Sunday evening.My dear master:I am back at last. I am anxious to see you again. Why not take advantage of the fact that the tradesmen and my friends will still be leaving me alone to make our great visit to the Louvre to-morrow morning? Unless I hear from you, therefore, let it be to-morrow morning at nine-thirty in the place du Carrousel, in front of the pavilion de Sully. How pleasant it will be to meet again!Your little pupil,Z. Chambannes.
Sunday evening.
My dear master:
I am back at last. I am anxious to see you again. Why not take advantage of the fact that the tradesmen and my friends will still be leaving me alone to make our great visit to the Louvre to-morrow morning? Unless I hear from you, therefore, let it be to-morrow morning at nine-thirty in the place du Carrousel, in front of the pavilion de Sully. How pleasant it will be to meet again!
Your little pupil,
Z. Chambannes.
Instinctively M. Raindal consulted the clock which marked nine lock and he rushed to the door.
“Brigitte!” he shouted in the passage.... “Brigitte, my frock coat.... The new one.... My patent leather shoes.... My hat.... Hurry up, my good girl.”
“What is the matter, father?” said Thérèse, who had come out at the disturbance.
M. Raindal regretted having shouted so loudly; he was now compelled to tell the truth.
“Oh! i Mme. Chambannes!” he replied, scratching his neck under his beard. “She has made an appointment for 9.30 for me to take her to the Louvre.... I have no time to waste, as you can see.”
He noticed a smile on the gir face and asked:
“What are you laughing at?”
“I am not laughing!” Thérèse replied, having recovered her composure.
M. Raindal was upset.
“Yes, you are laughing! You ca deny it.... Go on; speak.... What were you laughing at?”
“Do you really want to know, father?... Very well! It is because to-day is Monday, and the museum is closed....”
“I had forgotten.... Yet it is true enough!... But I cannot keep her waiting....” It suddenly dawned upon him that he was being suspected of telling an untruth. He held out the special delivery and said, “You can look for yourself! The day and the hour are set down.... ‘To-morrow morning at 9.30.’”
Haughtily, Thérèse brushed the paper aside.
“Oh, it is quite unnecessary, father!”
“Yes, yes! I want you to look at it....”
She threw a swift glance at the paper and handed it back to M. Raindal:
“You are right!... Hurry up!...”
“All right! I am much obliged to you!” he grumbled.
He recollected himself only when he reached the pavilion de Sully. Ten lock was just striking at the big clock above the pink columns of the door. M. Raindal sighed with relief. He was on time and that made him forget his anger at Thérèse.
The vast place stretched out before him. It was shaded and deserted in the lofty frame of its several illustrious palaces. In the distance, the open space of the Tuileries seemed to be a region of light without end, whose white reflection made the sky paler. A warm breeze came from it and at intervals bent down the green grass of the neighboring gardens. The master took a deep breath. He loved this milky and delightful aroma of the morning air in the spring. And his soul was gradually harmonizing itself with the lofty quiet of the scene.
He walked up and down in front of the peristyle, glancing at his light gloves which he was fastening. The approach of a carriage made him look up, and he saw at one of the high windows of the Colbert pavilion two clerks of the Finance Ministry who were watching him smilingly. Their inspection did not hurt his feelings. He imagined to himself the surprised admiration which the young men would feel when Mme. Chambannes arrived. Yes, of course! He was waiting for a lady! And what a lady! These two gentlemen had probably never seen in their life one so elegant and so special!
An open carriage was coming towards the pavilion de Sully by the avenue on the left. The master rushed over just in time to help Mme. Chambannes out. She had on a dark blue costume with a shot-silk blouse which sparkled at the opening of her short jacket. She placed her little white gloved hand in that of M. Raindal and gave him a candid little laugh of greeting and thankfulness.
“Well, dear master,” she said, when she had paid her driver, “you are not too angry with me, are you? Were you very indignant at your little pupil?...”
M. Raindal blinked under the tender glance which pervaded him. He had grown unaccustomed to it.
“Not at all, dear lady!...” he stammered. “Above all things I am delighted to see you again.... Is M. Chambannes well?”
“Quite.... He came back last night.... By the way, he asked me to invite you to the opera to-night.... They are giving “Samson and Delilah” and “The Korringane.” We have a box on the second tier.... You will come, wo you?”
“Oh! Madame....”
“Yes, yes, you will come.... I want you to!” She looked about her inquiringly and noticed the plate with big gold letters over the peristyle:
“It is here, is it?”
“Alas! i impossible to-day, dear Madame!...” the master exclaimed, and Zozé assumed an expression of displeasure.
“For the one time that free, how vexing!... What shall we do, then?”
“I do know, Madame!... Whatever you like!”
Distractedly he glanced at the circular little open spaces where the leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze. One could not see inside them. The very access to them seemed forbidden by the thick foliage pressed against the gates. They were like two gallant theatrical property gardens, put there by mistake or merely temporarily. The master thought, “This would be perfect!” And he pointed to the nearer of these little gardens.
“Would you like to go in there for a little chat before we part?”
“It is a good idea!” Mme. Chambannes said. “These lovely squares are delightful.”
The garden consisted of a tiny little lawn surrounded by four green benches carved to imitate the antique. They sat on one of them opposite the Pavilion Denon. In front of the latter a row of statues was placed at regular intervals, isolated and alike in their equalizing marble costumes. No other eyes but their lifeless ones looked upon the square.
“Ther no crowd here!” Mme. Chambannes remarked. Then she pointed to the statues with her sunshade, and added: “And to think that you will be like this one day, dear master!”
“Nothing is less assured, madame,” M. Raindal replied modestly.
“But I, where shall I be then?” Zozé went on gravely.
“O, what ugly thoughts!... Was it your stay at Les Frettes which made you so gloomy?”
“No, it was not that, since, to tell the truth, Zozé had enjoyed herself very much there. Nature and solitude had made her feel better; had helped her to recuperate from Paris! For, in truth, what woman was there who did not sometimes grow weary of Paris? What woman does not in the end become satiated with visits, gossip, theaters, dress-makers, and the whole worldly surfeit of activity?... The country, with one or two good friends, like M. Raindal for instance, the rest, the fresh air cure, such seemed to be for the present Mme. Chambannes’ ideal dream. And if she had returned, it was because....”
“Excuse me,” the master interrupted. “Why did you leave?... Perhaps I am indiscreet in reminding you of your promise....”
“No, not at all....”
She had her two elbows on her knees in a pose of meditation and was digging the sand with the point of her sunshade.
“I left because I had troubles.... A friend in whom I had faith and who betrayed me shamefully.”
“Ah!... I am very sorry for you!” said he.
She looked up to the heavens in a melancholy ecstasy. A dewy languor appeared about her eyelashes. She was transfigured by sorrow. In herlittle starched collar which was so modern and masculine, her features assumed, in her affliction, the air of a perverse holiness.
“And so you had a great deal of trouble?” M. Raindal said again, without taking his eyes off her.
“Oh yes, a great deal!”
“My poor friend!” murmured the master, whose voice was altered. “You will allow me to call you this?”
Mme. Chambannes nodded.
“I do want to ask you any more about your departure!” he continued. “I have hurt you unwittingly, and it would be inexcusable if I were to insist ... but, in future, if ever you are unhappy, I beg of you, do treat me as a friend, confide in me. You need not give me any details; just tell me that you are suffering, and I shall do my very best to lighten your burden, to find distractions for you.... I have so much affection for you....”
“Thank you!” she said, somewhat surprised at the urgent tone he was using. “Thank you.... How kind you are, dear master.”
She had half turned towards him and looked at him with one of her most fervent smiles. Bottomless depths yawned in her eyes. Her whole face trembled in coquettish sauciness. M. Raindal thought that a flame was piercing his temples. He was carried away by delirium. With a shy briskness he seized Mme. Chambannes’ hand: and, in a frantic kiss, hislips pressed upon it the avowal of love which they had not dared to utter.
“Oh! be careful!” Mme. Chambannes said, as she moved away from him.
“Of what?” the master asked awkwardly.
His forehead was wet with the perspiration of anguish. To give himself countenance he tried to laugh but he repressed it at once, perplexed and disconcerted by the young woma expression. She looked severe yet showed no anger. She expressed modest alarm rather than resentment. Her eyes remained dark in spite of a sarcastic twinkle which contracted the corners. What was she going to do? Would she be indignant, would she forgive or smile?
She rose and in a calm voice in which faintly trembled an ironical echo, said:
“Good-by, dear master. I must go home.... Will you see me to a cab, please?”
M. Raindal gave her hand an imperceptible pressure and replied, while his eyes wandered towards the statues on the colonnade.
“With pleasure, dear madame.”
She passed first through the narrow doorway of the gate. M. Raindal followed her, absentmindedly playing with his gloves.
As soon as she was seated and the wheels began to move, he recovered enough daring to glance at her. She looked her usual self once more; her eyes were again tender and challenging.
“By the way, we meet to-night!” said she. “Do not forget, dear master, box No. 40....”
As soon as she was out of the Carrousel she was unable to remain serious any longer. She smiled so openly and intensely that a street urchin imitated her and cried out:
“Bon dieu, how funny it is!...”
Yes, surely, it was funny. Père Raindal in love! Who could have thought it possible? What a kiss he had given her, a kiss like a blow, it was so brutal and bashful at the same time! Poor man!... What a pity that she had broken away from that nasty Germaine! How they would have made merry together over this little story.
The memory of her perfidious friend caused Mme. Chambannes’ face to darken again. She lost her pleasant mood until after lunch, when she told her aunt Panhias of her interview.
“Be careful, child!” that voluminous lady urged. “At that age, it is sometimes very dangerous!”
“For whom?” asked Zozé.
“Not for you, of course!”
Mme. Chambannes expelled a cloud of smoke from her cigarette:
“Have no fear. I shall be careful.... Who knows? Perhaps I was mistaken!”
“Perhaps!” her aunt replied skeptically.
Zozé said nothing. Once more she saw the garden of the Louvre and the ardent and timorous expression of M. Raindal. If only Gerald had been there,hidden somewhere among the bushes! She was delighted with this idea of semi-reprisals. She smoked two more cigarettes as she imagined successively the burlesque and the pathetic sides of the scene.
That evening the opera exhibited one of those spring gatherings where, in a sparkle of light, precious tones and uncovered shoulders—all the public display of luxury and beauty, of wealth and aristocracy which had apparently been a thing of the past, came to life again.
As soon as Zozé came in, many opera glasses from clubmen and first tier boxes were leveled upon her.
For she had advanced in caste the little Mouzarkhi girl. They were now putting down to her credit the two years of her liaison. If this did not create for her a link of relationship with the surrounding fashionable élite, at least it was a victory to her credit, a successful campaign which made the distance appear smaller. She was no longer the little exotic, unknown person concerning whom they had once inquired in an almost contemptuous tone. She was almost one of themselves, the little Chambannes woman, who had captured and kept young de Meuze for two whole years; and under the mask of their glasses, which hid half their faces, their lips formed smiles of good will towards her.
Then there was the presence of the old gentleman who sat next to Zozé in the front of the box; thispiqued their curiosity. They had to wait for the interval in order to find out who he was.
In the meantime, the hope of the young Philistines appeared at the back of the stage. Delilah led, her black hair overloaded with flowers and multicolored jewels. They were singing in an enraptured voice a sensuous love chorus:
“Beau-té, don du ciel, prin-temps de nos jours,Doux char-me des yeux, es-poir des amours,Pé-ne-tre les coeurs, ver-se dans les a-mes,Tes dou-ces flam-mes!Aimons, mes soeurs, ai-aimons tou-jours!”
“Beau-té, don du ciel, prin-temps de nos jours,Doux char-me des yeux, es-poir des amours,Pé-ne-tre les coeurs, ver-se dans les a-mes,Tes dou-ces flam-mes!Aimons, mes soeurs, ai-aimons tou-jours!”
“Beau-té, don du ciel, prin-temps de nos jours,Doux char-me des yeux, es-poir des amours,Pé-ne-tre les coeurs, ver-se dans les a-mes,Tes dou-ces flam-mes!Aimons, mes soeurs, ai-aimons tou-jours!”
M. Raindal stiffened himself at the sharp shiver which ran down his back. Instinctively he looked at the audience. The silence had become graver and more vibrant. A voluptuous tide mounted from the orchestra to the boxes along with the languorous music. Savage lights shone in the eyes of some of the women; breasts were panting; the heavy artillery of the opera glasses was firing glances at full speed. Almost everyone in the audience, men and women, after a long day of hypocrisy, acknowledged themselves at last lovers, moved by the cynical suggestiveness of the chorus.
The master was absorbed in making comparisons. He remembered other evenings he had spent at the opera with Thérèse and Mme. Raindal, in boxes offered them by the ministry, during the summer or on the occasion of some séance of the SociétésSavantes. What a transformation—not to say what progress—had taken place since then in his mind! How many social phenomena at that time had been still inaccessible to him, as if they had been matters of indifference or had not existed at all! That was his explanation for his yawns in the past, for the feeling of boredom and almost discomfort which he had felt at those performances. He had lacked so many elements necessary to appreciate their harmonies! To-day, on the other hand....
He looked back towards the audience. All the seats were occupied. The ballet of the priestesses of Dagon was beginning and a libertine gayety now relaxed all faces in accordance with the merry grace of the dancers.
Mentally M. Raindal took note of the change. How many shades there were in the aristocratic depravity of the assembly! How many tiny degrees there were between their previous seriousness and their present joviality!
He marked the beat of the fast Oriental rhythm which regulated the steps of the dancers, and at the same time he furtively examined Mme. Chambannes, his dear friend, as he did not yet dare openly to call her.
A slight uncertain smile hovered on her fine little face which reverie had rendered motionless. At times, however, she would seize her glasses and aim them at a box or a row of seats; then, when her inspection was over, she would throw a sort of compensatingglance at M. Raindal. When the curtain went down she took refuge with the master in the tiny salon which formed a kind of boudoir behind. Chambannes stood behind them. He gave very little attention to the words of M. Raindal, who was describing, with reference to the most recent discoveries of the exegetists, the rites and the ins and outs of the cult of Dagon. Moreover, the curtain rose again before the master had finished.
The scenery represented a garden with a green bench in the foreground and to the right the villa of delights where the crime was to be accomplished.
When Delilah sat down on the bench surrounded with shrubs and Samson, panting with love, let himself fall there beside her, M. Raindal could not refrain from casting a sly glance of allusion towards Zozé. While affecting not to have noticed it, Mme. Chambannes pleasantly accentuated with a smile the dreamy look on her face. The master thanked her with a little friendly cough.
Oh! Had he been so very much at fault this morning? Considering it calmly and at a distance, he did not regret that mad kiss, that indiscreet caress which had been at least open enough to deserve respect. Why should he try any longer to hide those sentiments of his which were so sincere? Why affect indifference, when it was the very reverse which Mme. Chambannes inspired him with?... Love? Oh, no. But a certain tenderness, a certain affection, which although it was not exclusively paternal, neverthelessdid not go beyond the limits authorized by the difference in age between a very young woman and a man of advanced years. What was the use of concealing by subterfuge and illusory lies, the liveliness of this inclination? Was not history full of such examples? Without mentioning Ruth and Boaz, whose romance it seemed had had a bourgeois ending, could he not mention a great number of masters who had most absolutely fallen in love with their disciples, men or women, in spite of the unlikeness of their minds and the difference in their ages? What was there, for instance, in common between the mind of a Socrates and that of an Alcibiades?...
The sweet melody which Delilah murmured to Samson followed just in time to draw the master away from such risky comparisons. The play was approaching its climax. At the fall of the curtain the Philistine soldiery silently surrounded the little house where the betrayed hero slept. M. Raindal recited softly to himself the never-to-be-forgotten stanza:
“Une lutte éternelle, en tout temps, en tout lieu,Se livre sur la terre, en présence de Dieu,Entre la bonté omme et la ruse de Femme....”
“Une lutte éternelle, en tout temps, en tout lieu,Se livre sur la terre, en présence de Dieu,Entre la bonté omme et la ruse de Femme....”
“Une lutte éternelle, en tout temps, en tout lieu,Se livre sur la terre, en présence de Dieu,Entre la bonté omme et la ruse de Femme....”
He went on with it, and Mme. Chambannes declared the lines very pretty. She wished to know the name of the author.
“It is from Vigny, madame!” said M. Raindal, as he joined her in the little salon at the back of the box.
Chambannes went out. They remained alone. M. Raindal asked himself whether it would do to repeat his kiss of the morning, if only to signify to Mme. Chambannes that his new intentions persisted. But finding himself still slightly irresolute, he thought it best to remain on the safe ground of literary conversation.
Just as he was beginning to tell of the tragic love affair between de Vigny and Mme. Dorval, however, the door was suddenly pushed open. A tall dark man stood at the entrance of the box. M. Raindal saw nothing at first but his black moustache and his big laughing eyes.
“Ah, M. de Meuze!... Come in!” Mme. Chambannes exclaimed, with ready ease.
Nevertheless she blushed, and between her eyelashes came such a caressing, joyous, submissive look directed toward Gerald that M. Raindal felt suddenly hurt. He wanted to join their conversation, criticize the players and praise the music. But the words refused to come at his bidding. A sudden rush of ill humor flooded his inspiration. He got up.
“Are you going out, dear master?” Zozé asked.
“Oh, just for one minute to stretch myself and get some fresh air.”
He had unwittingly banged the door. He wandered aimlessly along the passages until he came to the loggias of the staircase.
“You!” Chambannes exclaimed, as he came forward to meet him.
M. Raindal replied dully:
“Yes, it was too warm in that little room.... I left your wife with M. de Meuze, junior, or rather, if you prefer, the son....”
Chambannes did not seem surprised by this revelation. M. Raindal thought him somewhat stupid. They returned together at the first ring of the bell announcing the end of the interval.
Zozé was alone in the box. She received the master with a radiant smile of welcome.
“Had a good walk?”
“Not bad!” said M. Raindal, who felt disarmed by so much charm.
Nevertheless, he preserved a gloomy aspect during the whole of the third act. He kept on thinking of Gerald. That young man he had never regarded very sympathetically. He was vague and a coxcomb and the impertinent expressions his face assumed were in no wise justified by his very poor intelligence, banal opinions, and remarkable ignorance of literature: in fact, there was nothing about him that could appeal to M. Raindal. And then—the master hung tenaciously to this memory—physically did he not recall to mind the image of Dastarac, that scoundrel of a Dastarac? Had he not been the cause of the failure of the excellent Boerzell, at the Saulvard party? There was no doubt about it. It was from this that had sprung his first feeling of antipathy. It was futile to seek any further! Consequently, M. Raindal did not attempt it.
He did not try very hard to follow the direction of Zoz glances as she scanned the huge hall. It would have been a hard task to follow them and to discover the place that she was especially seeking. Her glances were so uncertain and so fugitive; they spread their tenderness over so many people and so much space! The master made one or two fruitless attempts and then gave it up. He merely asked her in a careless tone:
“Where does M. de Meuze sit?”
“M. de Meuze?... In the orchestra, I think.... But I believe he is no longer there.... He was going to spend the rest of the evening with some friends....”
“Ah! very good!” said M. Raindal nonchalantly. “I was asking, you know, simply because....”
To be sure, Zozé knew! She bit her lips not to smile. So! her aunt Panhias had not been so far wrong. She must be careful.
The evening ended without any further difficulty. M. Raindal had enjoyed the final ballet very much; and the steps of theSabotièrehad made him enthusiastic.
When he returned home he went to his study. Before retiring for the night he wished to set down a few moral observations which had come to him in the course of the evening. They all had a bearing upon the rôle of woman as a social motive, and they would find their place in Chapter VI.
When he had written the last words, M. Raindal gathered up the sheets. There were no less than six large pages covered with small handwriting and without a correction.
THEThursday lessons had started again. Although they had not altogether banished Egypt, that subject was suffering from a gradual disgrace. As a rule Mme. Chambannes had failed to read the prescribed books. Or else a stray word sent them both into a friendly gossip concerning the little happenings of the day: a new dress of Zoz, which the master declared to his taste, her account of a dance or a play, and subjects that were even more trivial. Once they had run away from the arid regions of science, neither of the two found enough courage to return there. By common consent, they avoided the paths of conversation which might have led them back. It was only towards the end that Mme. Chambannes would exclaim:
“Well!... Another fine lesson!... If it goes on like this, I shall know a lot at the end of the year!... Ah! What a deplorable professor you are!...”
M. Raindal smiled. Then, if he had not already abused that license, he seized Zoz hand and ardently pressed his lips against it. Wisely, she allowed him but two or three such tender outbursts at each lesson. Yet in her heart she was flattered. It amused her tosee this famous, white-haired, man bending over her with love. His white hair contrasted with his skin and made it look pinker, and she found this play of color neat and pleasant to her eyes.
On the third Thursday she inquired about Cyprien. Why did not M. Raindal introduce his brother to her? She was quite anxious to meet him. The master replied evasively:
“Oh, my dear friend!”—as he called her now when they were alone and in the intimacy of their lessons—“my brother is a good fellow.... Yet I doubt very much whether you could get on together.... His temperament is brusque; he is an extremist, an absurd man.... Again, I noticed from certain signs that your absence of a month ago displeased him.... I prefer, therefore, not to risk myself in explanation of which I do not foresee any favorable results....”
“Just as you say!” replied Zozé, who had only insisted out of politeness.
M. Raindal nevertheless had almost spoken the truth. Uncle Cyprien had never omitted, during the last few weeks, any occasion to flay,en passant,the discourteous ways of Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan.
Systematically, resolutely, and in spite of everything, he was doing his best to prevent his brother from urging an introduction. To go and hobnob with the Chambannes and their friends, that would be the last straw! To go there, where he would have to meet Pums, the marquis, perhaps Talloire, who would stupidly come and pat him on the shoulder, compromisehim and denounce him with their accomplice-like cordiality, so that M. Raindal would learn of his dealings at the Bourse, his speculating in gold mines! No, thank you! He preferred to lie, to resort to the very worst stratagems, such as simulated spite, false laughter and fictitious anger, rather than fall into this horne nest! Therefore, he seized the slightest pretext to deliver his imprecations.
“A woman of the world, Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan? A woman of the world, this person who had bolted without warning and left people waiting for her, without giving them a word of apology! A woman of the world, this person who had gone away, no one knew where! A woman of the world, this person....”
“Oh please! leave me alone!” M. Raindal interrupted, unable to stand it any more. “I am not asking you to let me take you there, am I?”
“You should add that you are very wise not to do so!” Uncle Cyprien retorted, delighted with the success of his tactics.
However, apart from the little tricks which he was compelled to employ for fear of being censured, for fear of his brother and Schleifmann, he had never been happier.
He very seldom went to the Bourse; on the other hand, he now operated without any help, dealing directly with Talloire. He enjoyed the feverish pleasure of giving his own orders, following their varying fortunes and taking his profit and placingit elsewhere. Several inspirations stood behind him; there was the advice of his friend Pums, some secret intuitions of his own, and the advice of a special sheet, the “Lingot,” for which he had taken a three months’ subscription. Good luck had a share in it, and in time the total of his profits reached the neat sum of 35,000 francs.
He had no more than 75,000 francs to make now; that is to say, according to the least optimistic calculations, not more than four months to speculate.
Then! Ah, then, with these one hundred thousand francs in his pocket, Uncle Cyprien would discard his mask, break with Talloire, put a stop to the game and openly declare his profits. But until then,motus, silence, caution and mystery, in short as much hypocrisy as they wished!
Accordingly, the very choice cigars which M. Raindal smoked at the brasserie were, according to him, a present from the Marquis.
“Yes, my dear Schleifmann!” he asserted, “I found the box waiting for me when I came home.”
It must have been a huge box, a trunk almost, if one could judge from the number of havanas which it kept on supplying.
And it was the same thing about the tricycle which the ex-official had not been able to resist purchasing: perhaps Schleifmann thought that it was the result of further speculation? That was a very serious mistake! It had been paid for with the remains of his seven hundred francs profit, that tricycle.... Huh!That shut him up effectively, the moralist!... Or else Cyprien opposed a stoic reply to the inquiries of his brother, his niece, and his sister-in-law:
“Where did I find the money to buy this machine, you wish to know? With my savings on cigarettes, my good friends!... What do you suppose? When you wish one thing you have to do without another. It is extremely simple.”
He had added to these purchases that of a soft brown felt hat, the broad wings of which gave to his close-cropped head somewhat of a Cromwellian aspect. Thus he could be seen every day with his sombrero, his trousers gathered at the ankles, riding up and down the city on his tricycle, even when he had no further to go than the rue de Fleurus to see Schleifmann, the rue Vavin to get to Klapprot, or the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to see his brother.
To such short trips, however, he preferred a ride to the Bois, especially on Sundays, for there he was not troubled by his anxiety concerning the stock market.
He would go out about ten lock, following the boulevard St. Germain, the place de la Concorde, and the avenue des Champs Élysées. He wore red gloves and carried a cigar between his teeth. He pedaled with delight, bending over his front wheel, drinking in the sweet morning breeze that rushed against his cheeks. Then, as he approached the Arc de Triomphe, he straightened up, slowed down his pace and rectified his position. The avenue du Bois stretchedbefore him, as far as he could see, the ample magnificence of its sidewalks and gardens. In the atmosphere there was already a certain heat which gave a feeling of ripeness and of summer. Under the chestnut trees near the entrance, a crowd of pretty women in light dresses chatted, standing, or sitting down with elegant gentlemen. From the distance, officers and young men approached at a canter and slowed down as they passed out of the riding track. Their horses shook themselves, stretched their necks and, if pulled back, scratched the hard ground under them. Or there would be a light-colored coach entering the avenue, pulled by four imposing horses. One could see light dresses on top of it, flowery hats, graceful women who smiled, and men with dissipated faces. Behind them in a smart herald-like attitude, his elbow lifted high and his body bent backward, a lackey would draw out of a long brass instrument raucous and triumphant appeals. One might think it the gorgeous chariot of Youth and Pleasure.
Uncle Cyprien was thrilled by this spectacle and the noise that went with it. His eyes, his lungs, and his ears drunk in the intoxication of the orgy of colors, perfumes and sounds; in spite of himself he derived from it a sensation of supreme enchantment. He rushed after the fascinating coach, caught up with it, ran alongside of it and in front of it, swelling with pride, despite the speed which caught his breath.
He passed through the gate, rode slowly under the shady trees, and stopped at a café to drink anapéritif. It was not until the lunch hour that he returned, still by the avenue du Bois.
Sometimes on his way back he noticed among the passers-by an old gentleman with a white beard in the company of a young woman.
“Sapristi!” he thought. “My brother and Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan, very likely.... I must be careful!... I must hurry out of this.”
He affected to close his eyes as if blinded by the dust, and rushed between the carriages like one pursued. It was a superfluous precaution; an imaginary peril! M. Raindal had also taken good care to look the other way.
These Sunday morning outings were Mme. Chambannes’ own idea. She had discovered this clever way of publicly showing her friendship with the master. And although this exhibition took place only one or two Sundays a month, Zozé derived much gratification for her vanity from it. Smiles and sarcastic grins which she noticed as she passed only increased her satisfaction.
“You may laugh, my friends,” she thought to herself, “you may joke, but, nevertheless, you envy me very much!”
Most of the time Chambannes or her Uncle Panhias joined the couple for the sake of appearances. At other times, Gerald, either on foot or on his bicycle, came and stopped a while to exchange a few words with them.
Despite the unpleasantness of such meetings, M.Raindal was far from disliking his Sunday walks. They brought relief to his week and with the reflection of their splendor seemed to illuminate the gloomy stagnation of the days that followed until he came again for his Thursday visits.
They were like a supplementary holiday to him, a semi-monthly festival, and had it not been that he dreaded his family, he would have come every Sunday.
Besides, what documents, what precious observations he was able to accumulate there, for use in his book! These refined young men and attractive women—were they not the living representatives of the voluptuous élite which persisted through the centuries? Did they not constitute the sacred battalion of pleasure which, at every period of history, led the chorus of elegance, issued the decrees of fashion, and dominated society by means of their charm, grace, and beauty? It needed but a simple effort of transposition for him to discern in them the coquettes and the men about town who had been the contemporaries of Rameses or King Tuthmosis!
Thus, in the course of his walks, M. Raindal took good care not to forget his severe duties as a historian. Whenever he was not looking at Mme. Chambannes, he was transposing and gathering in his memory a thousand significant details. The ladies caught his attention more than the men. He sought the eternal in their enticing gestures and their alluring glances; he did not find it there, but, nevertheless, drew satisfaction from them. He had passed several ofthem so often that they were clear in his memory. Whenever he recognized their silhouettes at a distance, he prepared himself to stare at them. His new gloves, which he held in his hand against the knob of his stick, spread their fingers like the stiff petals of a lotus flower. His blue cheviot coat, gray trousers, black felt hat, his button of an officer of theLégion onneur,and his beard, silvery and well-kept, gave him the appearance of a manufacturer grown old in the midst of wealth, of a rich conservative faithful to his sound principles.
Towards twelve lock they went back to the rue de Prony. Luncheon was a long affair. The blinds were pulled down and allowed only a yellowish light to filter through. Flowers placed on the table exhaled their harmonious fragrance. And when, moreover, Chambannes lit his cigar and Zozé the Turkish tobacco of her cigarette, the whole atmosphere fulfilled the overwhelming desire for a siesta which the master felt in the semi-darkness. His eyes were burnt by the sun and his legs tired by his walk; he struggled between his desire to look at his pupil a little longer and the weight of sleepiness which pulled his eyelids down. On the verge of giving way, he would rise and take his leave.
As soon as he was out, however, his heart was tormented by regret. He reproached himself sharply for his stupid drowsiness, for having wasted those sweet moments by his physical slackness. It would not have taken much to make him go back on thepretense of having forgotten something or to make an inquiry. But what inquiry? Self-consciousness and shame prevented him from going back. He went on his way with an increasing petulance. No sooner had he reached his home, in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, than his exasperated bitterness turned to hatred. What an unlovely district! What tomb-like buildings! As soon as his lease ran out, they would see! He certainly would not renew it.
Through the door of his apartment sounds came to him of conversation and laughter. Thérèse was in the drawing-room with Boerzell, who still came regularly every Sunday.
Once, as he came in, M. Raindal heard the name of Dastarac pronounced.
“What!” he said, in surprise. “Are you speaking of that wretch?”
Thérèse replied:
“Yes, surely, we were speaking of Dastarac.... I have told M. Boerzell all about it.... I have nothing to hide....”
“Of course not!” the master assented.
“And do you know what monsieur was telling me?... That he has turned out very badly—our Dastarac.... There is a story of very unsavory debts, embezzlement, and false securities. In short, he has been put out of the University and compelled to run away to Belgium.... M. Boerzell will explain this to you better than I could.”
The young savant told all the details of the affair.
“Well!... A pretty gentleman!...” exclaimed the young girl in a tone of burning contempt when Boerzell had finished.
“Nothing surprises me from that fellow!” declared M. Raindal. “Just the same, we owe M. Gaussine a fine debt of gratitude!”
He did not complain that day of the length of the hours. Comforting thoughts occupied him until dinner-time. So far he had never dared, under any circumstances, to sound Thérèse concerning the visits of Boerzell. He stood in fear of reprisals and oft-repeated conventional inquiries concerning the Chambannes’ household. However, now that Dastarac seemed to be annihilated, crushed as it were, to the disgust of Thérèse herself, why should not the sympathy which he noticed existed between the young people follow its normal course? Why should they not, from being comrades, become husband and wife? And then, besides the joy of getting his daughter married, what an opportunity for the master, and what a liberation! No one would remain as a witness of his outings but Mme. Raindal who, entirely occupied with her religious duties, was an easy-going woman totally without severity, provided her faith was not interfered with. No longer any control; no more watch set on him; no further need to invent new lies or preserve silence! M. Raindal promised himself that he would keep his eye on this affair with caution and diplomacy so as not to spoil it.
Yet an oft-recurrent anxiety seized him again afterdinner. He was thinking of the summer and the forthcoming vacation, those three months which he would, doubtless, have to spend far away from Mme. Chambannes. As he recollected his impatience, his recent fears during one single month of privation, he felt a sudden sensation of choking anguish. Where would she go? To what seashore or mountain resort? How many miles away would she be? And with whom?
He had discreetly put these questions in the course of many lessons given to his little pupil. She had replied vaguely. She affected not to have made up her mind yet and to be still hesitating between Les Frettes, the seaside, Switzerland or some watering-place. She would decide on her choice at the time of a certain trip which George was shortly to make to Bosnia. She sighed as she said that. A melancholy shadow veiled the tenderness of her eyes. She turned the conversation to another subject.
His dear little friend!... Who knew but that some torment similar to his own oppressed her gentle little soul? Who knew but that she also was afflicted by the idea of the approaching separation?... M. Raindal was not so far lacking in modesty that he imagined himself alone the subject of all her possible regrets. However, he did not abandon the idea that perhaps he could claim a share of them. And he was quite right, too.
It was indeed true that Mme. Chambannes darkened whenever the master questioned her. But thebaseness of Raldo was the only cause of her sorrow. This problem of their summer vacation was now debated at each of their meetings. Gerald, whose treachery had only strengthened his despotism, clung to a project of settling down at Deauville with his father for the month of August. There were invitations, “de la jolie femme,” pigeon shooting, polo playing, and racing—in short, everything called him there. Against the attraction of so many pleasures, Mme. Chambannes’ silent tears made no more impression than drops of rain on a window-pane.
“You can come there,” he told her. “I sha prevent you from coming!”
She shrugged her shoulders. Could she not foresee the torments she would have to endure at Deauville, without friends, without relations, and separated from her lover!... Could she not in advance see herself separated from Raldo and the set which he frequented by that impalpable barrier, more efficient than an iron railing, which everywhere surrounded the flock of good society? She would be exposed to the snobbish glances of those women, the insulting echoes of their joy, the spectacle of their flirtations, and the social humiliation which can only be measured at close range.... Zozé, for the sake of her love, and to safeguard her passion, preferred a thousand times to go into retreat and abandon it for a time. These sacrifices pierced her heart beforehand. She took to crying silently, weeping intermittent tears after holding them back too long, and, between kisses, in themiddle of an embrace, they would unexpectedly wet the cheeks of her Raldo.
How could she be revenged on him, how reply to his pitiless selfishness? Ah! Zozé was at last beginning to find out that there is no equality in love. Otherwise, would she not have punished the recent treachery of Gerald with an immediate betrayal? That was continuing now; would she not reply with some barbarous plan, say, to choose for her holiday some place where one or the other of the men who were in love with her happened to be going? There was Dieppe, for instance, where Givonne was going, Bagneres, where Pums was to take a cure, or Dinard, where Burzig, as an authentic Englishman, had taken a little villa. None of these reprisals satisfied her. She soon convinced herself that Gerald would not be disturbed by any of these. What, therefore, was the use of her going to those fashionable resorts which, owing to their similarity, would forever carry her dreams back to Deauville? Would it not be much better for her to go and hide at Les Frettes, to seek slumber for her mind and forgetfulness in that peaceful spot, to plunge herself into the emptiness of country life till her wicked Raldo came back?
She chose this solution in the first days of July. Gerald promised that he would join her there at the beginning of September, which was the time set for Chambannes’ return from Bosnia. Zozé was to leave on the 20th with her Aunt and Uncle Panhias. Moreover, she would not be left altogether alone, since theabbé Touronde was in the neighborhood and the Herschsteins and Silberschmidts also.
“And, after all,” Gerald remarked, “a month is only four weeks.... And four weeks are very quickly over.”
Mme. Chambannes agreed. His nonchalance brought a grimace of contempt and a tremor to her lips, but her pride made her attempt to smile.
Then came the following Thursday when, without saying anything about Gerald, she informed M. Raindal of her preparations.
“Ah!” he stammered, blinking, his eyes so full of sorrow and so imploring that Zozé felt at once moved by it.... “Ah! you are going to Les Frettes?... Oh, very well ...!”
“What about you, dear master?” said she. “What will you do with your summer?”
“I?”
He tried to remember, but his mind would not work. At last it came back to him, and he replied:
“I?... We?... We are going to Langrune, as we do every year.... How long are you going to stay at Les Frettes?”
“Oh, a month, two months perhaps, maybe three.... It all depends on Georg business.”
“Three months!” repeated M. Raindal, whose mind had been struck by the cruelest of the three figures given. And he added with sincerity: “It pains me very much, my dear friend!”
At the same time he had seized Mme. Chambannes’ hand and greedily pressed his lips upon it. She sighed with pity. Poor père Raindal! How heavy his heart must be!
She thought to herself, “Am I wicked!... Yes, I am to him what Gerald is to me, tha all!” Then, at the thought of the latte name, a fresh idea struck her. After all, why not?... It would be a very innocent revenge, a companionship and a relaxation which were as good as any. And so, with a little smile, she asked, as she drew away gently from under the lips of M. Raindal the hand which she had forgotten:
“Listen, dear master, what would you say about spending a few weeks at Les Frettes?... Would that upset your habits too much?”
M. Raindal contracted his forehead.
“I?... No! not at all!” he said, with the sensation of a comforting river bathing his heart. “But, there is my wife, and my daughter.”
“Why, they would come, too!”
“Do you think so?” the master asked doubtfully.
“Of course, unless they refused, unless they have reasons to decline.”
M. Raindal remained silent for a time. His face showed his discomfort. He rebelled against the need of denouncing his domestic tormentors. At length he exclaimed:
“Reasons! Why, they have none ... not the slightest!... Yet you know them a little.... My daughter is a savage; my wife is a bigot.... Oneis always on the watch in the presence of such people. Anyhow, my dear friend, I shall try, and you may guess what zeal and strength of affections....”
This eloquent peroration seemed to give him a sort of justification for kissing Zoz hand once more. The enthusiasm of his promise bolstered up his hopes throughout the evening. Besides, he had never, as yet, faced the contest straightforwardly. He had rather avoided it, postponed it by means of patience and cunning. Who knew what might not come out of an open battle, if he let loose the whole mass of those grievances and desires which he had repressed for so many months!
THEnext morning, however, he waited until the end of the lunch to try the first assault. As Brigitte served the coffee, he said:
“Children! I have an invitation to transmit to you.... If you do not like it, you are quite at liberty to decline!... But, first of all, I beg you, please listen to me to the end....”
While he spoke, with lowered head and unconsciously scratching with his nails the oil-cloth on the table, Mme. Raindal darted horrified glances at her daughter. Thérèse replied to them with a reassuring mimicry of her lips and eyelids. When M. Raindal had finished, she said in a very even tone, without any suggestion either of anger or fear:
“Mme. Chambannes is very kind, father.... Nevertheless, so far as I am concerned, I find her invitation unacceptable. And I should be very much surprised if mother did not agree with me!”
“Oh, quite!” Mme. Raindal approved, with a nod.
“May I ask what your reasons are?” the master asked, in a tone which he tried to make appear unctuous.
“My reason, and I am only giving you my own,” Thérèse said with a similar air, “is this, that Mme. Chambannes, be it said without offense, is no company for us.”
The master still held himself in hand:
“What do you mean?”
Thérèse replied:
“It seems to me clear enough....”
M. Raindal got up and walked around the table breaking a toothpick into shreds in his hands.
“Very well! I promised you that I would leave you free.... You are free.... I do not go back on it....” Then he raised his voice and went on. “Nevertheless,sapristi!it is impossible for me to put up with your insinuations.... Mme. Chambannes is a lady for whom I profess the greatest sympathy, and I am not afraid of acknowledging it, the most lively regard. I can not allow such abominable and unfounded charges to pass unchallenged.” He mastered himself with a supreme effort and added, a little more gently:
“I beg you both, you and your mother, to speak out frankly.... What is it you have against Mme. Chambannes?”
Silence fell upon them. Brigitte, frightened in this atmosphere which she felt was heavy with the spirit of contention, had promptly dashed back to the kitchen. On both sides, they were holding their fury in leash, holding back the words of abuse which rebelled, ready to spring.“Well!” the master insisted. “I am waiting for your explanations ... for yours, Thérèse, since your mother does not answer me.”
Mlle. Raindal replied seriously:
“Father, it is well understood, is it not, that we have no intention of hurting you, nor of commenting upon your friendships, that we are only speaking for your own good and for our own?...”
The master grew impatient:
“Yes, yes, go on!”
“Very well, then! I assure you that Mme. Chambannes is not a woman with whom we can have anything to do, especially not a woman whose hospitality we could possibly accept.... Do you wish me to dot my ?”
“Do so! Do be afraid....”
“We ca go and live with a woman who amuses herself with a lover almost publicly....”
M. Raindal nearly choked. He drew in a deep breath:
“A lover,” he exclaimed, “Who?... And who told you.”
“Nobody! My own eyes told me. I had but to look and see.... Moreover, it seemed to me that her friends were all of the same caliber.... I could not, at any price, associate with such women!”
“Your eyes!” M. Raindal said, following his own idea. “And, according to your eyes, what is the name of the young man in question?”
Thérèse replied: “I have said enough.... I shall not add a single word....”
The master threw a glance of defiance and hatred at his daughter and then shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“I am sorry for you.... Your unworthy calumnies have not even the excuse of good faith, of being the result of an error.... You are the victim of personal spite.... You resent Mme. Chambannes’ beauty and her charm.... You are an envious girl and a fool!”
“My dear!” begged Mme. Raindal.
“Leave him alone, mother!” Thérèse said, her fingers trembling on the edge of her plate. “Father does not know what he is saying any more.... All I wish is that he were as clear-sighted as other people, that he could perceive the abyss of ridicule towards which he is rushing, and dragging us with him, too.”
M. Raindal, exasperated, struck the table with his fist, and called his wife to witness:
“Do you hear how she dares to treat me?... She has lost her reason.... She is mad....”
“Am I mad!” Thérèse exclaimed.
She ran out to her room and returned almost immediately, throwing three newspapers on the table.
“If I am mad, I am not the only one.... Read this! I take it that they are not all mad, those who write for these sheets....”
Her trembling hands pointed to certain paragraphs on the open pages which had been marked with a pencil.
With a gesture of contempt, M. Raindal snatched at the nearest of the three, and read: