later, I mechanically looked at her face for traces of the make-up. She was so pale, so particularly pale, that I understood the shame she had felt, but neither her lips nor her cheeks showed the slightest sign of artificial colour. She had tried to imitate the other women, to make herself unreal with colour and false emotion, but at the last moment she had found it impossible. She could bear no artificiality.As soon as we entered the salon, I looked about quickly, only to find that Mme. de H— had not arrived.Why did I torture myself about this meeting, when I knew that my wife went out too seldom to hear any reports that were being circulated? She had indeed shown me an anonymous letter which had been sent to her, and I felt confident that she was above opening my correspondence. How then could she have gotten information? And as for the incident in the Bois—she had never alluded to it again, and surely it was too insignificant to lead to anything. At the worst she might have thought it indicated a mild flirtation or a passing fancy. One does not court public attention with a mistress. In this way I tried to reassure myself. As a defence against hypocrisy and infidelity, Raymonde had as a weapon only that imponderable frankness and sincerity which she radiated always. When I looked elsewhere I believed she was calm, but not so if I glanced at her face.“I am very glad to welcome you again,” was Mme. de Saunois’ greeting to Raymonde. “How very well you are looking!”These stereotyped phrases, expected of her as the hostess, were spoken at random; as a matter of fact, Raymonde had never looked so delicate and pale. In fear and trembling she looked about the room. Pierre Ducal was there. After an absence of several months, he had come back; his old interests had reasserted themselves. At first he had been missed, but his return did not cause much of a stir. How many attempts one makes, how many backward steps one takes, before one can give up society! It seems we are the slaves of habits from which we cannot break ourselves. We often prefer them to the ideals of our better nature, ideals that might lead us to undreamed heights. It took a long time and very deep suffering for me to realise the nothingness of social life. We could not avoid Ducal. Mme. de Saunois had been speaking to him, and when she came to greet some new arrivals we were brought face to face. He bowed respectfully to my wife, without saying a word, while she, conquering her feelings, extended her hand to him.That action on her part was an expression of her tenderness for me and of her complete self-immolation, and yet, at the same time, it affected me disagreeably, because it caused me to admire her magnanimity when I knew that I myself was still disloyal. I greeted my old friend cordially, but he only bowed to me. I was for a moment jealous of the forgiveness he had received. Would he not thus recover his wounded pride if, as every indication led me to believe, he had loved and still loved her?But this feeling gave way to one of interest as I saw Mme. de H— enter the room with a train of admirers. She stopped short a few steps from us and continued her conversation in a loud tone of voice. Nothing could have been more vulgar than that apparently accidental but carefully planned halt.She was possibly the only person in the room who was talking, for all other conversations ceased, as people observed the direction she was taking. No doubt an interesting scene was expected, of which no one wanted to lose the slightest detail. My private life was not a secret, in a world where every one knows every one’s else remissness and finds self-justification in it, or, if necessary, material for revenge. But why did Mme. de H— seek a demonstration which might so easily have been avoided? Accustomed to publicity, and having won great popularity, she had every possible advantage over Raymonde, whose timidity, interpreted as disdain, had not made her a favourite. But in that salon, as when hunting in a forest, one lay in wait for death and inhaled an odour of blood.I was standing behind my wife, and a change of position would have meant coming very close to Mme. de H—, whose manœuvres completely non-plussed me. It was very evident that she intended to make no advance to Raymonde, who, paralysed with fear, had become so pale that she kept up only with difficulty. She was exposed to public gaze like the little Christian martyrs of old, exhibited in full view before they were thrown to the wild beasts at the Coliseum. And I read contempt for me in the eyes of Pierre Ducal, who stood looking at me.As soon as Raymonde gained her self-control she stepped forward and heroically extended her hand to Mme. de H—. As she did so, the picture of it all impressed itself on my mind: her beautiful profile looked like an alabaster bas-relief of a saint, with a halo about her head. But this fleeting image quickly faded from my mind in the contemplation of the simplicity of the situation which I had feared would be so complex.“She knows nothing,” I assured myself, “how could she know? One always unnecessarily exaggerates the importance of things which do not happen and never will. It is a vicious habit to worry.”On the other hand one often minimises the import of incidents, as was the case with me in this instance, because I could not understand the magnanimity of which my wife was capable. We are prone to forget bullets which have missed their mark, and, their danger once averted, promptly disregard their deadly power.A concert was to be given during this evening of which I am writing. Mme. de H—, who was playing a game which I did not understand, invited me to a chair which she had reserved for me. No one seemed to take any notice of this fact, for other dramas, some suspected and others definitely known, had absorbed the general attention.I remained with her even during the intermission, while my wife sat alone several feet away.“Now that she has forgiven Ducal, he will surely go and talk to her,” I thought; and I even hoped that he would, in order that she might not appear so completely ignored.But Ducal did not approach her. Withheld by his respect for her, he did not presume that her pardon gave him the right to address her. And he left without a word to her. What a lesson it was for me to realise that her divine forgiveness had converted the heart of so hard a cynic as Pierre Ducal.When we returned home, I, with my consummate egotism, desired most condescendingly to express my approval of her conduct. Had she not behaved well? And I, I was very much relieved and indeed happy, and yet I could not bring myself to tell her what I had planned, for I read an expression in her eyes which seemed to say:“Are you not satisfied with me this time? Have I not done my duty, every duty, more than my duty? I offered my hand in forgiveness to your friend who insulted me, and to the woman who took you from me and then scoffed me. But my suffering has not wrung a cry from me. I am silent, for I am your wife. My love for you and my baby Dilette binds us indissolubly, with you—how have you kept your vow?”For one brief moment, I was tempted to draw her to me and to confess my infidelity. She would have pardoned me, I am sure that she would have forgiven me. Her virtue seemed to purge the atmosphere of my lies and insincerities. But I quickly rejected that unreasonable exaltation. Such heroism on my part would have been absurd. I thought she could have no suspicion of my intimacy with Mme. de H— because she had seen us once on the Bois. She had not been a heroine. I overestimated her conduct, for she had no doubt reached the simple conclusion that she had exaggerated the importance of Pierre Ducal’s declaration; and as for Mme. de H— well, she merely thought that the woman piqued my curiosity. Why needlessly complicate matters? The dreaded meeting had passed off uneventfully. Why consider the subject further?* * *I was not slow in understanding the object of Mme. de H—, who now began to affect being seen in public with me. Did she not make bold to recite a poem in which allusions were pointed and ill concealed? Our modern poets express their confidences in precise terms, not general themes. She would have liked to cause some scandal, to force Raymonde to seek a separation. All such women as she extol free love, and with an eye to the practical side as well know how to secure social advantage from it all; though once they have it they exhibit marvellous executive ability in preventing their passion from running away with them.Growing paler and paler, more and more silent, Raymonde still accompanied me everywhere. Her preoccupied air re-established between us those distances which indelicacy thought to have wiped out. I was being apprenticed in that cruelty which Mme. de H— practised with so much ease, the cruelty which love exacts the moment it ceases to grow in the clear light of day. I might have feared the softening effect of Raymonde’s tears, but she never let me see them. I saw her pine away, but I did not believe my eyes. I saw her suffer, and told myself that she did not know. Why should she, I asked, think evil of these flirtations and preferences that are now so notorious in society, which every one sanctions? Thus one grows accustomed to his misdemeanours, if nothing happens to expose them.Once, however, as we were going out, I saw her face contract as if through the effort of overcoming some internal pain.“You are tired,” I said. “Don’t go.”“Oh, no, not at all. I am quite able to go.”“Please lie down awhile now. It will be better for you.”“I shall take a rest soon.”“To-night?”“No, not to-night:—not yet.”“You like going out, then?”“I like going with you.”I could not prevail upon her to stay behind. I offered to let her return to the Sleeping Woods. She might regain her health and strength there. At the name she smiled, a thing she did seldom enough now, but still she refused.“I do not care to leave you,” she said.“That is stubbornness.”She turned away. “Oh, no, it is not, I assure you.”There was only one thing for me to say: “Let us stay at home to-night, then.” I did not say it, although I was tempted to. The germ of evil had been sown in me, and my crime was working out naturally, almost of itself. When one has sown the seeds and covered them well, does not grain grow in the fields? The bad grain in our hearts is still more prompt to spring up.Nevertheless, I was irritated with myself. My discontent gave me a sort of fever, a need of activity and distraction, added to my taste for society and the wicked fascinations of Mme. de H—. What loyalty and wholesome tenderness remained in me thus took sides, while it disturbed me, with my basest instincts, to push me the faster toward the abyss. Only some miraculous intervention could have saved me. Raymonde, who knew it, after having tried suffering in vain, gave her life that the miracle might come to pass.* * *On our return that evening, she sank down on a divan in the vestibule and had to admit that she was defeated.“I cannot stir. I’m sorry.”She had to be carried to her room and put to bed, and wrapped in warm clothes to stimulate her circulation. Her feet and hands were fairly frozen; the slackened course of her blood was quickened only with great difficulty.After the perplexing and alarming diagnosis of the nearest physician, whom I had sent for in the night, I called in Dr. Aynaud, whose authority is universally admitted. He could not come until six o’clock that evening, but as soon as he was announced I felt reassured. An illness without cause or first stages, without definite symptoms, which had not prevented the patient from attending a function the night before, could not be extremely dangerous. I explained things to the doctor in a few words. He made the gesture of a man who trusts only his own examination, and I led him to Raymonde’s room. After the auscultation, he proceeded to investigation and minute questioning. My wife lent herself to it complaisantly, and added nothing herself when the doctor’s questions ceased.“You do not ask my opinion?” he queried.“What is the good?” she replied, preoccupied.Still more surprised, he hesitated, then said:“I see. You think it isn’t serious, eh?”“If you like.”“Come, come! A change of air, and everything will be all right.”She repeated pensively:“A change of air.”I led the doctor into my study.“You understood?” he said at once.“That it isn’t serious?”Whether he acted in accordance with his temperament, little inclined to dissimulate no matter how serious a case might be, whether the evidence seemed to him glaring, or whether in his clear-sightedness he realised that I was responsible, he hurled his opinion in my face, without warning of any kind.“She is lost.”When one is accustomed only to conversations velvety with politeness even if they are savage at bottom, such brutal statements are disconcerting; one does not allow them or believe in them, one considers them declamatory. In society no one is flat-footed, with love or truth or death. One turns carefully aside from such lack of taste or tactless language as the doctor’s.Quite calmly I let him know my incredulity.“Come, come, then, what is her trouble?” I asked.“Her trouble? She hasn’t any.”“What is the matter then?”“If she had any, I should know how to treat her. I find nothing, and I can do nothing. She has reached the end of her forces, she is exhausted. Her heart and arteries do not perform their functions properly. They may stop at any moment. In any case, they will not act much longer. It is the same with her as with very old people sometimes; the oil is dry, the wick is burned out.”“At her age? You are joking, doctor.”“At her age, yes, it is surprising. I have met similar cases among the working people in the hospitals, from too early or badly cared-for maternity, or from too long uninterrupted manual labour and lack of hygiene.”“But none of those things can be the case with Mme. Cernay.”Before making his point definite, the doctor seemed to stop and meditate.“Moral suffering, continued unrest and complete lack of mental repose, can produce a similar result,” he ended by telling me. “The slow wasting away which one sometimes finds with unhappiness requires a highly wrought sensibility. But that realm is closed to my investigation.”And, stopping short, he wrote a prescription; he advised the quiet of the country, talked of the unexpected reserves of her youth, mitigated at a rather late hour the severity of his verdict, promised to return, and took his leave.As soon as he had gone, my spirit began to rebel against him. His inability to define Raymonde’s illness drove him to exaggerate it. He was falling back on those old-fashioned methods that attribute all our ills to internal rather than external causes. I sent a telegram after him, asking him to call in consultation a certain specialist whose name had been made famous by the enthusiasm of a social clientèle.It was important to reassure Raymonde absolutely, I thought. Before rejoining her, I considered some means to this end. We had been asked to Mme. de Saunois’ that very evening: I would go, so that she might not think I was hiding anything. Yet the hope of meeting Mme. de H— there, was not that something hidden?As I reached this decision, I heard echoing like a refrain, the hard words of Dr. Aynaud: “She is lost.” I recoiled from them. In order to overcome my scruples, I reviewed all the reassuring symptoms—the doctor’s final words, which had been less positive and less despondent, Raymonde’s youth, her health, and our long walks in the old days, the absence of any definite malady, especially the benefit that might be gained from improvement in her mental condition.Gaining some courage at last, I went to her room, and, composing myself, proceeded to endow the doctor with optimistic opinions that he had not held. It was a question of diet, rest and departure for the Sleeping Woods, as soon as the season would permit, I said. As I spoke, she looked at me as she had looked the day that I found fault with her for repulsing Pierre Ducal. Her eyes troubled me in the same way. The light tone I had adopted rang false, she knew. Ill as she was I was provoked at her for pointing out my own hypocrisy by the sheer limpidity of her eyes.“Don’t be afraid,” I went on. “The nurse is here. I’ll bring her in before I leave. You will have a quiet night.”“You are going out?”“Certainly. Why shouldn’t I? You are not so ill as all that.”“Truly?”“Of course. You can see that from my going out. I’ll see you in the morning, dear.”But on the doorstep, that “truly” lost its questioning meaning. Sheknew, as she had always known, as she knew at the Sleeping Woods, that my love was not bringing her happiness, as she knew, without proof, without any need of proof, that I was betraying her. Her “truly” meant: “The end will soon come, and you cannot even stay with me. Am I already of so little importance?” It found no fault; it simply stated a fact. And how should I get on in the future without tormenting her? I hurried down the steps to drive away this mingled vision of cruelty and remorse.“No, no,” I said, to encourage myself, “it is impossible. I am exaggerating. Sickness does not develop so quickly. This Dr. Aynaud has upset me by his stupid brutality.”Was it a fact then? Those pale and meagre cheeks, those dominating eyes, which dark rings made larger as a halo magnifies a light, that sad and suffering look in them that not even habit could accustom me to—was I to be deprived of them? A sense of danger suddenly gave me sympathy for her. Was I to lose her?I reached Mme. de Saunois’ at last in a state of extreme nervous tension, such as a tired and horrified army must feel within a conquered city. I craved, to benumb me, the excitement of music and brilliant lights, the flash of jewels, the beauty of women and their glistening lips, the suggestiveness in those attitudes by which the present fashions submit our women’s bodies to our curious gaze. I longed for all this intoxication of the eyes, this brilliancy that should dispel that darker picture from my mind. Let all those things greet me and I should be relieved of a great weight! Already I discounted this relief as I was taking off my overcoat in the vestibule, and entered, ready for my intoxication.Yes, everything I sought was there. It was hot: it was the atmosphere of unalloyed pleasure: there were flowers and numerous lamps and that special offering of flesh that women’s dress sets out like baskets of rich fruit. People were talking, laughing, moving about, enjoying each moment. Is not a salon a guarded place without an opening on the outside world, with no doors leading to the past or present, where one forgets, where one goes in order to forget? It is the price one pays for tastes of happiness.Mme. de H—, who was watching for me, glided toward me and took me in her wake, making off with me like a vessel that puts out to sea with sealed orders.Yes, everything was there to offer me distraction, and yet, that night, I gained nothing of the sort. I was cold, and could not warm myself. In the midst of so many colours my eyes saw nothing but the shadows on all the faces under those lights. On that of Mme. de H—, nearer at hand, in spite of the rouge, the powder, the smile, the forced joy, I saw distinctly, the definite pallor of death: not that death which suddenly suspends our motion and hurries us into the unknown, but that death of emptiness that is covered with gilded superficiality, with emptiness of false compliments and lying declarations and hypocritical enthusiasms, emptiness of petty hates, of affections limited by desires and desire that finds only limit in caresses, emptiness of wit, of artifice and passion, emptiness even of our restlessness and pride; that death and emptiness, in a word, of everything that is not the print of solitude and immortality.And just as death was there everywhere about me in that salon, many-sided and invisible, life had fled for refuge yonder in that room where Raymonde waited for me to return. She was not resting; she was only waiting for me, I told myself. When I should enter, she would lift her arms from the bed, and in her open palms would be security and peace and love. Around her head would shine that halo which I had already seen there. But I should have to hurry; she would not wait for me long—A sudden illumination shone within me. I felt a happiness without knowing whence it came, a state for which the recollection of my engagement and perhaps too some rare intuition that vanity had not stifled in me, unconsciously had prepared me for, so that I stirred beneath it, like the earth at dawn.Some outward sign of it all must have shown in me, for Mme. de H— asked:“What is the matter with you?”Her voice had suddenly become unfamiliar.“With me? Nothing.”“You are most peculiar this evening.”“I am over-tired; that’s all. I must go.”“Do you feel ill?”“Very well, on the contrary,” I replied, without thinking of my words.In the face of my incoherence she was clever enough to recognise the futility of insisting, and contented herself with seeking an appointment at some other time.“To-morrow, then, at our house?”“No, not to-morrow.”“When, then?”“I do not know—”I left her in her surprise and anger, and crossed the salon like a somnambulist. Amidst so many lights, I saw only one bright ray in front of me, and followed it as the kings of old their guiding star.My return did not change the tenour of my thoughts. In the vestibule I stopped. What was I going to do? Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the despair of my desertion and the anxiety of her illness. It would be better to wait until morning. To-morrow I would tell her.—What should I tell her? Suspicions do not take the place of proofs. Why disturb her ignorance? No! No! I would be content to announce our departure for the Sleeping Woods as soon as she was able to make the journey.I had started toward my room when I caught the glimmer of the night light which filtered under her door. I approached it. It seemed to me that my base ambitions, my petty desires, my selfishness, my cruelty, even the impurity of my past fell from me like a discarded garment. Almost light-hearted, I turned to cross that inevitable threshold.I entered. From the depths of the bed a murmur reached me:“Is it you?”The little lamp shed only a tiny light. Scarcely did I distinguish her eyes which gazed at me fixedly. I did not say a word in reply. A sacred emotion overcame me. I turned to the nurse and told her to get some sleep in the next room, which had been prepared for her. She objected that Madame was depressed, although she had no fever.“I shall remain with her myself,” I replied.She showed me the medicines which had been prepared, and left the room. When the door closed, I went to Raymonde’s bedside, knelt, and resting my forehead on her hand which I had taken, softly uttered the necessary word, the first I had to say:“Forgive me.”Her hand withdrew from mine, and placed itself on my head, and I understood without Raymonde’s saying so, that I was forgiven. But could it be done so quickly? The work which was being accomplished within me did not permit me to renounce so easily the chance to describe the scene of my conversion. I wished her to know its whole extent, and I began:“Listen—”With an authority unexpected from one so weak, she broke off my confidences.“I do not wish to hear,” she said.Completely overcome by her grace, I wished at least to cry out my love for her. I went on stammering, when I saw her raise herself and put her face close to mine.“Oh, my dear,” she said; “you are weeping, as on the night of our marriage at the Sleeping Woods,—do you remember?”She told me that I wept, and, as on that occasion, she added:“But it is so simple.”I did not understand at once what she meant by it. Then I feared to understand it, and interpreted it in my own way.“Yes, is it not? It is so simple for us to love each other.”She looked at me for a long time, surprised, and repeated:“For us to love?”And then no doubt she inwardly reproached herself for evading the truth, at a time when truth was appearing plain to us, for she replied, in a calm voice:“Why do you not tell me that I must die?”I rose quickly. “Oh, Raymonde, I beg of you, do not say that.”I could doubt it no more than she. As I had left her in the evening I had known it. And it was that which had enlightened me about myself, which had flooded me with light.With the same tone of authority, she calmed me:“That too is so simple,” she repeated.With a supreme effort I tried to rebuild some hope. I spoke to her of her youth, of my love, and of Dilette—“Oh, Dilette,” she said, and for the first time she grew tender. I spoke of our return to the Sleeping Woods, of the wonderful air she would breathe there, and of the spring, which would soon come.“Dearest, do you remember the first of May?” I asked.My words drew a faint smile from her, delicate as flowers that grow in sandy soil. Encouraged by her smile, I insisted:“We can still be happy.”But she declared gravely:“Iamhappy.”“Henceforth we shall always be happy.”“Yes, always.”And as if to intensify the meaning of the word “always,” she murmured these strange words:“Do not be afraid, my dear. I have accepted it, so as not to be a burden to you—”“What do you mean?” I inquired anxiously.She did not seem to have heard my interruption, and went on:“Now I am so happy that I dare not refuse God—”What was this mysterious compact that she had entered into, at first with unconscious delicacy and now renewed by deeds of mercy? The mystery was so painful to me that I leaned closer to her and entreated her:“Raymonde, I beg of you, tell me what it is you have accepted.”She threw back her head a little, looked at me with unspeakable gentleness, and let fall like an avowal of love:“Death—Do you not see it—?”
* * *
Spring had just begun when she asked me to allow her to return to the Sleeping Woods. I opposed it on account of the lack of comfort and the cold. But Paris did not agree with her, and she was gradually losing weight alarmingly. At last I consented, as I recognised vaguely my wrongs against her, to make the sacrifice, for such indeed it was for me, to bury myself in “the desert” of Madame Mairieux.
For the past few years we had spent very little time there, because I enjoyed travelling constantly to new places, while Raymonde found pleasure in the associations of spots she knew and loved. At my request we always left the baby in charge of her grandparents.
“I’ll go with you,” I said heroically after much hesitation, as she suggested that she should go alone and that I should remain in Paris. However, I insisted that I should go too, and during the journey I dwelt on my heroism all the way.
It was pouring, when we arrived.
“One of the joys of the country,” I muttered bitterly.
But it was Raymonde’s own beloved land. She smilingly greeted all her favourite trees; I believe she even loved the rain that was sent to nourish them.
M. Mairieux scanned his daughter critically, and I could see that he was worried by her altered appearance. He glanced from her to me, and I read in his face that he held me responsible for the change. Without a word he convicted me. Without a word of explanation he understood the drama that was in progress. Raymonde herself would have died rather than complain to him.
Mme. Mairieux, on the other hand, was enthusiastic about my wife’s appearance.
“Of course she has grown a little thinner, but it is fashionable nowadays to be slender,” was her characteristic remark.
For the first few days after our arrival, the rain kept up incessantly. Unable to leave the house, I went from room to room, turning over my regrets and boredom. In spite of my persistent contrariness Raymonde seemed born again. Only to see the trees against the grey horizon, leaning against the window, gave her pleasure.
Once more she could enjoy her beautiful allées. They were covered with weeds and almost blended with the mossy carpet of the woods, through which they continued their humble paths of light in every direction. Dilette was as yet unable to distinguish one tree from another, but her mother had taught her to shake her hand to people who offered her a greeting, and one day when we were out walking in the woods, imagining that the stirring branches were nodding to her, she waved her little hand in answer to the politeness of the trees.
We again began our long promenades. Soon we left the child with her governess, that we might bury ourselves deeper in the woods. About us were all the old peaceful surroundings. The Green Fountain, cleared of the dead leaves which obstructed it in the winter time, reflected in its surface all the tranquil beauty of its remote corner of the wood. If we had but leaned over its cool, transparent water, our faces would have touched as on that other day when our horses stopped to drink. But nothing seemed the same to her or to me.
I confused this calm with ennui. I did not know how to find happiness in the repetition of these ordinary experiences. I needed constant change of environment and new stimulation. To me life was tiresome if every day did not bring with it an interesting social function or some novel impression. The restless spirit of Paris is contagious. To be constantly active was an absolute necessity for me, and I found the dull family life to which I was condemned vapid and uninteresting.
To Raymonde, on the other hand, even despite the disillusioning conditions, this return to the country with me was, as it were, a halt on her road to Calvary. It brought soothing peace and comfort to her to know that she was not obliged to see people in whom she took no interest, to go to places merely to be seen. She was no doubt continuing to hope for a renewal of the beautiful memories of our engagement and of the blessed peace of the early days of our marriage, even though she knew that they could never be revived. Inspired by the choir of nature which she loved, the living beauty of her native soil in which our first tender thoughts and the awakening of our love had taken root, she awaited her fate, like the daughter of Jephthah, surrounded in her mountain retreat by the maidens of Israel, those faithful followers who for two months tried to stay the hand of death, “after which her father did with her according to his vow which he had vowed.” Raymonde, too, was waiting in that saddened state of mind that is hardly painful and has its secret charm.
* * *
I soon began to take long automobile rides. Our walks in the forest had become silent and dull. Perhaps I was unknowingly kinder in not accompanying her to the places where our love had blossomed.
* * *
At the Sleeping Woods she wore “little dresses,” as Pierre Ducal would have called them. She generally selected white, which was most becoming to her. Her taste in clothes, although simple and inexpensive, was exquisite, though my ultra-fashionable ideas would have dictated more elaborate gowns. After all, the test of good taste is in being fittingly attired, and she understood it better than I.
* * *
One day, as I was returning from a long ride, I met her on the road. It was early morning, when one’s age cannot be successfully hidden. That is why age scarcely exists in large cities, since the season and hours of our life are not clearly defined there.
“Where are you going?” I asked, struck anew by her youthful beauty.
My sudden interest surprised her, but she did not know that it was prompted by appreciation of her appearance rather than real interest in her destination.
“I am going to take this package to Fannette,” she replied, blushing with pleasure.
“The peasant with the chapped hands?” I asked, astonished at my own recollection.
“Yes. She is very ill; I have some medicine for her.”
“Would you care to have me go with you?”
“Indeed I should,” she answered eagerly.
How very gently she spoke to me!
On our way home, she suggested that we take a longer but less sunny road. I reluctantly agreed, having already regretted my condescension in going so far with her.
“We’ll take your path,” I said, “we will go more rapidly.”
A long silence followed my remark, silence difficult to break after it had lasted some time.
We walked on, not exchanging a word, and came to a little house in the woods, the home of a peasant and his family. At the door stood a young woman on whose face shone the happiness of motherhood. In her arms she carried a blond rosy cherub, about her were two, three, four, five little tots, rising like steps, each one just a head taller than his next younger brother or sister. The whole family was watching and pointing, and we heard their loud exclamation and outburst of happy laughter, as a man with his scythe over his shoulder came down the path toward me. When he neared the little group, he waved and called out his greeting, with a voice that sounded like a deep-toned bell. He had been harvesting, and the honest sweat of hard toil trickled down his cheeks, but he forgot his tiring labour in the joy of home-coming, in his return as father of a family to his mid-day meal.
Raymonde stopped a moment.
“Look,” she said to me.
The radiant faces and the evident contentment were indeed a perfect picture of rustic life and the happiness of simplicity.
“Yes,” I replied, “the scene recalls a Dutch masterpiece. But see how many children there are.”
“They are so pretty, especially the youngest with his blond curls.”
“Oh, but there are too many of them,” I repeated. She did not reply. I walked on, not caring to witness the demonstration with which the father would be greeted. That sort of affection did not appeal to me. I understood only the so-called higher type of love. As Raymonde did not follow, I turned around and saw her intently watching that scene from a life which she appreciated and craved but had been denied. All the tenderness and yearning of her womanhood were aroused; she could not keep back the tears.
Instead of silently entering into her feeling, without useless words, I said impatiently:
“What is the matter with you, Raymonde? Come, that is absurd.”
In reality I knew the deep causes of her emotion. With miraculous intuition, had she not foreseen this, when she told her father that although she loved me I was not the husband for her? Although she was very ingenuous and ignorant of the degree of my unworthiness, yet she presaged our incompatibility, if not my injustice.
She calmed herself with an heroic effort.
“It is foolish of me,” she agreed. “They are so happy that I was deeply touched.”
“And we?” I demanded mechanically.
My question forced her to choose between a weak expression of self-pity or a bolder attempt to conceal her feelings by lying to me.
“Yes, indeed, we too are happy,” she said in a voice bravely simulating the truth.
At the gate we met M. Mairieux. Raymonde hastened to tell him where we had been. Somewhat astonished to see us together, he gazed at us attentively. The least favourable sign of happiness on his daughter’s face reflected itself on his own. He understood her expression so thoroughly that he was not to be deceived by appearances.
From her open window Mme. Mairieux caught sight of us.
“Ah! there are the lovers,” she cried.
* * *
I suggested to Raymonde that we make a little journey. The closer intimacy of travel helps sometimes to heal the distress of hearts that have been worn by concealed and daily irritations. Did I hope myself that she would refuse? My project was to return to Paris for a week or two, and then move on to some fashionable watering place. Although the season was already advanced (it was the beginning of July) some affairs were still taking place in the Bois de Boulogne and at Saint-Cloud. One noticed foreigners in attendance especially, and I liked their imaginative novelty and prestige.
Whether she accepted the idea of living away from me in order the better to protect her threatened love from me, or whether her already weakened condition would no longer permit her to travel, I do not know; at any rate she refused to accompany me.
“You are right to go,” she added. “The Sleeping Woods are lonely for your tastes. And as for me, I am so tired—you must let me rest a little. I will rejoin you shortly, as soon as I am able.”
She no longer believed herself capable of detaching me so completely from all my accustomed ways of living. Her confidence in herself was dead, but her confidence in me, fashioned by her love, was more slow in yielding. My departure would be almost a relief. I believe that I should have tormented her more by remaining with her than by going. Our cruelty grows quickly when its victim never complains of the blows.
Through the glass windows of Armenonville, in pleasant company, I saw again the decorative beauty of long allées filled with leisurely strolling people. This sort of thing was better suited to my state of mind. When we ourselves are arid, uninhabited nature vexes us; as a servant of our social pleasures, it becomes endurable.
From Paris I went in pursuit of it in fashionable resorts. Mme. de Saunois had gone off to the Engadine, and I installed myself at Waldhaus, near the lake of Sylvaplana, at the opening of the Fex valley. Raymonde, either in better health or more anxious, offered to join me. I evaded summoning her on the pretext of an immediate return, which I put off time after time. I was determined to ramble about, I was running after adventures for which I required my liberty. How was she, in her ignorance, to suspect them?
Excursions were gotten up, romantic pilgrimages to Nietzsche’s house or in memory of the painter Segantini, who died on the mountain above the Maloja. I had come a long way in search of artificial emotions such as one meets with in the theatre and drawing-rooms. Except that in having them one breathed a healthier air, there was no change.
I had scorned the Sleeping Woods and Sylve-Benite, the black fish-pond bordered with reeds, the sunken roads, the ravines, the hills, all the peace that was offered within the reach of one’s hand; I had to have movement.
When at last I decided to return, thinking of the loyal waiting of my Penelope, but more and more averse to and disgusted with regular and thoughtful life—though it is the kind by which alone one can improve and watchfully perfect oneself—the only danger being lest one fall asleep—I was not slow to be bored.
* * *
We returned to Paris very early. Raymonde, although the prolongation of our stay in the country had benefited her health, as far as her overworked heart was concerned, did not object to my haste. But she gave every evidence of being unable to go about as much as during the previous winter.
“A little later in the season,” she said, “I shall go everywhere with you again.”
I proposed an arrangement which was very satisfactory to me.
“Let each of us be free,” I said, “each go to the places he likes.”
“I shall not go out at all for the present, if you are satisfied.”
“Let each of us be free:” what a convenient formula to regain one’s independence by! I was so blinded that I saw no traces yet of her growing weakness.
In society I renewed my acquaintance with Mme. de H—, whom I had met at the Waldhaus, dressed in black, mourning for the shade of Nietzsche. Her husband had died a few months before of a mysterious and rapid illness. A court surrounded her, praising “The Open Garden” and newer poems on the horror of death. Her charm in my eyes withered in one evening like a full blown rose, and I can hardly to-day analyse it or explain my servitude. I must, however, try to do so if I am to make myself understood.
The first time I met her was at Mme. de Saunois’ reception, when she had appeared in the salon after we had listened to a song by Henry Duparc called “An Invitation to a Journey.” The music added to Baudelaire’s words a neurasthenic morbidness. That nonchalance, that nervous fatigue, was as if embodied in her. One felt that she was ready for audacious departures. She was in a word the Invitation. Like vessels anchored in a port, she gave promise of new sensations in other countries whose fruits were more savoury or more sour. Their battered sides, hung with the barnacles and weeds of previous journeys, give evidence of adventure. And as the almost imperceptible movement of the ship in quiet waters suggests its tossing in the open sea, so too when Mme. de H— crossed a salon she set in motion a wave of sensual appeal. Her affectation, her make-up, her poems, all were marks of a dark and stormy past. One conjectured healed wounds and suspected venturesome risks. She had lived through many a perilous moment and had not remained unscathed. Beauty which is no longer unblemished, and dead youth which adorns itself as if it sought in advance to defy time by substituting artificial for natural attractions, are like the witchcraft of ancient sorcery, whose philtres were like perfumes, stronger than the fading flowers of which they were made—stronger because they were beginning to become tainted....
I had been guilty of infidelities before, but this last summed up for me all the contaminated seduction of primitive passion, passion to which our civilisation had added one thing more—a taste for flesh that is “high.”—
* * *
I had forgotten that Raymonde spent part of almost every day in the Bois with Dilette, among the pine trees around the little pond of St. James, near the Bagatelle. It is an open playground where the mothers and nurses bring their little charges, whom they can watch from a distance during their games of hide and seek.
The Autumn sun was so inviting that Mme. de H— suggested a walk in the Bois before returning to the automobile waiting at the side of one of the roads for us. We were sauntering along when suddenly we came upon my wife and Dilette.
The fact of my being seen publicly with a lady of her calibre in a frequented place need not of necessity have aroused suspicion. Was it that the mere presence of one perfectly right and loyal creature threw out falsehood and irregularity? We were often seen together—why should we now appear so at fault? Until now Raymonde had no inkling of anything between us Now the trembling of her lips a moment alarmed me. In the Sleeping Woods how could she have learned that one must control one’s self in public? I feared everything from her provincial education, lest it cause her to indulge ill-founded jealousy. Yet was not our sudden instinctive halt at sight of her unmistakable admission?
I was soon reassured. Everything happened in the best possible manner. I asked her, I dared to invite her, to join us in the automobile, impudently; but was it not necessary to set her doubts at rest?
“No,” she said, “I shall stay with Dilette.”
“Are you not afraid it is too cold?”
“The sun is strong, we have our furs.”
“Well, then, we shall leave you. Shall I send the machine back for you?”
“Yes, if you will, in about an hour.”
During this brief colloquy, my little girl was running toward me. Her little three-year-old legs could not trot very quickly. She was already a reflective person.
“Oh!” she said, seeing me, and seemed to be astonished, “there is papa.”
She looked indeed like an exquisite little miniature in her little white hat and coat. Why had I never before noticed the charm of her wonderful colouring, her clear blue eyes and blond curls? Mme. de H—, responsive to every phase of beauty, stooped to talk to the child and was about to embrace her, but when Raymonde saw those painted lips so near the pure forehead of her little girl she quickly pulled Dilette toward her, and the kiss fell on the child’s curls.
Mme. de H— drew herself to her full height and looked fixedly at her, as at one whom she recognised to be inimical. My wife turned her head. One would have thought it an involuntary gesture. What importance is there in kissing a child? We said good-bye, and I went on my way with Mme. de H—.
When we had gone some distance, Mme. de H— broke the silence.
“She knows.”
I scoffed at so absurd a supposition. Mme. de H— made no attempt to substantiate her conviction, but insisted authoritatively (with that marvellous voice of hers, which is one of her best weapons) that she was positive of it.
“She knows, but will never speak of it,” she added.
And I knew that my contradiction was only verbal. Deep in my own consciousness, I felt the truth, and in my imagination I pictured Raymonde sitting motionless as she watched me disappear with Mme. de H—, Dilette holding her hand, but not understanding her mother’s silence. She was thinking of another couple who walked under the trees at the Sleeping Woods and exchanged vows of everlasting faithfulness.
We found my machine. Before she stepped in, Mme. de H— turned to me, and asked briskly:
“Are you thinking of her?”
Instead of answering, I put another question:
“And you?”
“I think only of myself.”
Then she added:
“And of thee.”
But very soon after, her intimacy with me was to come to an end.
* * *
Several days after this, Raymonde timidly informed me that she had decided to accept every invitation in the future. I had been going about alone ever since I returned from the country. I objected that her health would not permit her to keep late hours, and besides that she had no taste for social functions. She insisted with an unexpected resolution, and I began to tease her about it:
“Why this sudden interest in society? People have grown quite accustomed to seeing me go about alone.”
“I am very anxious,” she said sweetly, “that they should expect to see me wherever they see you.”
I was at a loss to understand why she had suddenly determined to give up the solitude which she so much enjoyed, but I now know that she considered herself partly responsible for my intimacy with Mme. de H—; she felt that if she had tried to share my pleasures she might have been able to hold my interest. Her resolution was no doubt the result of some analysis and introspection, and she announced it to me after coming home from church, where she had gone to pray to God for courage to carry it out, even though it were to cost her all her rapidly declining strength.
And so she began to show again to the world her reserve and reticence.
* * *
I tactfully tried to avoid accepting invitations to houses where I was sure to meet Mme. de H—, who, realising my attitude, reproached me for what she did not hesitate to call my cowardice.
Humiliated by her scorn, and having no defence to offer, I agreed to go to a reception at the salon of Mme. de Saunois, who seemed destined to play an important part in our life drama, for it was through her that I had met Mme. de H—, three or four years before.
If Raymonde had been absolutely indifferent to me, I should not have felt so uneasy about the meeting. Her quiet sweetness sometimes soothed me when we were at home alone. Why did she not remain there, instead of going out into society with me, why did she not preserve that peace there for me when I was to feel the need of it? Our varied feelings and thoughts often make us appear inconsistent, yet one state of mind does not necessarily preclude its opposite. They may coexist, and indeed if they do not, we seldom reach our highest development. Yet when circumstances compel a choice and a sacrifice of the one or the other, we rebel against the hardship of a deprivation which our selfishness and egotism alone could never have prompted.
I was in a state of anxiety, during the whole day preceding that inevitable meeting, and was ready to start much earlier than was necessary. Impatient, I went into Raymonde’s room to see if she were waiting for me. She looked very beautiful that night, in a white tulle gown embroidered in gold flowers, and I complimented her on it. The decolletage, bordered with swan’s down, gave her added length and grace: her neck was so small a child could have clasped his two hands round it—so fragile she seemed.
“Are you ready?” I asked. “It’s time to go.”
My impatience, indeed my very presence, seemed to disconcert her.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said.
“Very well,” I replied, “do hurry: you’ll find me in the library.”
In her hand she held a lip stick. On the dressing table before her was a box of powder and rouge.
She had never used artificial means of beautifying herself. She was hesitating. No doubt I had disturbed her.
When she joined me a few minutes later, I mechanically looked at her face for traces of the make-up. She was so pale, so particularly pale, that I understood the shame she had felt, but neither her lips nor her cheeks showed the slightest sign of artificial colour. She had tried to imitate the other women, to make herself unreal with colour and false emotion, but at the last moment she had found it impossible. She could bear no artificiality.
As soon as we entered the salon, I looked about quickly, only to find that Mme. de H— had not arrived.
Why did I torture myself about this meeting, when I knew that my wife went out too seldom to hear any reports that were being circulated? She had indeed shown me an anonymous letter which had been sent to her, and I felt confident that she was above opening my correspondence. How then could she have gotten information? And as for the incident in the Bois—she had never alluded to it again, and surely it was too insignificant to lead to anything. At the worst she might have thought it indicated a mild flirtation or a passing fancy. One does not court public attention with a mistress. In this way I tried to reassure myself. As a defence against hypocrisy and infidelity, Raymonde had as a weapon only that imponderable frankness and sincerity which she radiated always. When I looked elsewhere I believed she was calm, but not so if I glanced at her face.
“I am very glad to welcome you again,” was Mme. de Saunois’ greeting to Raymonde. “How very well you are looking!”
These stereotyped phrases, expected of her as the hostess, were spoken at random; as a matter of fact, Raymonde had never looked so delicate and pale. In fear and trembling she looked about the room. Pierre Ducal was there. After an absence of several months, he had come back; his old interests had reasserted themselves. At first he had been missed, but his return did not cause much of a stir. How many attempts one makes, how many backward steps one takes, before one can give up society! It seems we are the slaves of habits from which we cannot break ourselves. We often prefer them to the ideals of our better nature, ideals that might lead us to undreamed heights. It took a long time and very deep suffering for me to realise the nothingness of social life. We could not avoid Ducal. Mme. de Saunois had been speaking to him, and when she came to greet some new arrivals we were brought face to face. He bowed respectfully to my wife, without saying a word, while she, conquering her feelings, extended her hand to him.
That action on her part was an expression of her tenderness for me and of her complete self-immolation, and yet, at the same time, it affected me disagreeably, because it caused me to admire her magnanimity when I knew that I myself was still disloyal. I greeted my old friend cordially, but he only bowed to me. I was for a moment jealous of the forgiveness he had received. Would he not thus recover his wounded pride if, as every indication led me to believe, he had loved and still loved her?
But this feeling gave way to one of interest as I saw Mme. de H— enter the room with a train of admirers. She stopped short a few steps from us and continued her conversation in a loud tone of voice. Nothing could have been more vulgar than that apparently accidental but carefully planned halt.
She was possibly the only person in the room who was talking, for all other conversations ceased, as people observed the direction she was taking. No doubt an interesting scene was expected, of which no one wanted to lose the slightest detail. My private life was not a secret, in a world where every one knows every one’s else remissness and finds self-justification in it, or, if necessary, material for revenge. But why did Mme. de H— seek a demonstration which might so easily have been avoided? Accustomed to publicity, and having won great popularity, she had every possible advantage over Raymonde, whose timidity, interpreted as disdain, had not made her a favourite. But in that salon, as when hunting in a forest, one lay in wait for death and inhaled an odour of blood.
I was standing behind my wife, and a change of position would have meant coming very close to Mme. de H—, whose manœuvres completely non-plussed me. It was very evident that she intended to make no advance to Raymonde, who, paralysed with fear, had become so pale that she kept up only with difficulty. She was exposed to public gaze like the little Christian martyrs of old, exhibited in full view before they were thrown to the wild beasts at the Coliseum. And I read contempt for me in the eyes of Pierre Ducal, who stood looking at me.
As soon as Raymonde gained her self-control she stepped forward and heroically extended her hand to Mme. de H—. As she did so, the picture of it all impressed itself on my mind: her beautiful profile looked like an alabaster bas-relief of a saint, with a halo about her head. But this fleeting image quickly faded from my mind in the contemplation of the simplicity of the situation which I had feared would be so complex.
“She knows nothing,” I assured myself, “how could she know? One always unnecessarily exaggerates the importance of things which do not happen and never will. It is a vicious habit to worry.”
On the other hand one often minimises the import of incidents, as was the case with me in this instance, because I could not understand the magnanimity of which my wife was capable. We are prone to forget bullets which have missed their mark, and, their danger once averted, promptly disregard their deadly power.
A concert was to be given during this evening of which I am writing. Mme. de H—, who was playing a game which I did not understand, invited me to a chair which she had reserved for me. No one seemed to take any notice of this fact, for other dramas, some suspected and others definitely known, had absorbed the general attention.
I remained with her even during the intermission, while my wife sat alone several feet away.
“Now that she has forgiven Ducal, he will surely go and talk to her,” I thought; and I even hoped that he would, in order that she might not appear so completely ignored.
But Ducal did not approach her. Withheld by his respect for her, he did not presume that her pardon gave him the right to address her. And he left without a word to her. What a lesson it was for me to realise that her divine forgiveness had converted the heart of so hard a cynic as Pierre Ducal.
When we returned home, I, with my consummate egotism, desired most condescendingly to express my approval of her conduct. Had she not behaved well? And I, I was very much relieved and indeed happy, and yet I could not bring myself to tell her what I had planned, for I read an expression in her eyes which seemed to say:
“Are you not satisfied with me this time? Have I not done my duty, every duty, more than my duty? I offered my hand in forgiveness to your friend who insulted me, and to the woman who took you from me and then scoffed me. But my suffering has not wrung a cry from me. I am silent, for I am your wife. My love for you and my baby Dilette binds us indissolubly, with you—how have you kept your vow?”
For one brief moment, I was tempted to draw her to me and to confess my infidelity. She would have pardoned me, I am sure that she would have forgiven me. Her virtue seemed to purge the atmosphere of my lies and insincerities. But I quickly rejected that unreasonable exaltation. Such heroism on my part would have been absurd. I thought she could have no suspicion of my intimacy with Mme. de H— because she had seen us once on the Bois. She had not been a heroine. I overestimated her conduct, for she had no doubt reached the simple conclusion that she had exaggerated the importance of Pierre Ducal’s declaration; and as for Mme. de H— well, she merely thought that the woman piqued my curiosity. Why needlessly complicate matters? The dreaded meeting had passed off uneventfully. Why consider the subject further?
* * *
I was not slow in understanding the object of Mme. de H—, who now began to affect being seen in public with me. Did she not make bold to recite a poem in which allusions were pointed and ill concealed? Our modern poets express their confidences in precise terms, not general themes. She would have liked to cause some scandal, to force Raymonde to seek a separation. All such women as she extol free love, and with an eye to the practical side as well know how to secure social advantage from it all; though once they have it they exhibit marvellous executive ability in preventing their passion from running away with them.
Growing paler and paler, more and more silent, Raymonde still accompanied me everywhere. Her preoccupied air re-established between us those distances which indelicacy thought to have wiped out. I was being apprenticed in that cruelty which Mme. de H— practised with so much ease, the cruelty which love exacts the moment it ceases to grow in the clear light of day. I might have feared the softening effect of Raymonde’s tears, but she never let me see them. I saw her pine away, but I did not believe my eyes. I saw her suffer, and told myself that she did not know. Why should she, I asked, think evil of these flirtations and preferences that are now so notorious in society, which every one sanctions? Thus one grows accustomed to his misdemeanours, if nothing happens to expose them.
Once, however, as we were going out, I saw her face contract as if through the effort of overcoming some internal pain.
“You are tired,” I said. “Don’t go.”
“Oh, no, not at all. I am quite able to go.”
“Please lie down awhile now. It will be better for you.”
“I shall take a rest soon.”
“To-night?”
“No, not to-night:—not yet.”
“You like going out, then?”
“I like going with you.”
I could not prevail upon her to stay behind. I offered to let her return to the Sleeping Woods. She might regain her health and strength there. At the name she smiled, a thing she did seldom enough now, but still she refused.
“I do not care to leave you,” she said.
“That is stubbornness.”
She turned away. “Oh, no, it is not, I assure you.”
There was only one thing for me to say: “Let us stay at home to-night, then.” I did not say it, although I was tempted to. The germ of evil had been sown in me, and my crime was working out naturally, almost of itself. When one has sown the seeds and covered them well, does not grain grow in the fields? The bad grain in our hearts is still more prompt to spring up.
Nevertheless, I was irritated with myself. My discontent gave me a sort of fever, a need of activity and distraction, added to my taste for society and the wicked fascinations of Mme. de H—. What loyalty and wholesome tenderness remained in me thus took sides, while it disturbed me, with my basest instincts, to push me the faster toward the abyss. Only some miraculous intervention could have saved me. Raymonde, who knew it, after having tried suffering in vain, gave her life that the miracle might come to pass.
* * *
On our return that evening, she sank down on a divan in the vestibule and had to admit that she was defeated.
“I cannot stir. I’m sorry.”
She had to be carried to her room and put to bed, and wrapped in warm clothes to stimulate her circulation. Her feet and hands were fairly frozen; the slackened course of her blood was quickened only with great difficulty.
After the perplexing and alarming diagnosis of the nearest physician, whom I had sent for in the night, I called in Dr. Aynaud, whose authority is universally admitted. He could not come until six o’clock that evening, but as soon as he was announced I felt reassured. An illness without cause or first stages, without definite symptoms, which had not prevented the patient from attending a function the night before, could not be extremely dangerous. I explained things to the doctor in a few words. He made the gesture of a man who trusts only his own examination, and I led him to Raymonde’s room. After the auscultation, he proceeded to investigation and minute questioning. My wife lent herself to it complaisantly, and added nothing herself when the doctor’s questions ceased.
“You do not ask my opinion?” he queried.
“What is the good?” she replied, preoccupied.
Still more surprised, he hesitated, then said:
“I see. You think it isn’t serious, eh?”
“If you like.”
“Come, come! A change of air, and everything will be all right.”
She repeated pensively:
“A change of air.”
I led the doctor into my study.
“You understood?” he said at once.
“That it isn’t serious?”
Whether he acted in accordance with his temperament, little inclined to dissimulate no matter how serious a case might be, whether the evidence seemed to him glaring, or whether in his clear-sightedness he realised that I was responsible, he hurled his opinion in my face, without warning of any kind.
“She is lost.”
When one is accustomed only to conversations velvety with politeness even if they are savage at bottom, such brutal statements are disconcerting; one does not allow them or believe in them, one considers them declamatory. In society no one is flat-footed, with love or truth or death. One turns carefully aside from such lack of taste or tactless language as the doctor’s.
Quite calmly I let him know my incredulity.
“Come, come, then, what is her trouble?” I asked.
“Her trouble? She hasn’t any.”
“What is the matter then?”
“If she had any, I should know how to treat her. I find nothing, and I can do nothing. She has reached the end of her forces, she is exhausted. Her heart and arteries do not perform their functions properly. They may stop at any moment. In any case, they will not act much longer. It is the same with her as with very old people sometimes; the oil is dry, the wick is burned out.”
“At her age? You are joking, doctor.”
“At her age, yes, it is surprising. I have met similar cases among the working people in the hospitals, from too early or badly cared-for maternity, or from too long uninterrupted manual labour and lack of hygiene.”
“But none of those things can be the case with Mme. Cernay.”
Before making his point definite, the doctor seemed to stop and meditate.
“Moral suffering, continued unrest and complete lack of mental repose, can produce a similar result,” he ended by telling me. “The slow wasting away which one sometimes finds with unhappiness requires a highly wrought sensibility. But that realm is closed to my investigation.”
And, stopping short, he wrote a prescription; he advised the quiet of the country, talked of the unexpected reserves of her youth, mitigated at a rather late hour the severity of his verdict, promised to return, and took his leave.
As soon as he had gone, my spirit began to rebel against him. His inability to define Raymonde’s illness drove him to exaggerate it. He was falling back on those old-fashioned methods that attribute all our ills to internal rather than external causes. I sent a telegram after him, asking him to call in consultation a certain specialist whose name had been made famous by the enthusiasm of a social clientèle.
It was important to reassure Raymonde absolutely, I thought. Before rejoining her, I considered some means to this end. We had been asked to Mme. de Saunois’ that very evening: I would go, so that she might not think I was hiding anything. Yet the hope of meeting Mme. de H— there, was not that something hidden?
As I reached this decision, I heard echoing like a refrain, the hard words of Dr. Aynaud: “She is lost.” I recoiled from them. In order to overcome my scruples, I reviewed all the reassuring symptoms—the doctor’s final words, which had been less positive and less despondent, Raymonde’s youth, her health, and our long walks in the old days, the absence of any definite malady, especially the benefit that might be gained from improvement in her mental condition.
Gaining some courage at last, I went to her room, and, composing myself, proceeded to endow the doctor with optimistic opinions that he had not held. It was a question of diet, rest and departure for the Sleeping Woods, as soon as the season would permit, I said. As I spoke, she looked at me as she had looked the day that I found fault with her for repulsing Pierre Ducal. Her eyes troubled me in the same way. The light tone I had adopted rang false, she knew. Ill as she was I was provoked at her for pointing out my own hypocrisy by the sheer limpidity of her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” I went on. “The nurse is here. I’ll bring her in before I leave. You will have a quiet night.”
“You are going out?”
“Certainly. Why shouldn’t I? You are not so ill as all that.”
“Truly?”
“Of course. You can see that from my going out. I’ll see you in the morning, dear.”
But on the doorstep, that “truly” lost its questioning meaning. Sheknew, as she had always known, as she knew at the Sleeping Woods, that my love was not bringing her happiness, as she knew, without proof, without any need of proof, that I was betraying her. Her “truly” meant: “The end will soon come, and you cannot even stay with me. Am I already of so little importance?” It found no fault; it simply stated a fact. And how should I get on in the future without tormenting her? I hurried down the steps to drive away this mingled vision of cruelty and remorse.
“No, no,” I said, to encourage myself, “it is impossible. I am exaggerating. Sickness does not develop so quickly. This Dr. Aynaud has upset me by his stupid brutality.”
Was it a fact then? Those pale and meagre cheeks, those dominating eyes, which dark rings made larger as a halo magnifies a light, that sad and suffering look in them that not even habit could accustom me to—was I to be deprived of them? A sense of danger suddenly gave me sympathy for her. Was I to lose her?
I reached Mme. de Saunois’ at last in a state of extreme nervous tension, such as a tired and horrified army must feel within a conquered city. I craved, to benumb me, the excitement of music and brilliant lights, the flash of jewels, the beauty of women and their glistening lips, the suggestiveness in those attitudes by which the present fashions submit our women’s bodies to our curious gaze. I longed for all this intoxication of the eyes, this brilliancy that should dispel that darker picture from my mind. Let all those things greet me and I should be relieved of a great weight! Already I discounted this relief as I was taking off my overcoat in the vestibule, and entered, ready for my intoxication.
Yes, everything I sought was there. It was hot: it was the atmosphere of unalloyed pleasure: there were flowers and numerous lamps and that special offering of flesh that women’s dress sets out like baskets of rich fruit. People were talking, laughing, moving about, enjoying each moment. Is not a salon a guarded place without an opening on the outside world, with no doors leading to the past or present, where one forgets, where one goes in order to forget? It is the price one pays for tastes of happiness.
Mme. de H—, who was watching for me, glided toward me and took me in her wake, making off with me like a vessel that puts out to sea with sealed orders.
Yes, everything was there to offer me distraction, and yet, that night, I gained nothing of the sort. I was cold, and could not warm myself. In the midst of so many colours my eyes saw nothing but the shadows on all the faces under those lights. On that of Mme. de H—, nearer at hand, in spite of the rouge, the powder, the smile, the forced joy, I saw distinctly, the definite pallor of death: not that death which suddenly suspends our motion and hurries us into the unknown, but that death of emptiness that is covered with gilded superficiality, with emptiness of false compliments and lying declarations and hypocritical enthusiasms, emptiness of petty hates, of affections limited by desires and desire that finds only limit in caresses, emptiness of wit, of artifice and passion, emptiness even of our restlessness and pride; that death and emptiness, in a word, of everything that is not the print of solitude and immortality.
And just as death was there everywhere about me in that salon, many-sided and invisible, life had fled for refuge yonder in that room where Raymonde waited for me to return. She was not resting; she was only waiting for me, I told myself. When I should enter, she would lift her arms from the bed, and in her open palms would be security and peace and love. Around her head would shine that halo which I had already seen there. But I should have to hurry; she would not wait for me long—
A sudden illumination shone within me. I felt a happiness without knowing whence it came, a state for which the recollection of my engagement and perhaps too some rare intuition that vanity had not stifled in me, unconsciously had prepared me for, so that I stirred beneath it, like the earth at dawn.
Some outward sign of it all must have shown in me, for Mme. de H— asked:
“What is the matter with you?”
Her voice had suddenly become unfamiliar.
“With me? Nothing.”
“You are most peculiar this evening.”
“I am over-tired; that’s all. I must go.”
“Do you feel ill?”
“Very well, on the contrary,” I replied, without thinking of my words.
In the face of my incoherence she was clever enough to recognise the futility of insisting, and contented herself with seeking an appointment at some other time.
“To-morrow, then, at our house?”
“No, not to-morrow.”
“When, then?”
“I do not know—”
I left her in her surprise and anger, and crossed the salon like a somnambulist. Amidst so many lights, I saw only one bright ray in front of me, and followed it as the kings of old their guiding star.
My return did not change the tenour of my thoughts. In the vestibule I stopped. What was I going to do? Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the despair of my desertion and the anxiety of her illness. It would be better to wait until morning. To-morrow I would tell her.—
What should I tell her? Suspicions do not take the place of proofs. Why disturb her ignorance? No! No! I would be content to announce our departure for the Sleeping Woods as soon as she was able to make the journey.
I had started toward my room when I caught the glimmer of the night light which filtered under her door. I approached it. It seemed to me that my base ambitions, my petty desires, my selfishness, my cruelty, even the impurity of my past fell from me like a discarded garment. Almost light-hearted, I turned to cross that inevitable threshold.
I entered. From the depths of the bed a murmur reached me:
“Is it you?”
The little lamp shed only a tiny light. Scarcely did I distinguish her eyes which gazed at me fixedly. I did not say a word in reply. A sacred emotion overcame me. I turned to the nurse and told her to get some sleep in the next room, which had been prepared for her. She objected that Madame was depressed, although she had no fever.
“I shall remain with her myself,” I replied.
She showed me the medicines which had been prepared, and left the room. When the door closed, I went to Raymonde’s bedside, knelt, and resting my forehead on her hand which I had taken, softly uttered the necessary word, the first I had to say:
“Forgive me.”
Her hand withdrew from mine, and placed itself on my head, and I understood without Raymonde’s saying so, that I was forgiven. But could it be done so quickly? The work which was being accomplished within me did not permit me to renounce so easily the chance to describe the scene of my conversion. I wished her to know its whole extent, and I began:
“Listen—”
With an authority unexpected from one so weak, she broke off my confidences.
“I do not wish to hear,” she said.
Completely overcome by her grace, I wished at least to cry out my love for her. I went on stammering, when I saw her raise herself and put her face close to mine.
“Oh, my dear,” she said; “you are weeping, as on the night of our marriage at the Sleeping Woods,—do you remember?”
She told me that I wept, and, as on that occasion, she added:
“But it is so simple.”
I did not understand at once what she meant by it. Then I feared to understand it, and interpreted it in my own way.
“Yes, is it not? It is so simple for us to love each other.”
She looked at me for a long time, surprised, and repeated:
“For us to love?”
And then no doubt she inwardly reproached herself for evading the truth, at a time when truth was appearing plain to us, for she replied, in a calm voice:
“Why do you not tell me that I must die?”
I rose quickly. “Oh, Raymonde, I beg of you, do not say that.”
I could doubt it no more than she. As I had left her in the evening I had known it. And it was that which had enlightened me about myself, which had flooded me with light.
With the same tone of authority, she calmed me:
“That too is so simple,” she repeated.
With a supreme effort I tried to rebuild some hope. I spoke to her of her youth, of my love, and of Dilette—
“Oh, Dilette,” she said, and for the first time she grew tender. I spoke of our return to the Sleeping Woods, of the wonderful air she would breathe there, and of the spring, which would soon come.
“Dearest, do you remember the first of May?” I asked.
My words drew a faint smile from her, delicate as flowers that grow in sandy soil. Encouraged by her smile, I insisted:
“We can still be happy.”
But she declared gravely:
“Iamhappy.”
“Henceforth we shall always be happy.”
“Yes, always.”
And as if to intensify the meaning of the word “always,” she murmured these strange words:
“Do not be afraid, my dear. I have accepted it, so as not to be a burden to you—”
“What do you mean?” I inquired anxiously.
She did not seem to have heard my interruption, and went on:
“Now I am so happy that I dare not refuse God—”
What was this mysterious compact that she had entered into, at first with unconscious delicacy and now renewed by deeds of mercy? The mystery was so painful to me that I leaned closer to her and entreated her:
“Raymonde, I beg of you, tell me what it is you have accepted.”
She threw back her head a little, looked at me with unspeakable gentleness, and let fall like an avowal of love:
“Death—Do you not see it—?”