He delayed risking the attack for three days; and as soon as he ventured to broach it, the two sharp refusals cut his words short. A rush of blood colored his brow. Of course they agreed; their joint refusal was only a concerted maneuver, a deceitful manifestation of disapproval.
He retorted scornfully:
“Very well! As you please!... Nevertheless, I have no intention of being a party to your fancies!... I give you warning; I shall go alone....”
Neither of them took up his challenge. He renewed it on the Thursday morning but obtained no further reply. His anger prompted him to leave the house at three, an hour earlier than usual. He had donned his evening clothes and, because his dress tie showed in the opening of his overcoat, a few gazers turned round to look at him. This increased his displeasure. He hurried on and arrived half-an-hour too soon. Conversely, and quite against her custom, Mme. Chambannes was half-an-hour late. He waited a whole hour in the smoking-room while daylight gradually faded. The servants had forgotten to turn on the lights. M. Raindal, daring neither to ring for them, nor to tamper with the electric lamps, remained in darkness. Bitter and violent ideas harassed him. Why were Thérèse and Mme. Raindal embitteredagainst the Chambannes? What was it they had on their minds against these people? What did they say of him when he was away? His fury was exasperated by the venomous sting of these queries.
“You here, in the dark, dear master!... Is it possible? I am late, am I not?... Do you forgive me?”
At the same time that he heard her affectionate voice, the room was flooded with light. Mme. Chambannes came in, muff in hand, her veil drawn up above her eyebrows. Her dainty little nose was pink at the tip, owing to the cold weather outside—or perhaps to the recent caresses. She renewed her apologies and threw on a chair her sable coat and her flowery hat, in which two hatpins vibrated an instant. Then she declared:
“Do you know, master.... I have an idea, a new combination.... Let me tell it quickly!... At five lock, we are forever being disturbed.... First it is one; then it is another who drops in and, between you and me, we do nothing of any value....”
M. Rainda face was serene once more; he nodded his benevolent approval.
“Well, then, here is my idea.... We could fix the hour of the lesson for six.... W work from six to seven ... and yo stay to dinner every Thursday.... Are you willing?”
M. Raindal had a rapid vision of Thérèse, with the sarcastic smile, and the contemptuous tightening of her thin lips with which she would receive the newsof this new arrangement. A longing came over him to defy her, to have his revenge on her and to reduce her silent irony with an audacious coup. He coughed, seemed to debate with himself, and finally said in a clear voice:
“Well, yes, that suits me.... It is agreed, dear Madame!”
But a remnant of caution made him add:
“Unless, of course, anything unforeseen occurs, unless there is some major impediment.”
Mme. Chambannes pouted reproachfully.
“Oh, dear master, it is very wrong to lay down conditions!... Are you not free, absolutely free?... Do you think that your little pupil would wish to encroach upon your occupations?”
“Your little pupil!”... How sweetly she had said that! M. Raindal was moved and apologized for himself; then he apologized equally for the ladies. Zozé did not seem offended by their defection. Had she not gained something that would console her? She was saving one hour for her dressmakers, for social calls and for Gerald, and this without losing the maste friendship. Only within herself, she thought:
“Oh! this Mlle. Raindal is getting on my nerves.”
From that day, M. Raindal was the guest of the Chambannes every Thursday.
Towards five lock he slipped on his evening clothes or a frock-coat, according to his inclination, since Zozé had left him free to dress as he pleased.He then hailed a cab and arrived in the rue de Prony at six. He stopped on his way usually at a florist and bought two or three large roses, some orchids, a very large bunch of violets or early lilac and offered them to Mme. Chambannes, whom he knew to be very fond of rare flowers. She thanked him chidingly, placed the flowers in a vase or, if they were short, kept them in her hand. Then the lesson would begin.
It was usually regulated according to certain points raised haphazard by Mme. Chambannes. The master replied with ingenuity, illustrating the past with facts from contemporary life, smoothing it over, thinning it down to the precise dimensions of his little pupi brains. Zozé smelled the flowers as she listened to him, or arched her eyebrows in order to accentuate her zeal.
Gradually, however, the teaching turned into a chat. Egypt, its chronology, mysteries and hieroglyphics were put aside. Mme. Chambannes confided to the master her amusements of the past few days or bits of social gossip, or she sketched for his benefit the character of some of her chief women friends. M. Raindal had no curious details to give of his own daily life and went back to the hard times of his youth. Zozé expressed much pity for him because he had greatly suffered from want and opened her tender eyes wide when he told her of certain privations he had undergone.
Sometimes—and this with a persistence which was only worn out one day to reappear the next—shebegged M. Raindal to translate the footnotes of hisLife of Cleopatrafor her. Invariably the master refused, alleging that if he did, Mme. Chambannes would be the first to regret his compliance. Moreover, the greater number of the words belonged to what was termed low Latin and were untranslatable.
He felt strangely oppressed when, one night, after dinner, the abbé Touronde called him aside and informed him that Mme. Chambannes had almost succeeded in becoming acquainted with the meaning of the forbidden annotations.
“Would you believe it? The day before yesterday, she asked me if there existed a dictionary of low-Latin! I replied, ‘Yes, Madame; there is the Dictionary of Du Cange.’ ... ‘Well, my dear abbé, please be so kind as to buy it for me!’... I smelled an evil temptation and replied, with some readiness of wit, I may well say: ‘Alas, Madame! it is no longer on sale.... It has been out of print these forty years.’ Later she admitted that she wanted it to translate your notes. You will agree that but for me....”
M. Raindal warmly pressed the hand of the cautious ecclesiastic.
Apart from the abbé Touronde, and in accordance with the particular desire of the master, Mme. Chambannes invited only her near relatives on Thursdays, such as her Uncle and Aunt Panhias or the Marquis de Meuze, who had solicited the favor of being a guest at those select dinners.
Gerald was afraid of being bored and scarcely ever attended them. Zozé took pride in this constant abstention, taking it for a symptom of a jealousy she had never hoped to arouse.
Who could have foretold that these conversations, sprung from an idle caprice, a fortuitous inspiration, were to serve, one day, as reprisals against the perpetual coquetry of the young Count! Moreover, these were harmless reprisals and allowed Gerald, at the most, to take lessons from an old lady!... Is there no equality in love, and are not the rights of the one an exact replica of the rights of the other? Zozé, at least, firmly held to this view.
It made her more attached to M. Raindal. He was an ally, as it were, a show accomplice; when her friends asked her, in Geral presence, if her flirtation with her “old savant” still endured, she defended herself with malicious smiles, with a “how silly you are!” or a “leave me alone!” which revealed her joy at the coincidence. How M. Raldo must rage, how much more he must now love her!... Had not caution held her back, she would, at those moments, have kissed him for sheer gratefulness.
Again, the exclusive intimacy with which M. Raindal honored her brought her daily flattering comments. The rumor of it spread among her guests. People talked about it. They questioned Mme. Chambannes touching the maste habits, as if they had been those of a savage she had miraculously tamed. Many women thought this friendship a suspicious one,this craze for learning incomprehensible, this preference on the part of the master unaccountable, and they protested that “there must surely be something behind all this.” Others said of Zozé that she was mad, and disparaged M. Rainda personal appearance. The most faithful pleaded and recalled the irreproachable tenderness of the young woman for Gerald. But these arguments left Marquesse shrugging his shoulders and Herschstein humming a hunting air, with this much to add to their skepticism, that the master had twice already declined the pleasure of appearing at their tables. These stories were good enough for women! Facts were still facts. Let the Chambannes pride themselves upon monopolizing père Raindal; nothing was more natural. But to come and tell them that the old man came there for the sake of science, for the love of art, oh! dear no, not to Herschstein or Marquesse! This much, and no more, did they concede to the defense, that they did not specify what the nature of the flirtation was, or its limits.... And yet, one does see such strange things in life! It seemed therefore best to these equitable men to remain on the ground of suppositions and to render no decision.
Zozé was made acquainted with this gossip by Mme. Pums. She replied proudly that she was “above such horrid things.” She now neglected the abbé Touronde, who was still the cherished hostage of her set, every member of which vied with the others in pampering him, as if his black robe had been a flag of guarantyand safeguard. She bestowed upon M. Raindal all the delicate attentions and the kind deference she had once shown to the conciliating ecclesiastic. She presented the master, on his birthday, with a gorgeous scarf-pin made up of a turquoise scarab mounted in pale gold. She had thought of this gift as much to please him as in the hope of getting him to give up the narrow black ribbands which he wore as a rule. Her attempt met with success. On the following Thursday M. Raindal wore a wide, dark blue satin scarf enriched in its center with the pale blue turquoise pin.
“You are wearing a very pretty tie!” Zozé remarked during the dinner.
M. Rainda features assumed a modest expression.
“Do you think so?...” he asked.
However, he cared nothing for fashion. He dressed according to the ideas of his tailor—a little tailor of the rue de Vaugirard, whose client he had been for thirty years.
“You are wrong!” Zozé remarked. “Good tailors are not more expensive than bad ones.... Why do you go to Blacks, my husban tailor?”
Chambannes agreed with her. M. Panhias joined them; the master gave in and made an appointment with George to go and order a suit from Blacks.
The tailor was obsequious at first, when Chambannes mentioned the name of M. Raindal of the Institute; he became peremptory and sharp when it came to selecting the material. The master wasdashed and dared not oppose him. It was even worse when it came to trying on. M. Raindal did not want any silk facings to his frock-coat. Blacks wished to force him. M. Raindal lost his patience and rebelled. He did not want any facings and he was not going to have any. Blacks bowed with a hypocritical grimace, admitting that every client had his own taste. When, however, the suit was delivered and M. Raindal opened the folds of his new frock-coat, the silk facings struck his eyes with their shining triangles.
The master softly complained of this impudence to his friends the Chambannes. Both laughed exceedingly and said that Blacks was right. M. Raindal was softened by their gayety and fell in with their opinion. Henceforth, Zozé did not hesitate to advise him in the matter of his wardrobe. He obeyed readily, owing alike to his desire to please her and to a craving for refinement which secretly tormented him.
But these accumulated expenses had made a hole in his budget. He increased his deficit every week with such things as cabs, flowers and gloves, and, of course, with such heavier expenses as the order to Blacks. The Académie had finally given him the Vital-Gerbert prize, and this helped him out just on time. He invested only 8000 francs of the 10,000 he received and reserved the balance for unforeseen expenses and pocket money.
At any other time of his life, he would have blushed thus to frustrate his family. But duty is a burden that is best borne by all the parties together. AndM. Raindal certainly found a pretext for his egotism in the attitude of his family.
It was not that a state of warfare had been openly declared. Far from it; faithful to their compact, the two women multiplied their concessions in order to preserve the old harmony. Thanks to their efforts, the household had never seemed freer from discord. They vied with each other as to who should most skillfully avoid any allusion, contradiction or motive for disagreement. The master, on his side, fearful of their sarcastic comments, preserved silence concerning his weekly dinners. It had come to this, that the name of Chambannes was never uttered, unless it became necessary; even then, the women wrapped up its syllables with a light intonation, as one rolls explosives in cotton-wool. Whenever M. Raindal formulated unexpected theories upon the public usefulness of luxury, the dangers of puritanism, or the social advantages of pleasure, Thérèse discussed them with him without the slightest bitterness, as if they were matters of economics which bore no relation whatsoever to their daily life. As an additional precaution, she had persuaded Cyprien to renounce his usual jesting comments concerning Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan. The younger Raindal now kept his sallies for his usual audience of one, Schleifmann.
Nevertheless, in spite of this outward appearance of calm and good entente, the master had no longer the feeling of peace and confidence he had felt in his home. He guessed every action and word of histo be spied upon, jeered at and censured either aloud or in low voices. He could hardly contain his anger against this secret, impalpable, yet ever awake, hostility which continuously dogged his movements.
While dreading its outbreak, there were nevertheless days when he could not help wishing for an open dispute, a straightforward attack, a solid and clear-cut family altercation, when each one could cry out his grievances and defend his own cause.
Let them attack him; let them but ask a question and he would know how to exonerate himself! What harm was he doing, anyhow? Was he running from salon to salon, as did so many of his colleagues? Had he taken advantage of his triumph to break into the little literary Bastilles which were the final goal of so many paltry ambitions? Had he not, on the contrary, declined, one after another, all the invitations given him, by Mme. Pums, by Mme. Herschstein, by Mme. de Marquesse, even by ladies of higher social status whom he could name if called upon? Had he not a score of times discreetly urged his wife and daughter to pay the call they owed the Chambannes? Was he not ready to take them to the rue de Prony as often as they could wish? Did he manifest any spite, as so many others might do, for all the deceptions and for the bitterness which Mme. Rainda uneasy religiosity had scattered between them? Did he play the part of a bad husband, a bad father, a frivolous and dissipated man?... Well then, what was it they reproached him with? Why was he compelledto suspect his own family as he had to suspect his own sworn enemies? There was that wretch of a Saulvard, for instance, who carried the rancor of his defeat to the point of declining three successive invitations of Mme. Chambannes.... The entanglement of his worries, added to the silence he imposed upon himself, made him feel disgusted with his own house, his home and everything that he had until then considered as happiness and quiet.
He proved his own innocence to himself so often that doubts came to him at times. He asked himself whether his friendship with young Mme. Chambannes was not such as might cause him some prejudice in the scientific world, whether it might not be more seemly for him to allow more time to pass between his visits, and whether his regularity might not be affording the evil-minded an opening. At once a rebellion which he attributed to pride moved him to smile at such scruples. He derived from his reflections a new energy for the indulgence of his inclination. Throughout the week, he lost no opportunity, whether at the dining-table or elsewhere, to flay the ridicule of pedantry, the hypocrisy of austere people, a whole mass of foibles and of anonymous characters, upon whom, with no less good grounds, Mme. Raindal, Thérèse and Uncle Cyprien might have bestowed their own names as well. Thus came the Thursday, and he made his exit with a provocative, almost bellicose, banging of all the doors in succession.
He reached the Chambannes’ house, from the veryhall a warm smell of incense caressed him as a first greeting of welcome, and his resentment vanished. Here everyone smiled at him and showed an eagerness to please him, from Firmin, the butler, who took his overcoat and affectionately inquired about his health, to the abbé Touronde, to Aunt Panhias and even the indolent Chambannes himself! Upstairs, Zozé came out to meet him and gave him her hand to kiss. And, during four good hours, M. Raindal forgot his vexations, his family troubles, his little pangs of the past week. Only when it was time for him to go did he remember them. When eleven lock came, he had an impression of melancholy, of an ended happiness, like a boy who must return to college.
Zozé always accompanied him to the hall, saw to it that he covered himself well, told him not to catch cold. As the end of the winter was in sight, she murmured to her husband, once the door was closed:
“Poor old fellow!... All the same, it is a long way to go for a man of his age.... I am glad that spring is coming back.”
Whenever the weather permitted it, M. Raindal returned on foot, for the sake of the exercise. The road seemed a long one to him but, as he neared the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he slackened his pace and his steps became less regular. It was as if he wished to delay the moment of regaining his home.
At last he climbed the waxed steps of his staircase; they slipped from under his feet. The wallswere as cold as a cellar; they were painted to imitate marble, and the candle threw a gigantic shadow on them. M. Raindal opened the door. Smells of cooking and washing soda caught him at the throat. He crossed the little apartment on tiptoe; the silk lining of his frock-coat rustled against his legs as a last echo of the elegances he had left behind. The mediocrity of his lodging was all the more apparent to him. What poor furniture, what a lack of comfort after the luxury, the ease and all the delicate things which abounded in the rue de Prony! M. Raindal gave a deep sigh and slipped between the sheets, near Mme. Raindal, who snored imperturbably in a twin bed.... Often he left the light on and lay there dreaming, retracing the evening; and his nostalgia vanished as his memories revived.
It returned the next day at the sight of Thérèse in her coarse morning garb, that common, dark dressing-gown which was so different from the soft gowns of Mme. Chambannes.
Ah! M. Raindal understood the severity of the girl towards his little pupil. Envy, alas; of course, it was envy! A jealousy that was incapable of discerning anything in Mme. Chambannes beyond the gaps in her learning and her intellectual poverty—as if erudition meant everything in a woman; as if beauty, elegance, the art of attracting did not also rank among the precious gifts and the powerful faculties. His discovery exalted him to such a point that he felt himself caught in a sudden rush of compassion,instead of mentally reproaching her for the physical disgrace she had suffered which had for some time unwittingly ill-disposed him toward her. He ran to Thérèse and ardently kissed her forehead. She kissed him in return on the cheek, in an attempt at tenderness. But her body was bent back and gave the instant lie to the smile on her lips. There had passed between them an intangible sorcery which prevented their hearts from opening as of old, forbade confidence and precluded the solidarity which had united them as co-workers for so many years....
They went back to their work, resenting their powerlessness to commune with one another again, mutually embittered by the failure of their attempt, cursing each other inwardly for the wrongs which each laid at the othe door. The week started anew in this state of apparent harmony that was heavy with discord.
One night in early March, as mild as a summer night, M. Raindal, returning home from the Chambannes’, saw a light in his daughte room.
This made him anxious, for the hour was late; he knocked at the door and entered almost at the same time.
Thérèse was sobbing in her pillow; she had not undressed but lay on her uncovered bed.
M. Raindal rushed forward to help her up, but she did not wait for him. She looked up and rubbed thetears from her eyes. He inquired, still holding her in his arms:
“What is the matter, dearest?... Were you crying? What is the trouble?”
She released herself with a brusque movement of her shoulders:
“Nothing, father! Thanks.... It is nothing.... Leave me alone, please!”
“Then you do not need me?” M. Raindal murmured in surprise.
“No, no, I assure you.... Go away.... I tell you it is nothing at all.... Just my nerves!...”
He dared not insist, for fear of exasperating her; he retired and shut the door behind him with particular care, as if he had left a sick-room.
Nerves!... Hm!... A woma excuse, a veil of sickness with which they cover up the secret of their anger. What could be the matter with Thérèse? What was it that caused her such great pain? Remorse insinuated: “If it were you! Suppose your Thursday visits, your obstinacy were the cause of it!” M. Raindal resolved to probe this to the very bottom, to question Thérèse the very next morning.
But the next day passed without his following up his intention. She was not thinking about it any more. Why should he torment the poor child with questions? Again, it was possible that she had told him the truth. It might have been nerves, after all.
NERVES, that sort of “nerves” had been the trouble with Mlle. Raindal for a whole week, as they were each year at the coming of the new season.
When, one evening, a gust of warm breeze swept through the icy air, the breath of advancing spring, her customary seriousness turned to melancholy; and she waited for the inevitable trial of which this perverse breath was the herald.
The universal magic which at that time threw all human beings into confusion always struck her with special vigor. Neither her learning, her reason nor her virile will-power could protect her. She fell a languid prey to aimless fancies, which because of this very confusion, allowed full play to the dreams of a chastity suddenly in revolt. She passed from the most childish transports of tenderness to the most fanciful flights of imagination. Tears of emotion came to her eyes; sometimes she burst into sobs; the perfume of a flower, the tunes of the street-organ below, or a beggar singing an old-fashioned romance in the street caused her heart to be overfilled with sadness and gave her an instinctive desire to lean her head on some robust shoulder.
The times of her weakness were precisely thosewhen her hatred for Mme. Chambannes was strongest and when she was most intolerant towards her father. Their behavior seemed to her more revolting, more absurd, more ludicrous than at other times. She found her consolation in mistaking for contempt the jealousy which their happiness at being together roused in her.
The acute consciousness of her own lack of attractiveness and of her isolation led her to formulating wishes all of which were impossible.
Ah! were she but beautiful; were she simply one of those seductive women over whom a few men disputed among one another and who could choose! That she could be a woman, in short, excite desires, repulse assaults, lead the warring life of her sex instead of turning white in an unnatural existence, busy with mental work and the distractions of the learned!...
Yet, lacking the needed charms, how could she change her life? How could she try to please with her bony hands, discolored eyes and thin lips which had pleased but once and then not more than for eight days?
In her discouragement, she reached a point when she felt jealous of the street girls she met passing the Boulevard Saint Michel, the grisettes. There were times when she would have readily given up everything, her knowledge, her honor and that of her family. She remembered also that there had been women, famous for their wit but too ugly to be loved,who had indulged in clandestine debauchery; and she secretly read over again with a sensual shivering the historians of scandals who related such facts. Sometimes, when she returned home at dusk, she heard a ma footsteps following her. What would he do? Was he going to address her? Although she was sure she would defend herself, yet she felt almost a vain hope that he would.... One evening, in the rue de Rennes, she was emboldened to turn round: she saw an old gentleman of M. Rainda age who smiled at her with knowing grimaces. She hurried away, stumbling, full of rage, deception and disgust with herself.
She found no peace until the day was ended and she slipped into her bedsheets after blowing out her candle. There was to her no more delicious moment than this one. She lay on her back and let the tide of sleep gently come up to her. Her limbs became paralyzed; her thoughts ran into each other; she had a feeling that her body was leaving her and the darkness of night favored this reassuring mirage. Because she no longer saw her own homeliness, Mlle. Raindal gained more audacity. Her soul at last freed and naked, as it were, bravely soared away on the wings of love. Whom, then, did she invoke in her adorations? Albârt? Another man? Sleep carried her away before she could be definite, and during the hours that followed, she stretched herself out, panting in the midst of strange dreams which were forgotten the next morning.
But she measured the nothingness of her days according to the feverish fullness of her nights. She was tortured throughout the mornings with the anxieties that affect old age. When would it all end? Had the valor of her heart, of her reason and of her mind forever vanished? Or would her sorrow gradually wear itself out, as it had done before, for lack of remedies and relief?... These queries filled her with anguish. She held her pillow tight against herself and crushed her lips in it, for fear they might hear her through the door, as on the occasion when M. Raindal had found her sobbing.
One afternoon, at the Bibliothèque Nationale, she was standing before an oak desk, examining the huge folio of theCorpus inscriptionum aegyptiacarum, when a shadow suddenly passed over the pages. She looked up and recognized Boerzell, the dismissed suitor, the young Assyriologist of the Saulvard party. Facing her, leaning on the other slope of the desk, he greeted her smilingly.
“How do you do, mademoiselle!” he asked. His affectionate eyes blinked behind the crystal of his glasses. “Hm! It seems to me that you indulge in very frivolous reading!”
“Do I?” Thérèse said, and returned his smile.... “This is nothing to what I have been asking for?”
“What was it?”
She gave him the titles of the books she was awaiting.Boerzell pretended to be indignant and exclaimed that it was sheer robbery and usurpation. Were women now going to meddle with such studies! They talked for a few minutes, in their idyllic attitude, over the desk which was to them as a flowery gate.
At length, Thérèse exclaimed:
“Well, au revoir, monsieur.... They are bringing me my books.... The time for gossiping is past.... I must return to my seat....”
Boerzell had a huge volume under his arm. He bowed and said:
“I hope that we shall soon meet again, mademoiselle!”
“So do I, monsieur!”
Instinctively she watched him walk away, between the rows of readers bent over their tasks.
Without knowing why, she found him less awkward than at the ball, less unpleasant and like one transfigured.
He walked calmly, dropping “a good-day” here and there, pausing for a handshake, delayed an instant for a quick exchange of words; in this favorable atmosphere, he was served by his very disadvantages, by his tousled hair, his ill-cut beard, the shiny cloth of his coat and his careless silhouette which showed that he was a champion of ideas. He benefited from the temporary beauty which comes from ease and authority enjoyed in appropriate surroundings. He was handsome like a high official in his office at theMinistry, handsome like an adjutant at the gate of a military barracks.
“Well! the poor fellow is not so bad!” Thérèse murmured as she returned to her seat.
Then she fell to work and completely forgot him. When she came out, however, going to the checkroom, she heard the voice of Boerzell behind her.
“Yes, it is I, mademoiselle!... Will you allow me to accompany you?... I believe we are neighbors.... I live at the end of the rue de Rennes.”
Mlle. Raindal hesitated. It was not that she questioned the propriety of his offer. She had long since disdained petty prejudices that affected such cases; for old maids are as deposed sovereigns who free themselves from etiquette once they have lost their power. On the other hand, she was weighing the point whether Boerzel company would not bore her before they reached the rue de Rennes.
Finally she gave her reply:
“Yes, surely!... I shall be very pleased.... Le go together....”
It was drizzling outside. The streets were shiny; in the narrow rue Richelieu, horses were slipping; they all trotted sidewise as if a strong wind were arching their croups. A few passers-by opened their umbrellas. Boerzell imitated them in order to protect Thérèse. He was bumped into at every step; the ends of the whalebones made lines against the grain of his silk hat. At times they were parted by a pressure from those who walked in opposite direction.Thérèse turned round, looking for the young savant; and she distinguished him, as he smiled over the heads of people, holding his umbrella as high as he could and shaking it to signal to her.
They began to converse with some sequence only after they had passed the door of the Carrousel.
As on the first evening, at the ball, the talk assumed at once a professional turn. But Boerzell it was who now directed the game. He led the conversation towards the notorieties of science; and he gave out his opinion of each of them, in insidious terms. Most of the time, it proved to be sarcastic and disrespectful. He withdrew in one word the commendation he had given in another, mingled restrictions and praise, stinging comments and soft words; even his voice, at once coaxing and clever, the smile of his lips or his eyes with which he softened every expression that was too bitter, his choice of expressions, the turn of his sentences—all these seemed to suggest a proud old master, but had the added zest of youth.
Every now and then, Thérèse could not refrain from glancing at him. What! had he, then, out of calculation, concealed his strength on the evening of the dance; had he affected shyness in order to attract without scaring her? Had he wished to flatter her pride as a savante by allowing himself to be defeated and conquered by her? Or had he been troubled by the surroundings?
Be that as it may, she was enjoying herself. Thisyoung man was not a fool, nor was he mediocre, nor yet servile. She listened so attentively that she did not notice that they had passed over the Seine.
They climbed the rue des Saints Pères, where drivers of entangled carriages abused each other. At times an omnibus rocked noisily, and hit the stone curb with its trembling wheels. Mlle. Raindal and Boerzell huddled close to the shops. Then the terrible machine having passed them, they went on again. Now it was Boerzell who asked questions, inquiring of the gir studies, and Mlle. Raindal readily answered, gave him the time-table of her work and the rules of her studies.
When they turned the corner of the Boulevard St. Germain, Boerzell suddenly sighed:
“What a pity!” he murmured.
“What?” Thérèse asked.
The drizzle had ceased and he closed his umbrella.
“Nothing, mademoiselle.... Or rather, yes.... It is a pity that I do not please you more.... Oh! I had guessed that much at the Saulvard ball, even without the help of the silence you preserved afterwards.... I could see it in your eyes when you left.... And yet, believe me if you like, the more I talk to you, mademoiselle, the more I am convinced that we would have made an excellent couple.”
This declaration was so unexpected that Thérèse could not repress a sudden laughing exclamation.
“We?” she said.
“Yes, we, quite so, we!...” Boerzell went on,with a pouting movement of his lips which gave a touch of puerility to his bearded childlike face.... “It is useless, is it not, between people of our type, to play a comedy?... They introduced us to each other in order to have us marry. Well, suppose, mademoiselle, that I had pleased you, at that ball....”
He paused to look at her.
“You must understand what this word ‘please’ means. Of course, I did not hope that you would fall in love with me on the spot.... No.... Thus, you ... you pleased me; that is to say, you inspired me with a deep sympathy.... I thought to myself: ‘Here is a worthy lady, one of strong intelligence, a wife such as I would like mine to be, a companion and a friend in whom I could confide, whose advice I could seek, without any fear of meeting with silliness or indifference....’ Well, let us suppose that you had thought likewise about it, that would have been enough.... We would have been married and I should be happy.”
Thérèse remained silent.
“But, there we are!” Boerzell went on, in a grumbling tone.... “You did not think this way.... I do not please you enough.... Or, to be more exact, I displease you too much.... Yet, allow me to say it without any fatuousness, I am surprised.... If I may judge from our two conversations, we would, intellectually speaking, hit it off very well.... Upon people, and upon things, we almostshare the same opinions.... Our lives are cut along the same lines, and occupied with similar studies.... Our tastes and aptitudes agree.... There remains my physical appearance! It is obviously on this ground that you dislike me, and it is precisely such weakness of judgment which surprises me, coming from you.... Ah! if you were one of those little coquettes ... a brainless little woman, one of those worldly dolls....”
“But, monsieur!...” Thérèse protested smilingly.
Boerzell interrupted her, gradually more excited.
“If you please, mademoiselle, allow me to finish.... If, as I say, you were one of those fashionable women without culture, without nobility of character, and as choke-full of prejudices as a stuffed goose is with chestnuts, I would not be surprised.... I know well what my faults are, and all that I lack in order to attract a little woman of this class.... But you, a person of your quality, that you should look upon marriage as these others do, that marriage should be in your estimation a sudden stroke of lightning, a confused heart, an irresistible passion, a handsome man with a mustache and the whole clap-trap of romance, I assure you, I cannot get over it! And when I think that we very likely are made for each other, when I think that we met, by an extraordinary chance, that we could form an intelligent sensible, clear-sighted union, and that we are not doing it, see, that almost rouses me to anger!”
He struck the pavement with his umbrella.
“Are you through?” Thérèse asked anxiously.
“Yes, mademoiselle!” he replied distractedly.
But he recanted at once.
“There is but one case in which your repugnance would appear to me logical and justified, worthy of you, in a word!... That would be if, by chance, you loved another man....”
Mlle. Raindal suddenly darkened. The lord of her existence surged again before her; Albârt, with his impudent smartness, his big, horse-like eyes and his ironical lips. Thérèse took in the young savant with a disdainful look and replied, her voice lowered by a sudden sadness:
“I love no one, monsieur!... Or, if you prefer, I am in love with a memory....”
“A memory!” Boerzell stuttered, all out of countenance.... “Ah, very good!... That is another thing.... I crave your pardon, mademoiselle.”
The silk of his hat was turned back; his thick lips, like those of a sea-god, were rounded into a ball and he wore such a disappointed, baffled and childish look that, despite the gravity of the circumstance, Thérèse found it difficult not to smile.
“You see, monsieur!” she said heartily, “you were mistaken, if not as to my intentions, at least concerning the root of my feelings.... To prove to you that I find pleasure in your society, I ask you, if you care to, to come every now and then to see us on Sundays, as a colleague, as a friend; and I should be delighted....”
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Boerzell said without enthusiasm. “Certainly, I shall come on Sundays.... Now it is unfortunate, however, that you have such ... do not take offense ... such accepted ideas, the ideas of everybody on the subject of marriage!... The dictates of the heart and love count, I admit, for much ... but they are not the only feelings in life!... Besides love, there exist sentiments of affinity, of sympathy and mutual consideration which can establish very strong links between two human beings who are all independent and superior.”
He noticed the darkening brow of Thérèse.
“Well, I do not intend to importune you any further, mademoiselle.... That would be poor return for your kind invitation.... If, then, you will permit it, I say, ‘until next Sunday.’”
“Until next Sunday!”
Thérèse turned into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Halting words called her back.
“It is I again, mademoiselle!” Boerzell said, running up to her.... “There was one last word I forgot to say.... It is possible that you have suspected an interested motive....”
With a gesture of the hand, Thérèse denied that she had.
“It does not matter!” Boerzell retorted. “I would not, for anything in the world, be mistaken for one of the young gentlemen who seek a fine marriage, a useful marriage.... Moreover, you should consultM. Raindal.... He will tell you himself that my scientific life is, to use the current expression, all marked out.... My professors like me and help me.... My competitors are few and are, most of them, but second-rate men.... From the École des Hautes Études, I am therefore bound to enter the Sorbonne or the Collège de France, and thence, I hope, the Institute.... A marriage with you would certainly not have been unhelpful.... Nevertheless, without this marriage my career, happiness apart, will be the same.... This was what I wished to say.... You will agree with me that, for the sake of our future friendship, these details have their importance!”
“They might have perhaps, if I had doubted you....”
“Phew!” the young savant said with skepticism. “You say this.... You are polite.... It remains a fact that one cannot be too cautious in such matters.... But I am delaying you, excuse me.... Until Sunday, mademoiselle....”
“That is agreed!” said Thérèse, in a tone that already showed comradeship.
When she entered the study where M. Raindal sat talking with her Uncle Cyprien, the latter welcomed her with a volley of compliments:
“Pristi! My nephew!... How well we are looking! And such shining eyes! Gayety all over your face! I could swear that you have not spent an altogether boring afternoon!”
“So it looks!” M. Raindal approved shyly.
“Well, it may be so ...” Thérèse replied.... “Guess whom I met? Little Boerzell. You remember him, father? The would-be fiancé at the Saulvard party.... A very strange young man; he has a whole series of theories and systems which amused me.... I am still laughing now.... Well, I asked him to visit us ... and he will probably come next Sunday!”
“You did quite right, dear!” M. Raindal asserted, as much in order to conciliate Thérèse as because of a mania he had to praise his inferiors.... “M. Boerzell is a young man with a rare future.... Everybody at the Académie holds him in high esteem.... It was only yesterday that someone was telling me....”
“What about you, uncle?” Thérèse interrupted. “It is my turn to ask you questions! Can you tell me what you are doing here, on a week day, a Wednesday, and at the sacred hour of the apéritif!”
“To begin with,” the younger M. Raindal objected ... “it is not more than half past five.... The apéritif lasts normally until half past seven.... I have therefore, mademoiselle, two good solid hours, if you please.... Now, you want to know why I am here. Hah, nephew, this rouses your curiosity! Well, I came to ask your father to take me to Mme. Chambannes.”
Thérèse bit her lips to repress a smile.
“Yes,” Uncle Cyprien continued, rubbing his close-croppedhair. “It was an idea that occurred to me ... a matter of curiosity!...”
“And I was telling your uncle,” M. Raindal put in rapidly, and without looking at Thérèse, “that I was quite ready to take him there, whenever he wished....”
“Why not to-morrow, Thursday?” Uncle Cyprien inquired.
M. Raindal hid under a short laugh a sigh that came to his lips.
“Hm! Hm! To-morrow, that is rather sudden.... I must have time to inform Mme. Chambannes.... Especially since her husband left last night on a journey.”
“Ah! on a journey!... Where to?...” Cyprien asked.
“To Bosnia, I believe.”
“Bosnia!... Ah, really, to Bosnia!” the younger Raindal repeated, in order to memorize this particularity or to discover therein a piece of probable evidence.
He said resolutely:
“Well, write at once to Mme. Chambannes.... Two lines, two simple lines.... I shall drop your letter in the box when I go.... She will have it the first thing to-morrow morning ... and if she does not want me....”
“Oh! very well!” M. Raindal said coldly, as he took up his pen.
But he added, before writing a word: “Nevertheless,I give you fair warning.... You may perhaps meet at Mme. Chambannes’ house some people who are not to your taste....”
“Who may they be?”
“I do know for certain.... Let me see, there may be the abbé Touronde, a friend of the family....”
This revelation caused Uncle Cyprien to forget himself. What! Madame Rhâm-Bâhan had an abbé, a curé, a black-robed one! Ah! that was really pretty good! What morals! What a century! What a muddle! And Uncle Cyprien laughed outright.
He only calmed down when Thérèse gave him a severe look to remind him of his promises.
“I am laughing,” he declared, “I am laughing, because ... you understand....”
He gave up the explanation.
“I laughed without malice.... You may rest assured that if I meet the abbé Tour... Tour what?—well, never mind!—I shall make myself agreeable ... most agreeable.... Go on, write, my dear fellow!”
Thérèse was exhausted. A mad impulse to laugh was overcoming her. Under the pretext of going to look for a pamphlet, she went to her room and ran to her armchair, bursting out in guffaws.
“Poor father!... What a woeful face! And my uncle wants to join the band now!... Ah! life is really funny!”
She was in a jocular mood, ready to find everythingamusing and grotesque; at heart, she had an impression of being at last cured and delivered from the crisis. She had a spontaneous feeling of gratitude for Boerzell. Was it not to a certain extent to this worthy young man that she owed this miracle? Had he not consoled her, distracted her, as if she had been a weeping child, with the sparkle of his conjugal thesis, the unusualness of his speeches and the insistent warmth of his voice? But for him, for that blend of comic and sound reason which emanated from his person and which now survived their conversation, she would probably still be desperately fighting the fever of evil, and exhausting herself in the dangerous nightmares of her unsatisfied desires. Could she have been, but for Boerzell, even amused by the worldly ambitions of her uncle, or by his sly waggery, or by anything at all? Poor Boerzell! She could never bring herself to accept him, to overcome the repulsion which his bearded old schoolbo face inspired in her. Nevertheless, who knew but that he might help her in the hours of her distress, might become a friend, a faithful comrade who would render her solitude less mournful, less forsaken?
She walked up and down her room, working herself up with such hopes. Brigitte had to knock twice at the door before she could inform her that dinner was served.
“HISbrother ... M. Rainda brother!” Mme. Chambannes murmured dreamily, leaning on the edge of her bed. Her lace-edged pillow made a soft frame for her scattered curls. Distractedly she gathered together the rest of her mail. There was an advertisement of a perfume house, a modist bill which she thrust aside with a disgusted pout, two newspapers and, under them, a closed letter-card. It was a strange card; the address was written in awkward capitals falling over each other—the suspicious appearance of an anonymous letter! Zozé tore it open slowly. Sensations of weakness vibrated along her arms. She read the following lines, traced on the gray paper in characters similar to those on the outside: