Should you have nothing better to do some morning, pass, towards 11 lock, the rue Godot-De Mauroi, in the neighborhood of number 12 bis; you will once more ascertain that the friends of our lady-friends are our friends.
Should you have nothing better to do some morning, pass, towards 11 lock, the rue Godot-De Mauroi, in the neighborhood of number 12 bis; you will once more ascertain that the friends of our lady-friends are our friends.
She fell back, one hand over her heart as if to shield a wound; she had not a doubt, felt no hope. She remained motionless at first, her eyes closed; then she began to stammer indistinctly.
“Oh!... oh!... oh! mon Dieu!... The wicked people! What an atrocious wickedness!”
A burning sensation was in her heart, and every query she invented, every possibility seemed a new burn that made her wound deeper.
They were denouncing Gerald, of course; but the woman, the mean wretch, the unknown betrayer—who could she be?
Zozé called to her mind in turn the names of all her friends but she could not lay the guilt on any special one. All seemed equally suspicious to her. Gerald had indulged in equivocal flirtations and familiar gestures with them all in turn; in each of them she now successively thought, according to her memories, that she held the accomplice. Then came the names of others who seemed more guilty, Flora Pums after Germaine de Marquesse, Rose Silberschmidt after Flora Pums. In the end she was altogether confused, the accumulation of equivalent proofs and contradictory presumptions. She made an attempt at finding a clue by seeking to guess at the name of the writer. Names surged to her mind, names of men who desired her and who might have been capable of wishing to destroy her happiness: Pums, Burzig, Mazuccio. It would surprise her were this infamous action to come from either of these. She realized how easily she suspected them all, men and women, and a sudden bitter grimace caused her lips to contract. Phew! In what company of cads and harlots was she living then, since none of themcould be free from her mistrust, since she had not once been afraid of wrongly accusing any of them? This sudden clearsight passed, however, like lightning and was clouded at once by her foaming anger. The little Mouzarkhi had no time for philosophy! She exaggerated the tone of her insults, like one in the delirium caused by disillusion; she had no love left, no tenderness, no illusion for anyone but Gerald, her beloved Gerald whom she was perhaps going to lose forever! Tears veiled her eyes. With anguish she visualized through their mist the inconceivable parting scene! She thought of herself, in the rue guesseau, on the threshold of the apartment, after the final explanation. She was turning back for a last glance at him. She came back once more to kiss him!... Oh, no, no! She did not want to see him any more; and a rushing terror caused her to draw the light linen sheet over her face. Convulsive sobs shook her sinuous form, which was plainly discernible under this burial-sheet. Suddenly she heard the clock on her mantelpiece striking ten and, with a more violent start, she threw back the coverings, jumped out of bed and rang nervously.
“Quick! hot water in the dressing-room.... My tailored costume of brown cloth.... My black coat!...” she said to the maid who came in at her call.
“What corset?”
“I do know! Any one!... Hurry up, that is all, hurry up, hurry up!”
“Does madame want a carriage?”
“Yes, tha it! A closed carriage ... or, rather, no! No carriage.... Hurry up!”
A bellicose haste speeded her on. She must be ready in time. She was rushing towards this supreme torture: to surprise the guilty ones as if it were a matchless joy; her nostrils vibrated, a savage smile lurked in the corner of her lips and her eyes shone with eagerness.
She was out at a quarter of eleven. She walked up the rue de Prony and crossed the parc Monceau. A gardener was removing the narrow sheathes of straw from round the exotic trees. The budding foliage spaced their masses which still admitted daylight; it had not lost its very pale green tints; a fresh perfume rolled softly on the breeze. The contrast of this riot of the elements saddened Zozé. She opened her sunshade, for the sun was already hot; as she walked she uttered long regretful whispers as if she were never again to see these graceful lawns nor breathe the balmy air.
She made an effort to stiffen herself against the softening reverie and called a passing closed cab:
“Listen carefully,” she ordered the driver. “We are going to the rue Gaudot-de Mauroi.... When I knock on the glass, you are to stop ... not to move again.... You will keep your seat and wait.... If I knock twice, you are to start again, slowly.... If I knock three times, you start at a trot.... Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame!” the driver said paternally. Hewas fat and wore a moustache; the mystery of the affair and her young captai tone amused him.
“Very well then, start!... There will be a good tip for you!”
The carriage went down the avenue de Messine.
As she approached the point of attack, Zozé saw her ardor weakening. She felt as if she were choking under heavy blows on her chest; then she fancied that her heart had become a poor little bird, and a brutal hand squeezed it. She kept her eyes closed, so as not to count the houses which were passing too fast.
A sudden motion caused her to open them again. The carriage turned into the rue Godot-de Mauroi. Zozé was barely in time to knock on the window pane. The driver stopped outside No. 9. From there, she could see diagonally No. 12bis, an old house, whose gray façade merged into similar ones. But, above the door, two yellow signs proclaimed that small apartments were to let.
“Here it is!” thought Zozé with a distressful sigh. She looked at her watch and saw that it was five minutes after eleven. She put up the windows so as to hide her face behind their mock transparency. She huddled in the left-hand corner, aggressively facing No. 12bisand began to look.
A quarter of an hour passed. Green-vegetable-hawkers cried their wares and pushed their heavy barrows in the silent, half-deserted street. At intervals, the cab-horse shook himself with a boredshiver that rocked the shafts; or the driver made a movement which set the harness rustling and the wood creaking. Zozé perceived these noises no more clearly than she noticed the neighboring shop, the passers-by who paused to look at her or the saddler opposite, whose face was bent down over his work behind a glass window. Invisible blinkers kept her eyes fastened ahead, as did the anxious attention which kept her body stiff, toward the small square of stones where the lovers would appear.
What were they saying now to each other, in what abject caresses were they swooning, on what floor were they, near which of these windows? Her memories helped her somewhat to visualize Gerald. But the woman escaped her. She guessed all of the perfidy, her waist, her nakedness, her breast and her arms, she could see everything but the head, all but the face! She was as one struggling in one of those terrible nightmares, when the features of one of the participants are dissolved and vanish as soon as one attempts to distinguish them.
A nearby clock announced the half hour. The delay of the two accomplices exasperated Zozé even more than their betrayal. Unconsciously, she called them forth in a vehement, and silent prayer: “Come! Come on! Hasten!” as one calls belated friends to an urgent appointment.
A sudden idea upset her. The letter might have lied! She might be the victim of a hoax! But no joy came in the wake of this idea. She could notaccept its plausibility. Her suspicions had wandered in every direction, and now she could not force them back. It was as if they scented their prey and were anxious for the imminent running down of the quarry.
Again, she consulted her watch. “Quarter of twelve! Very well.... At twelve, l go in and ask the concierge!...” Then she looked up again; her head fell back tragically.
There, in front of the arch of No. 12bis, a woman, dressed in a gray serge costume, was calling a cab; in spite of the white veil she wore, the thick, flowery embroidery, Zozé recognized a well-known profile, a plane-like jaw, her friend, her best friend, Germaine de Marquesse herself!
Now the carriage opposite started. It almost touched the wheels of her own. The hood was down and, under it, Germaine was arched in a resolute pose, one hand stretched on each end of her sunshade which lay across her knees. The wretch! It was indeed she! And she was not taking any notice of anything, this Germaine, so blinded was she with satisfaction!... Oh! the little Mouzarkhi never could have believed that the pleasure of surprisingthese twocould be so heavy with sorrow! She almost fainted, seized with sudden cowardice, as would a woman on the operating table, at the first contact of the steel. What would the second hurt be, if the first one left her feeling so terribly rent?
But she had no time to change her mind; Gerald appeared outside the accursed house.
He was in morning dress, a black cape, a blue suit with a bunch of flesh-colored carnations that “the other one” herself had no doubt pinned on the lapel of his coat. Zozé looked intently at him, her eyes dilated with horror and love.
He glanced right and left, as if hesitating. Then he set out, in his usual lolling gait, towards the rue des Mathurins; he carried his walking-stick under his arm; his shoulders were bent forward and his hands curled, shell-like, to light a cigarette.
Maddened, Zozé forgot the agreed signals. She pulled the window down and shouted to the driver:
“Go!”
The horse started at a slow trot. Madame Chambannes knocked frantically on the glass pane and, without waiting for the carriage to stop, jumped to the pavement.
The sound of the cab stopping caused Gerald to turn round. He saw the young woman and paled with uneasiness. Yet, he constrained himself to say with a heavy smile:
“What! is it you!...”
Zozé pointed to the cab and its open door: “Get in!” she commanded, harshly.
“You wish me to get in? What a funny tone of voice you are using!” stammered Gerald, again attempting a smile.
“I tell you to get in!” repeated Zozé, herselfastounded at her audacity. “Come on, get in!... I am not afraid of anything, neither of people nor of scandal.... I want you to get in!”
A band of young working girls going out to lunch looked at them and nudged each other.
“Very well!” said Gerald, embarrassed.... “All the same!... you must admit that you have a strange way of....”
“Enough! We shall talk by and by.”
And, while the young count settled himself in the carriage, she told the driver.
“Drive where you like!... To the Bois.... Go towards the Bois.”
They started out. Both were seasoned navigators of Paris, experts in the ways of carriage driving; they pulled down the blinds. Then Zozé cried out:
“Well?”
Then her energy left her and she burst into tears.
“What is the matter?... What is it?... I assure you I do not understand!” Gerald murmured hypocritically, as he stretched out his arm to hold her.
She avoided him with a brusque movement.
“Do not touch me!... You make me sick.... Do stop your stupid lies.... I saw Germaine.... Do you understand now?” Geral silence caused her rage to break out: “How shameful! What an ignominious affair!... With one of my own friends, with the one I loved best! Bah! you are just as worthless!... You are two bandits, twoblackguards! It was natural that you should take to each other....”
Gerald attempted to come closer.
“Come, come, my little Zozé, mon petit Zozo.... Do cry.... This has no importance at all.... Yes, it is true ... and it is not nice.... But it was even more stupid than wicked.... Look here, if the rules that govern decent society allowed me to speak openly....”
“Well, what then?” said Zozé, without repulsing him.
“No!” said Gerald. “It would be disgusting.... You yourself could not wish it.... Be sure, nevertheless, that to-day was the first time and that, at once, on leaving ... do you know what I was saying to myself just now when you jumped on me?... I was telling myself that it was the first and also the last time....”
“Will you swear it to me?” asked Zozé, with a passion that gave her face, which was convulsed with rage, even a stranger look.
“I do!” Gerald replied.
She examined him tenderly, laying her two hands on his shoulders, then pushed him back far from her with an angry thrust: “I do believe you.... You lie.... You have a woma eyes!” She began to cry again. In the half light which came through the blinds, as at the rehearsal of a play, near his mistress who moaned as if she were in the last actof a melodrama, Gerald began to feel too weary to justify himself.
“Come, my little Zozé, mon petit Zozo!” he still murmured from time to time, mechanically, to put himself in countenance.
Nevertheless, the scene lasted too long; it was getting on his nerves. The proud nobleman confusedly rebelled under the love anxiety. Zoz brusque way had really hurt his feelings. He, Gerald de Meuze, allowing himself to be bullied by a mere Mme. Chambannes? No matter how docile, no matter what a charming pal Zozé was, he was beginning almost to regret the women of his own caste. Of course, among them there were a fewamoureuses, a few sentimentalists, notorious sticklers who were known as such. But one was duly warned and only ventured into an affair with open eyes! On the other hand, what agreeable natures these people had; how easy and merry they were; and how well they understood life! Ah! neither the young Chitré, for instance, nor Mme. de Baugy, nor even that plump cherub, Mme. Torcieux, would have made so much noise for such a banal little trick! They would have pouted a while; they might have left him. But there would have been neither scandal nor sobs. Two or three sharp words at first—then a firm handshake, to make it up or to part, and that would have been all. For they knew what a man was, what a flirtation or an adventure meant. They were women of the world!...
Suddenly, between two jolts, Zozé asked in a tone of stupefaction.
“Oh! Raldo.... How could you?... How?... How?...”
How could he! Poor little one, what exquisite things she said! He repressed a smile, then, softened at once by the candor of her query, he replied:
“l tell you later ... some day, when I am absolutely sure that it can no longer hurt you....”
“Some day?... What day?” Zozé exclaimed haughtily.... “Do you suppose that I shall ever see you again?... Do you feel that it is all over?”
He drew her close to him.
“So, then, do you love me any more?”
Zozé panted, unable to answer. Tears ran down her cheeks which were contracted by a spasm of pain.
“Of course you love me, since you cry!” Gerald said, caressing her. And he went on, with more assurance. “Listen, my little Zozé.... Of course, to meet you again now, at once, to-morrow or the next day, that could only bring about more scenes, sadness ... painful interviews.... You need rest and reflection.... You must have time ... to forgive me.... Oh! I am not a brute, be sure that I guess what you are feeling.... Here is what I suggest.... I was to leave next week for Poitou, to visit my aunt at Cambres.... Well, I am going to advance my departure.... I shall leave this very night.... l stay at Cambres until the end of the month and write to you as often as you like....And when I come back, everything will be forgotten, I give you my word on it.... Tell me, does this suit you?”
With each jolt Mme. Chambannes let her head dreamily bump upon Geral shoulder. The young man repeated:
“Answer me, my little Zozé.... Does this suit you?”
“Yes, yes!” Mme. Chambannes said meditatively. “I have an idea, too....”
“Tell me, my poor Zozé!...”
“I should be bored in Paris.... I should be too sad without you.... So, I am going to recuperate at the Frettes, until you return.... When I get home, I am going to pack my trunks and I shall leave by the 5 lock express.”
“Alone?”
“No! I am going to mobilize my Aunt Panhias!...”
“Tha right! An excellent idea.”
There came a pause. She felt throughout her body a lifting sensation of beatitude, a feeling of being rescued, which prevented her from speaking. She nestled quite close to Gerald, with an outpouring of avowal which was stronger than her will, and sighed languorously:
“Oh, my little Raldo! How good it is to have kept you!”
It was 2 lock before she returned home.
MME.Chambanneshad not been gone one hour when a cab stopped outside her house.
The two MM. Raindal stepped out. In order to avoid any insidious remark from his brother, the master had donned an old frock-coat. Uncle Cyprien, on the contrary, had dressed himself in his best clothes, a tail-coat, the tails of which still showed the folds which a long stay in the cupboard had given them, a pair of gray check trousers and red dogskin gloves. He was close-shaved and had replaced his thick cornel-wood stick with a thin rush cane with a gold handle and two brown silk tassels inherited from M. Raindal his father.
Firmin the butler opened the door for them; he was so surprised that he fell back a few steps. He was, moreover, dressed to go out, with a suit of English check and a felt hat.
“What! M. Raindal!” he exclaimed, as he removed his hat. “But madame is not here.... She left an hour ago for the Frettes ... and I am joining her to-morrow morning.... Did not madame warn monsieur?”
Uncle Cyprien was biting his mustache to suppress a laugh that he felt coming.
“No, madame said nothing to me,” M. Raindal kept on repeating jerkily.... “I extraordinary. I hope at least there is nothing serious?”
“I do think so, monsieur,” the man replied. “Madame made up her mind suddenly about 2 lock.... I ran out to Mme. Panhias and she came at once to help madame pack.... They left with Anna, the maid, as I told you, not an hour ago. Should monsieur wish to write a note I could give the letter to madame to-morrow morning....”
M. Raindal reflected. Such offhandedness left him dumfounded; and there came to his soul an ill-defined impression of anguish, of strange sorrow. At last he replied:
“No, thank you!... I shall write from home.... Where did you say madame went?”
“To the Frettes, the château des Frettes, at Villedouillet, Seine-et-Oise.... Will monsieur remember it?”
“Certainly.... Thank you.”
When the door was closed the master glanced at his brother and said, with an attempt at banter:
“Well, my poor friend.... For your first visit you are not in luck!”
Cyprien nodded and spread his arms in a gesture of assent; then he straightened suddenly and remarked:
“How does it seem to you? Your Madame Chambannes does appear to be any more polite than she should!”
The master was on the point of answering when two carriages which came from opposite directions stopped at the same time in front of the house. The abbé Touronde came out of the first and the Marquis de Meuze out of the other. The two men were informed of the circumstances by M. Raindal and manifested great surprise. Neither of them had been warned; they all ventured many conjectures as to the possible reason for this strange lack of courtesy. M. de Meuze especially showed himself very shocked. He had difficulty in not cursing Gerald. What! a fellow whom he had seen that very morning, who surely knew all about it and had not said a word to his father! Really, this was going beyond all bounds of secretiveness!
“Wha to be done?” he declared. “There is only one thing left for us to do and that is for each one of us to return home.... Are you going down to Paris, M. Raindal?”
“Yes, certainly,” the master replied. “Pardon me, I was forgetting.... I must introduce my brother, whom I had brought particularly to meet Mme. Chambannes.”
All the men took off their hats, Uncle Cyprien purposely accentuating his salute to the abbé Touronde. Together they began to walk towards the centre, the master and the abbé walking first and M. de Meuze behind with Uncle Cyprien.
Nevertheless, M. Raindal only casually followed the words of the priest who had started on his favoritesubject, the origin and dogma of the sect of the United Copts. The brutal departure of Mme. Chambannes had agitated his nerves beyond his control. What struck him as a lack of courtesy towards her other guests he construed as a real lack of friendship, in so far as he himself was concerned. Again, the adventure concealed a mystery which he wished he could fathom. What was the meaning of this hurried flight, this forgetfulness of all social obligations? What drama or what caprice had thus unexpectedly sent Mme. Chambannes out of Paris? And a certain irritation gradually oppressed him; it was not, of course, jealousy—the mere idea of it made M. Raindal laugh cynically—but it resembled disappointment, disillusion, something, in fine, that was very much like a pained surprise in his heart. He lifted his hat to wipe from his forehead a few beads of perspiration.
“You must excuse me!” Uncle Cyprien exclaimed to the marquis, after having made an unsuccessful jeering comment upon the abbé Touronde. “I prefer to be frank.... It is stronger than I.... I do like priests!...” And seeing that the Marquis remained cold and had completely closed his gray eyelids, he added rapidly: “On the other hand, I am willing to admit that I do like the Jews any better.”
Thereupon they very soon proved to be in agreement. M. de Meuze told him briefly of his misfortune on the stock exchange. Cyprien reciprocated with the history of his dismissal and a short account of his theory of the two banks of the river. The marquisapproved smilingly and both concluded that those of the right bank were after all a most deplorable tribe.
They were, nevertheless, the marquis added, gentlemen who must be carefully handled and who remained, no matter what one might do, the lords of the financial market.... Ah, in 1882, at the time of theTimbale, people had been very thoughtless. They had attacked these Jews without learning their tactics, without suspecting what their ammunition consisted of, without taking any precaution against theirruses de guerre; and they had been defeated, most thoroughly beaten. How could one fight more able adversaries than oneself? By divining their plans, locating all their batteries, regulating on fire by theirs, and finally rectifying the parabola according to the ambient resistance which was apparent there; such as perfidious information, the mass attacks from the syndicates, the liquidation maneuvers, false news or any other strategical piece of duplicity. Such was now the only scientific way in which men of the world were operating on the Bourse.
“Thus, as for myself,” the marquis continued, giving up his military comparisons, “I am deep in the gold mines at present.... Well, you will perhaps think that I risked myself blindly in this.... Not at all.... The chance of relations brought me into touch with some of those worthy gentlemen, precisely at the Chambannes, and I can assure you that I made no bones about acting upon their particulars....Certainly not!... And, by the way, I did not find their tips unremunerative....”
“What, you trust those gentry?” the younger M. Raindal asked with disappointment. “Yet I have been assured that many of them are not very trustworthy....”
“Who told you this?”
“One of my friends, Johann Schleifmann, one of their co-religionists, and, I may add, one of the best of men!”
“Your friend exaggerates, monsieur,” the marquis said gently. “Of course, I would not trust them all.... There are some of them whom I shall not name and whom I am more afraid of than of the plague.... Nevertheless, take, for instance, to mention but one, M. Pums, the director of the Bank of Galicia. Here is a man who has been advising me for six months and without any cause for regret.... I could not swear that I do not lose every now and then ... but when I balance my accounts, I find that my operations result in profits, I may say important profits.... Please note also that this cost me neither trouble nor a proof of servility.... Pums has no desire save to oblige me.... He is not one of those viziers of high finance who make you pay for their advice at the rate of sixty humiliations to a hundred per cent.... My M. Pums is a novice! One can have him for a handshake.” The marquis laughed at his own ingenious comparison. Then he went on.
“As for you, Monsieur, of course you have nothing to do with such deviltries!”
“No fear,” Cyprien exclaimed. “I have invested the wretched twenty thousand francs which I had scraped sou by sou out of my poor salary in railway stock. This brings me about three per cent.... It is very little, I grant you, but it is safe and, with the help of my pension, allows me to make both ends meet.... I speculate! No, never in my life!... Then again, what would be the use? I do need it!”
The marquis fell to dreaming. He was seized with an impulse of democratic sympathy towards the fiery little official. The latter was too poor to cause the haughty nobleman to fear any unpleasant familiarity. The very distance that stood between them brought them together. He said suddenly in a sententious tone:
“Who knows, perhaps you are wrong! There are at present opportunities for a man to make a fortune in mines ... and when I see rogues and fools who become rich over night and the next moment I meet an honest man like yourself who takes no advantage of the opportunity, I feel tempted to cry out to him: ‘Go on, go ahead! do not lose this opportunity!... An opportunity which can be met but two or three times in the course of a century—why, surely it is worth it.’”
“Do you think it? Do you think so?” Uncle Cyprien repeated; he was still skeptical but already shaken in his resolves. The marquis went on withthat mania for preaching charity in which fortunate gamblers take delight.
“After all, what is the prospect so far as you are concerned? There is really no question of making a fortune. At the most it is a matter of bettering yourself, of gaining the means to treat yourself to a little luxury and a little comfort.... Ah, if I were you ... but enough of this.... I do want to influence you.... Whenever you feel like it, M. Raindal, come to see me.... I live at 2 rue de Bourgogne at the corner of the Place de Palais Bourbon.” They caught up with the master and the abbé, who had stopped at the corner of the Pont de la Concorde. They took leave of each other. When the two brothers were left alone M. Raindal asked: “Will you come to dine with us?”
Cyprien did not hear him; he was dreamily contemplating the peach velvet patches splashed on the discolored horizon by the setting sun.
“I am asking you if you are coming to dine?” M. Raindal repeated.
“What! Wha that?” Cyprien started. “Shall I dine with you?... No, thank you.... Schleifmann is waiting for me at the brasserie.... I ca disappoint him.”
The little green omnibus of the Panthéon-Courcelles was slowly climbing up the street; he shook his brothe hand rapidly.
“Au revoir.... One of these evenings!”
He climbed on top. As he turned into the BoulevardSt. Germain M. Raindal caught sight of him; he was still waving his supple gold-headed stick in a friendly gesture.
“Hello! Good evening, my dear friend,” said Schleifmann, when Cyprien settled down at the table next to his own.... “Have you seen the young person?”
“No, my dear friend ... but I saw one of your enemies.”
He related the inexplicable flight of Mme. Chambannes, his walk with the marquis and the talk about gold mines and asked him, when he had finished: “Well, my dear Schleifmann, what do you say?”
“About what?”
“Why, this story about the mines, of course!...”
Schleifman little eyes shone fiercely and he passed his hand through his curly hair.
“I say that it is another dirty deal by means of which the Jews of the Bourse will again take in a large amount of money for themselves and raise up more hatred against those of their own race.... That is all I have to say about your mines!”
Raindal, the younger, repressed an impatient gesture.
“Sapristi, Schleifmann! Please try to understand me.... I am not asking you about the Jews but about myself.... Tell me, yes or no, do you think that I should take a risk?”
The Galicia face took on an expression of pity.
“You, my dear Raindal? You cannot be serious!... You, agoy(gentile), and an honest fellow, as well, you have got it into your head to have dealings with those big bears?... But they will eat you, my friend; they will chew you up as if you were a mutton chop!...”
“In short,” said Uncle Cyprien with resentment, “you are opposed to this project!...”
Schleifmann sneered and shrugged his shoulders.
“But your project does exist, i pure folly.... Do as you please.... But I beg you never to tell me a word of this ludicrous piece of madness.”
Cyprien remained silent, choked by anger. He resented as much the Galicia disdainful tone as the tenacity with which he dampened the sparkling hopes of riches which the marquis had lit before him. His anti-Semitic convictions were now directed, for the first time in ten years, against Schleifmann. In the stubbornness of his old comrade he discovered much less a proof of friendship than a characteristic of the Jewish pride of which his most favorite authors quoted monstrous examples! Cyprien remained taciturn throughout the evening, recalling to himself all their names. In these conditions the meeting soon languished and the two friends parted coldly an hour sooner than usual.
The next day M. Raindal, the younger, proved unable to resist the itching he felt to know the quotations on the financial market. He bought an evening paper and took refuge in the Luxemburg in order toread the reports in peace. But he was unused to them and found the transversal lines, the perpendicular columns, the quotations of “to-day” and those of “yesterday” perplexingly confusing. It was only after ten minutes of effort that he discovered the place where the “advance” was given. Everywhere on the gold mines it was considerable and almost general, showing differences of fifteen, twenty, thirty and even fifty francs.
The stocks sold up in the same way on the next day and the day after. Uncle Cyprien made a mental calculation of the amounts which he would have already pocketed but for that mule of a Schleifmann. The dinners at the brasserie daily showed more signs of these accumulated grudges.
At last, on the fifth day, M. Raindal could contain himself no longer. At half-past twelve he went home to dress and half-an-hour later stepped out of a cab in the rue de Bourgogne in front of M. de Meuz door.
The marquis in a brown coat and with a pipe in his mouth was still at his dining-table when Cyprien was ushered in.
“How do you do, my dear M. Raindal!” he exclaimed, as he pushed his chair back. “I am delighted to see you. I am receiving you without any ceremony.... You will have coffee with me, wo you? A cigar?” he added, holding out a box of fat Havanas.
“If you please,” the ex-official replied.
There was a pause during which M. Raindal gravelylit his cigar, the red and gold paper band of which he had not dared to remove. He was, moreover, affected by the majestic aspect of the dining-room. The ceilings were as high as those of a museum gallery; the windows were enormous. On all the walls hung old tapestries with fading scenes, emphasized at intervals by antique chiseled copper ornaments. M. de Meuze himself, despite his brown coat and his big meerschaum pipe, well fitted into the atmosphere of high elegance which the surrounding objects gave to the room.
“Well, M. Raindal, what is your news?” he said between two puffs.
“Well, Monsieur le Marquis! Nothing of importance!” Cyprien replied with embarrassment.
M. de Meuze stared at him out of his piercing little green eye.
“I wager you came to talk business with me.”
Cyprien grinned but did not deny it.
“Ah ha!” the marquis exclaimed victoriously. “What did I say?... I felt that at once.... I have but one eye but I can see as well as if I had two....”
Coquettishly he caressed the white wings of his whiskers and, going to the window, lifted up a curtain.
“Do you see? You must admit that for a first-floor apartment, mine enjoys a fine view.... The house of our lords is in full sight....”
Through the white-barred windows Cyprien sawthe Place de Palais Bourbon and in front of the ancient door a little soldier dreaming near his sentry box, holding his rifle at attention. Cyprien said sneeringly:
“Ah! it is there that our lords of the cheque-book dwell.”
“Yes, M. Raindal, right there ... the door facing us! This window will be worth much on the first day of the riots.... But we are gossiping. I was forgetting the object of your visit.... What was it?... You came for the mines, did you?”
Cyprien agreed that this was the case. He had come under the seal of secrecy—for, of course, no one, not even his brother, should know of his attempt—and after serious consideration.
“Quite so,” the marquis interrupted. “I guessed as much.... Will you please come this way.... We shall be more at ease to talk.”
They passed into the other room, a vast cabinet furnished in Eastern style with scimitars and carbines inlaid with mother-of-pearl in panoplies. He went on:
“So you wish to join the party? Nothing easier.... I am going to write to M. Pums now and, unless you inform him to the contrary, you must go and see him to-morrow about three at the Bank of Galicia, 72 rue Vivienne.... Will this do?...”
He sat down at his huge table and added, while he wrote the note:
“But, take care, no foolishness! Be cautious. Thetime is favorable.... But you must foresee the débâcle, the inevitable unfortunate débâcle which always occurs with speculative stocks?... Oh, we are not there yet.... But you must keep your eyes open.... Do lose your head! You had better bother Pums ten times before you give an order ... and at the slightest break, you must sell at once, sell without paying any heed to anything! Do you hear?”
Cyprien thanked him profusely and gave his solemn promise.
Once in the street, he walked briskly towards the Champs Elysées. The sky had freshened and showed a radiant spring gayety. The faces of the women he met seemed more beautiful and Uncle Cyprien bestowed gallant looks at them.
He sat in a chair facing the carriages which passed in the splendid avenue. A hopeful joy dilated his whole being. How sweet it would be if he could open his soul about this with someone! What a pity that Schleifmann proved so intractable! Once more M. Raindal was carried away by the bitterest reflections against him.
And the next day he presented his card at the Bank of Galicia and was received at once.
M. Pums at once assured him of his sympathy. The friendship of M. de Meuze and the fact that he was M. Rainda brother was a double recommendation and one too great for M. Pums not to feel very much disposed to help his visitor.
“By the way,” exclaimed Cyprien, “I should be indebted to you if you would say nothing of this to my brother.... He might become alarmed and imagine that I have fallen a prey to the passion of gambling and such nonsense.... I prefer....”
“There is no need to insist,” M. Pums declared. “In business discretion is the rule.... Moreover, it is quite enough that you should ask me....”
He explained to Cyprien the mechanism of buying and selling stock. He would put his visitor in touch with a broker, M. Talloire, the ban own agent, that of the marquis and of a quantity of other personages and respectable houses. M. Talloire would open an account for M. Raindal, who would then have nothing else to do but give his orders.
“Hm! Hm!” Cyprien remarked, blinking. “Shall I have to go to this Talloire myself?... It is very unpleasant.”
M. Pums smiled cordially.
“Oh, it is not indispensable.... If you wish it, we can assume the responsibility of transmitting your orders in this way....”
While he analyzed the process that would have to be followed, the ex-official was speaking to his own soul. He liked little M. Pums. It would be really impossible to meet a more courteous and obliging man. As for that Jewish appearance which Cyprien had expected to notice in him, the professo brother was compelled to admit that Pums did not show any sign of it. His big chocolate-colored eyes, yellow skinand black mustache gave him the head of a creole, a Spaniard, a Turk or a rich Kirghiz. Even the very slight accent seemed to Cyprien quite different from what might be expected from a naturalized “Prussian.”
“I thank you,” he said, when the other had concluded. “And now, one question, please! How much shall I risk? Is five thousand enough?”
“Anything you like, monsieur. Twenty thousand francs or ten sous, according to your fancy.... You understand very well that I am treating you as a friend and not as a client.... I am only sorry for one thing, that you did not come a fortnight sooner.... With five thousands francs that I could have placed for you a week ago, a straight profit of three thousand francs would have fallen into your pocket at the settlement on the 15th....”
“Three thousand francs,” Uncle Cyprien repeated sadly. “Well, i too late!... Do le think of it!... And since five thousand francs seem enough to you, please be so good as to buy me five thousand francs’ worth of mining stock....”
“Which ones, monsieur?” Pums inquired gravely. “There are hundreds of them.”
“I do know,” murmured Uncle Cyprien. “You must advise me!... Do for me as you would for the marquis!”
Pums gave him a list of mining stocks which the Bank of Galicia and its affiliated houses were backing on the markets. Cyprien was confused by thisenumeration and decided according to the prettiness or the strangeness of the names. He selected the “Pink Star of South Africa,” the “Fountain of the Red Diamond,” the “Source of Carbuncles,” the “Pummigan and Kraft,” and the “Deemerhuis and Haarblinck,” the names of which Pums obligingly translated for his benefit.
He then rose, apologizing for having claimed so much precious time. The banker retorted that he was only too glad and went as far as the outside corridor to see his visitor off. He hoped to see him again in a week at the time of the settlement, since they would have to talk it over again.
“What a charming man!” Uncle Cyprien thought, when the door was closed behind him.
He spent the following week in a fever of pleasant anxiety. The stocks were rising. But he feared he had made a mistake. He was afraid of having exaggerated the profits which, according to his calculations, were already in the neighborhood of two thousand francs. This spoiled his happiness every night.
Consequently he felt a sudden emotion when, on the morning of the 29th, as he was leaving his house to go to the brasserie, the concierge handed him a yellow envelope with the heading of the Talloire house. What did this long envelope contain? Supposing he had miscalculated? If, instead of the expected profits, it were to tell him of losses?
He walked to the high door of the house and tore the envelope open when he was behind it. It containedonly a single sheet of paper, striped zebra-like with columns, figures, abbreviated words, and the trembling of his hands further increased the chaos. Two trade expressions caught his eye, on the left: Dr.; on the right: Cr. Above these he read:
M. Cyprien RaindalHis account in settlement of April 30 with M. Talloire, Broker, 96 rue de Choiseul.
M. Cyprien Raindal
His account in settlement of April 30 with M. Talloire, Broker, 96 rue de Choiseul.
“Hm! I must be cool! Do I win or do I lose?” the uncle murmured, while his eyes scanned the page. He noticed at last a little gathering of figures in a corner, with, next to the wordTotal, the mention:Creditor: 7700 fr.
“Seven thousand, seven hundred francs!” he muttered, his heart beating fast against his ribs. “From 7700 I take out the 5000 I put in.... There remains 2700! Two thousand, seven hundred francs profit! There must be some mistake.... And yet I must be right; whoever receives, he owes; whoever owes, he receives.... I am the creditor.... I win.”
Yet a doubt lurked in his mind, despite this certainty. He wanted to free himself from it at once, to know, and it was nothing but the fear of importuning the agent that prevented him from rushing to the rue de Choiseul. This distressful feeling was met with a sudden remembrance of the Marquis’ advice, “to bother Pums ten times rather than one.” The solution was clear, since Pums himself had offeredhis services beforehand. Uncle Cyprien jumped into a cab.
All the way, in order to prop up his own faith, he repeated in rhythmic time: “Who receives owes!... who owes receives!... Nevertheless, this axiom did not altogether reassure him. Only the jovial reception Pums gave him restored Cyprie serenity.
“Well!” the banker exclaimed, when he saw his protégé. “It seems to me that we have no cause to complain.... If my calculations are right, M. Raindal, you have made about 500 francs!”
Silently, Raindal pushed his paper forward.
“Here you are!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Pums, as he looked at the figures. “Two thousand, seven hundred francs profit!... You are going well for a beginner!... Bravo! Congratulations! Of course, it goes without saying that you are keeping your position?”
“I beg your pardon?” M. Raindal asked, with an anxious expression.
“I mean to say that I take it you will leave your profit on the same securities.”
Cyprien thought a while, then asked very meekly:
“Could I not draw some of it out?”
“Anything you like! This money belongs to you. You are its lord and master.... Do be afraid.... Name your figure!”
“Seven hundred francs!” Cyprien said resolutely. “I draw seven hundred out, I leave seven thousandin.... This leaves a round sum, does it not?” Then he added in a less assured voice, “Can I cash it here?”
“Hm!” Pums replied. “It is not very regular.... Well, since it is for you, for a friend!... Just sign this power for me to cash at Talloir.... I am going to give you a check which you need only to present at our cashie office....”
Cyprien signed it.
“And we retain your confidence?” M. Pums asked as he rose. “You still wish me to direct your orders?”
“What! Are you laughing at me, M. Pums?” Cyprien replied. “My confidence.... My gratitude, you should say ... my deep gratitude! Buy me, if you please, the same stocks, or buy me any other that you think more advisable.... I am convinced that you are acting for my best interests.... Au revoir, monsieur, and thank you again!”
When he reached the street he turned instinctively towards the Bourse. The seven 100-franc notes which they had given him formed a little hard protuberance in his inside pocket, and he laid his hand on it at every step. He was filled with schemes of generous bounty. He paused a little while to contemplate the tumult of the Bourse, the shouting crowd that was perhaps to make him richer again soon. Entering the nearest tobacco shop he asked for special brand cigars and was shown several kinds. He sniffed them in expert fashion and, by squeezing them in the middle, made them crackle against his ear. Finally he boughta box at one franc apiece and added two packets of American cigarettes to this purchase.
But when he went out, he caught sight of a pipe merchan window near the shop and still on the place de la Bourse. Supported with invisible props or laid in luxurious cases, with stems that were brutally straight and stems with serpentine curves, meerschaum and briar pipes mingled their white and brown colors. Gold and silver rings encircled amber cigar cases; all of them, in their velvet cases, had the air of fine jewels destined for princely lips. Cyprien looked at them and shook his head. All at once a look of satisfaction shone in his eyes. What if he were to buy one of those pipes, a nice, fat meerschaum, like that of the Marquis, for his old comrade Schleifmann of whom, their dispute notwithstanding, he was very fond! And he entered the shop.
His selection proved to be so long, so careful an affair that it was past 12.45 by the clock of the Brasserie Klapproth when M. Raindal arrived.
“A little present for you, my dear Schleifmann!” he said, sitting down to the left of the Galician. “A little present which I have been considering for a long time.... Take it ... yes, open it; it is for you!”
Slowly Schleifmann opened the parcel.
“A pipe!” he exclaimed, as he played with the case.
“Quite so, and a pipe de luxe! The result of six months’ savings in cigarettes, my dear friend!”
The pipe represented a mermaid, whose double twisted tail curled around the stem as far as theamber mouthpiece and whose seductive head had been hollowed for the bowl. Schleifmann could not conceal his admiration.
“It is marvelous ... colossal, colossal!” he repeated, using the German expression which to him signified supreme enthusiasm.... “I am going to smoke it now.... Waiter, matches!”
Uncle Cyprien watched the preparations for the inauguration with a glorious and softened feeling.
“Exquisite!” Schleifmann declared, after two whiffs. “A child could smoke it.... You are very kind, my dear Cyprien.”
He took up the case and examined the lining, a coat of dark red plush with the make name stamped in gold letters. Brusquely, he knocked on the table with his fist.
“Raindal!” he shouted. “Look me in the eyes!”
“Here!” the ex-official replied, looking furtively at his friend, his face slantwise.
“You are gambling at the Bourse, my friend!”
“I!” said Uncle Cyprien, in shocked rebellion.
“Yes, you! This address tells me everything: Place de la Bourse! You are gambling on the mines!... Have a care, Raindal! This is an adventure which may cost a great deal more than you imagine!”
He replaced the pipe in its case with a gesture of renunciation.
“You make me tired, Schleifmann!” grumbled Cyprien. “You upset me considerably.... What! I take the trouble to buy you a pipe, to choose it asif for myself! And this is all I get for it: words of ill-omen!... Well, yes; there.... I have gambled.... I have even won.... I won seven hundred francs.... But it is fi-ni-shed, all finished! To-day I stopped everything.... Are you satisfied, you silly?”
“Finished!” the Galician sneered. “I do not believe a word of it, my dear fellow.... Begun, yes.... But finished, after such a profit! You take me for a fool, Raindal!”
Cyprien made a haughty grimace.
“As you like! Do believe me! I cannot compel you to believe me.... Very well, then.... I am still gambling.... I gamble until I am all out of breath.... Quite so.... And you are leaving me my pipe?... You could do anything pleasanter!”
Unwittingly, Schleifmann glanced with regret at the plump siren which, lying on her side, seemed as if asleep.
“There! I do want to upset you, my dear Cyprien!... Nevertheless, I am shamed to take your pipe.... I ought not to.... It is right.”
“Do be so fussy,” said Raindal, with an air of affection. “Take it back quickly ... since as I tell you not gambling any more!”
“The Lord be praised, if you are telling the truth!” Schleifmann murmured, as he lit his pipe.
The conversation once more became friendly. From time to time, Schleifmann exhaled between two puffs: “Delicious.... Colossal!” Uncle Cyprien thoughtthat his deception had succeeded and ventured in a careless tone:
“Ah, by the way! While I think of it!... You realize that, because of this little affair, I owe a certain courtesy to the Marquis de Meuze.... Would it hurt your feelings to lunch here with him?”
“Between you and me, I would care to,” the Galician grunted after a pause.
“Why not? Oh! I can guess.... The Marqui opinions! Well, first of all, if there is nothing else to stop you, you may rest assured.... I have already told him you were a good Jew.”
“My dear friend, I wish you would not use that expression!” Schleifmann said nervously. “Have I not taught you that there are no bad Jews? At the most, it can only be said that there are degenerate Jews....”
“Besides,” Cyprien went on, “the Marquis seemed to me very much calmed down on this subject! If you knew all the kind things he said concerning several of your co-religionists!”
“It was one of two things,” Schleifmann said dryly. “Either he was laughing at you or he is a bad Catholic.”
“He! He adores the curés!”
“He may adore the curés,” the Galician retorted, in the same tone. “But, as a good Catholic, he cannot love the Jews.... Catholic religion means universal religion.... So long as there remains one heretic on the globe, the crusade remains open.... Wriggleout of this if you can!... And is it not natural? Religions thrive on fanaticism alone and perish through tolerance alone.”
“So, you approve of the Saint Bartholomew, the Inquisition, and the Dragonnades?” exclaimed Cyprien, whose bourgeois background was shocked by the sharpness of these aphorisms.
“As of the Terror!” Schleifmann replied. “Or rather I do not approve of them, but I can explain their existence.... Such events are political measures which happen to be useful to a party.... You cannot sow the seeds of such beliefs on dry soil, by means of reasoning; they germinate only in blood and blossom only through fear.”
“Accordingly, if the Revolution were to come back, you would, if necessary, have my head cut off!”
“Who knows?” Schleifmann replied, with a half sarcastic smile. “If you had become too rich!”
Although he relished a jest of this nature very little, M. Raindal affected to be amused.
“All right, Schleifmann! In advance of getting my head chopped off, you already seem to be pulling my leg, old man. I have told you, and I repeat it, the Marquis no longer harbors any appreciable intolerance. Going, going, going! Do you refuse to lunch with him?”
“Well, I am willing,” the Galician replied contemptuously. “But later, say in a year, I shall be more precise and name the day; it shall be on the day that follows the smash up of the mines....Yes, on that day, I shall be delighted to converse with your friend the Marquis about the Jews and tolerance.”
Cyprien shrugged his shoulders. “One cannot be serious for a minute with you.... Oh, well! Le drop it. You refuse to join us; we can eat without you!”
Schleifmann did not reply, but busied himself with stuffing the head of his mermaid.
“What about your brother?” he asked suddenly. “What does your brother think of all this?”
“My brother? Do talk to me about him! He bores me perhaps even more than you do, my dear man! I do know what is the matter with him this last fortnight.... But I should not be so very much surprised if someone were to tell me that the departure of Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan is at the bottom of it.... You should see his temper!... and his face! In short, he is not to be spoken to.”
Cyprien added confidentially: “And not a word, please, about this mining business, in case you happen to meet him! There would be everlasting sermons and warnings!”
Schleifmann promised to keep the secret. Uncle Cyprien lifted up one hand in a gesture of disgust.
“My brother! Ah! la! la! he is a bore, regular bore, these days!”
FORonce Uncle Cyprien had not exaggerated. Ever since the day of their disappointment in the rue de Prony, M. Raindal had been unable to rid himself of a feeling of hostility whenever he saw his brother; either because the sight of Uncle Cyprien recalled an unpleasant memory or because the master feared his brothe questions. At each visit he showed him a more bitter coldness.
The departure of Mme. Chambannes had dealt M. Rainda heart a blow from which it was still throbbing. Of course, a week later he had received a few lines from Zozé, in which she apologized for her discourteous flight; she had had some small anxieties which she could no doubt explain in person the next time they met. But the very vagueness of this postponement caused the master as much impatience as if the young woman had kept back every particular concerning her flight. Little anxieties! Surely they were not caused by Chambannes who was still away, and far from Paris. By whom then, and of what sort were they? Money troubles? A very unlikely hypothesis. Family troubles? No, since the only relation Mme. Chambannes had, had gone with her to Les Frettes. Love troubles? M. Raindal vehemently repulsedthis latter solution which, in reality, excited his anger more than his incredulity. Whenever the idea of it came within the horizon of his dreams, he bent all his effort towards its destruction as if it were an absurd nightmare.
Love troubles, Mme. Chambannes! The maste friendship rebelled against such a foolish calumny. Coquettish, frivolous, childish—she might be that; but in love, his little pupil, never! Not to him could they come with such inventions, to him who knew her well, who had been studying her and judging her for nearly four months. The only young man who was in a position to court her, the tall Gerald de Meuze, hardly seemed with those languid ways and that tired expression of his, the hero who was at all likely to captivate such a vivacious, sprightly nature. At the most only a robust officer, an ardent young poet or an illustrious musician might have a faint chance, not to seduce her, but perhaps to trouble her thoughts. Not without a secret feeling of relief, M. Raindal admitted to himself that there was no such favored one about Mme. Chambannes.
Nevertheless, as he came to these conclusions a melancholy feeling suddenly brought him down from the heights again. He remembered his arrival in the rue de Prony, the empty house and the outrageous treatment accorded him. How little she must have cared for him to have forgotten him so! How very low and precarious must be his place in her affections and her thoughts. How much he had over-estimatedthe influence and the attraction which he exercised upon her.
He resolved for the sake of his dignity not to answer her letter, but every day that passed without bringing him news shook the proud resolution. Where was she? How did she spend her days and her evenings? Why did she not call him to her?
He would sometime lift himself up out of his misery by some sudden flight of vanity. He swore that he would never again condescend to take any notice of such trifling inquiries which proved so humiliating for a superior mind like his. He was close to the precipitous regions where floats the pure breeze of eternity; but he did not remain very long making plans alone on those calm heights. After a little while the light image of Zozé soared up to join him and he would sigh as he saw her again. A sudden clearness of sight revealed to him how strongly attached he was to his little pupil. He shrugged his shoulders, recalled his grievances against Mme. Chambannes and attempted to disdain her. The effort was vain. He wished to feel contempt and resentment, but she inspired him with nothing but regret.
In the midst of his disquietude he found no solace but in work on the new book which he was preparing: a book, as he told Thérèse, which might possibly share the success of the previous one.... I say no more now.... I am waiting for the idea to ripen.... You will see.... It is not bad....
Again he paced his study, his hands behind his back,his head bent forward as if it were reaching out towards the runaway flock of his ideas.
The provisional title of the book was:The Idlers of Ancient Egypt.It would be a moral study supported by historical documents rather than a work of erudition.
M. Raindal proposed to establish by means of examples that their great social moving force was the search after pleasure and especially the so-called gallant pleasures: the whole effort of human labor tended towards woman and her conquest. The refinements, especially, and all the arts often owed to her their birth and always their prosperity. It was for woman that the stones were set in gold, the silks embroidered and all the melodies resounded. M. Raindal meditated upon these developments so much that he had more than once fallen a prey to fever and headaches. At his call, the facts jumped out of their cells and rushed to line themselves in battle array as if they were well disciplined little soldiers. There was notably one chapter—Chapter VI—onLove and Gallantry in Ancient Egyptbased on the religious legends, the toilet paraphernalia and the popular stories which had been discovered, and of which the master already possessed the main line and almost every paragraph.
There were days, however, when he conceived certain scruples concerning the value of his idea. Would not people charge him with pursuing the same attempt at scandal which his last book had inaugurated? Would they not reproach him with lingering purposelyin immoral episodes? Did he even possess the gift, the necessary competency to fathom the prodigious problems of sentiment?
The first two queries M. Raindal rejected wholly in the name of the contempt which a lofty soul owes to insinuations that are prompted by jealousy.
The third one seemed to him more delicate a subject and more likely to give rise to controversies. He delighted in discussing it with Boerzell, who never failed to come every Sunday to pay the permitted call in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.
“Sincerely, M. Boerzell,” he asked, “do you think that a man needs to have been a libertine to properly appreciate the subtleties of sentiment? Do you believe, in short, that to speak competently of love it is necessary that a man should be a specialist in it, a professional, a practitioner, as it were?”
“Oh, master!” Boerzell replied cautiously, “tha a complex question.... I must say i one I have considered....”
“Do you think,” continued M. Raindal, “that a multitude of sentiments exist which one appreciates all the better for not having felt them oneself?”
“That is incontestable!” Boerzell answered.
“You observe that in this matter one is able to retain a freshness of impression, a preciseness of view which prove to be of the highest value in scientific analyses.... One is not blinded either by vanity or by the intervention of personal recollections.... The mind retains, intact, its impartiality, itspenetration, and the calm which is indispensable for regular observations....”
“Surely, master!” Boerzell admitted. “Nevertheless do you fear that a certain coldness might result from this procedure?”
“Not at all, my dear sir!” M. Raindal protested. “What is essential is that one should love the idea of the subject with which one deals, love love, if it is of love that one is writing.... The warmth of sympathy warms everything.... Our works are like our children. Only those which we do not love as we conceive them are cold and unsatisfying.”
Slowly he went back to his study, while Boerzell smiled at Thérèse. In the course of their frequent conversations, the young savant had obtained little fragmentary confidences which left him no doubts concerning the worldly indiscretions of the master.
On the fourth Sunday, M. Raindal did not come to the drawing-room. He had gone out, ostensibly to visit the director of the Collège, but in reality to go to make sure that his little pupil had not returned to her house without giving him warning. The sight of the closed shutters destroyed his hopes. Nevertheless he rang the bell repeatedly, but no answer came. Yet the first days of May had arrived! When would she come back? He walked slowly along the half-deserted streets. Everything he saw brought him some painful recollection. How often he had passed these places, with his soul and eyes still softened by Mme. Chambannes’ sweetness! What achange now? How forsaken he was! To rid himself of such sorrowful thoughts or to oppose them by a physical denial from his own lips, he smiled all the way at the little girls and the little boys in their Sunday clothes, whom their parents lazily dragged by the hand.
When the master returned home, Boerzell had not gone yet but was still chatting with Thérèse. Near them, Mme. Raindal was reading a pious book. The master attempted to appear in a merry mood. The recent misfortune of one of his colleagues whose trust had been abused by forgers served him as a pretext to scoff at the learned. After all, what was the value of brute science if it was not animated by the spirit? What would his next work be, for instance, if M. Raindal did not prop it up with general and human considerations? Boerzell agreed completely and by a clever digression he brought the conversation back to the social rôle of love. The master took the bait eagerly. His nerves were voluptuously relaxed by this pleasant contest of dialectics against so subtle an adversary. The night fell before he had ended his discourse.
“You will dine with us, wo you, M. Boerzell?” he said, when Brigitte came to light the lamp.
He only let the young man go at eleven lock, dazed by the contest and so tired that he could only stammer. But this melancholy seized him again as soon as he was alone with his daughter. He hardlysaid good-night and rushed to his bed as if toward a distraction, an asylum of forgetfulness.
The next morning he did not rise until half past eight. There was nothing from Mme. Chambannes in his mail. Peevishly, he was splashing water over his face, when Brigitte suddenly entered.
“A telegram for monsieur....”
“My glasses. Give me my glasses, I tell you!”
He felt a commotion within himself as he recognized on the blue paper the writing of Mme. Chambannes. He opened the express letter and read: